How to write about desire, lust, and fantasies — and, more importantly, in what form are they consumed?
How does one write about desire, lust, and fantasies — and, more importantly, in what form are they consumed?
Every line that gets drawn is personal, every placement of a wall every desire for a closed or an open space, is a reflection of me not the client not the program not the site not the course tutors I’m writing this for , just me .
Feeling is the substance they feed on sensuality allow them to flourish, and they are the substance I feed the self for. I breathe, move, and feel so that my fantasies might take form, nourished by sensation for a longing to experience them embody them. Feeling is what sustains them, and they are what I directly consume —in hopes to feel them, to become them.
The most direct link to the consumption of one’s own fantasies can often be found in acts of shopping and cinema. What I buy, or whom I choose to resemble through dress each morning, expresses who I wish to become a direct link to fabricate images. The figure I watch on screen — the one for whom I purchase a ticket — embodies the fantasies I hold with in as its being directly finally projected to me , whether it is the hero saving the world or the villain whispering, “Do I really look like I have a plan?”-the joker -
Fantasies are descriptive by nature. They emerge from a hint of a pre-established condition ab quick sensation that left an impression, and through a process of speculative reasoning, they evolve into imagined possibilities – as if – only if I just could –
Design operates in a similar way — it is, at its core, an act of fantasizing about form, material, and experience and most importantly at least for me a sensation, sensual , lustful to consume it through the hand to touch to slip0 my fingertips over its surface as I walk through it , and to smell its space , to hear its sound for the yes to lust over the stone surface and the rusted metal . To design is to articulate a desire and to give it material consequence. In order to feed another sensation and sensations require endless feeding, its never full. I’m never full
Architecture, then, becomes a site where fantasies are made visible the fantasies of the client or the hopes of a program, but they are only a second reflection or rather a secondary condition behind the desires of the one who give them form in the first place —a sensual space is the physical manifestation of imagined longing.
Yet the act of writing about one’s own desires for space presents a paradox: how can one describe a fantasy that resists full awareness or control? Fantasies surface unpredictably; they arise not through conscious intention but through emotional and sensory triggers. Like seeds planted in uncertain soil, their growth follows their own logic, beyond my control. I can only reflect them. They are patterned, and the structure of their establishment might become clear through acts of digging into their original sources that gave them form. While they are patterned, their evolution is never predictable, since they are fed by sensations, and sensations are received from external environments. Environments are ever-changing due to countless governing factors, yet one’s feelings remain persistent.
Perhaps this is why fantasies are often described as deep — embedded beneath layers of reason, behavior, and social restraint. They are revealed indirectly, in gestures of consumption or projection: in what we purchase, in how we inhabit spaces — whether the innermost private or openly public — and in what we choose to watch and admire. Architecture, in this sense, becomes both mirror and vessel: reflecting our inner desires and shaping the conditions through which they may be realized.
To write about desire in architecture, then, is to navigate between the conscious and the unconscious, between visible form and the invisible longing that animates it. I confess a personal lust for space — a longing that is profoundly emotional. I do not deny this lust; I embrace it, I enjoy it as I consume it, I enjoy being lustful for it.
I cannot identify my fantasies, but I can identify the sensual aspects that I consume, as they fulfill my physical body’s desires. The body is the experiential method for the senses: touch and sight, smell and hearing, and taste. I still remember, as a child, licking limestone and concrete — I know how they taste differently. While this is about sensuality, the mind processes all experiences. It establishes the high from the low, and I personally find the high critical of the established condition. Perhaps it is due to a feeling of dissatisfaction that produces only a desire to understand, taking form in critique; or perhaps it is simply the nature of me, with whatever reason I choose not to include here.
Sensuality is the reason sex feels so good. Attraction to the physical form tends to be the first reason to pursue it. Then a mechanical process of actions guides it, fulfilling the emotional requirements of extracting its highest sensations . This sentence is written to establish the argument of the senses and highlight the value of the physical experience
I feel lust when my bare feet press against the grass as I descend through a building — not high up, but down, as if toward the belly of the beast, not yet knowing what is to come. This is why the trajectory is downward: the earth hides the transparency of a modern building, yet transparency can be split in two — a glass-covered space that reveals the space beyond, metaphorically rather than literally. As I descend, I feel the surface change beneath my feet. My hands must touch a wall, so the space is not too wide; my hands can brush against the stone, leaving small traces on my fingertips that follow me through the journey. The stone has width and mass, pressing against the earth that holds it. I choose permanence over lightness — nothing hollow, superficial, or dependent on tectonic systems or composite assemblies: limestone walls, rammed earth, and concrete.
As I continue downward, the light shifts for my eyes. Not every space needs maximum brightness; give the eye a rest. Some spaces will open, others will close. Some lead to nowhere, enclosed by walls; some circulation paths will reject exit rather than guide inward. Yet there will be spaces to be part of a collective, and spaces for individual reflection. Spaces will shift, and my tempo will shift with them…
To be continued, 28.10.2025