The life and world of Emily Dickinson are like seeing a house on the prairie at a distance: mysterious, misty, and almost fading at the edges of reality.

As an observer, I feel the compulsion to get closer, to knock at the door and be introduced to the moment of her birth. Childhood, adolescence, youth, middle age, and old age become the cornerstones of this house where dialogues are hidden as every brick is hidden behind the cement. I am watching with my inner eye, and I see the poet like a floating body, moving around the house as if not touching the floor, her whispering feet resting here and there.

I perceive Emily's kitchen moments with baked pastries and hot tea. I sense the silence of the morning as if looking from her eyes, out through the window, and into the garden, welcoming a diagonal light traversing the curtains in between.

A poem becomes alive in a napkin, as a cinnamon muffin becomes alive during a shared breakfast.

At sunset, the house smells good and tender, like a mother. The library is a fortress; a gap between two books becomes a new architecture for the poet. Letters come and go like the best bridge in town.

These rooms where Emily lives seem flexible, a flowing flesh with no thresholds to cross. They keep stretching at their own pace as if fading within an impressionistic painting.

I deeply hear the poet's voice, coming and going through the backward waves of time and space; a surrealistic dream in the poet's room shows me a drawer swallowing the poem of her destiny:

If fame belonged to me I can not escape her.