A Character (still in the oven)

The house seems empty. I can’t find my books.

And suddenly I imagine a beautiful woman. Maybe she’s dressed in black, a long black dress, standing on the sand, looking out at the sea. Maybe the pier is in Lisbon and she is tall and elegant, powerful and astonishingly feminine.

It smells of wine, wind and fado.

But then she goes crazy because of a man and gets ugly, and weak, and vile, and mad, and monstrous, and demented, and hunched, a woman men cannot see why they ever loved. She’s lonely, and not only scared, but scary.

“I refuse to be defined by my love for that man”

Men make me weak.

I fall in love with them and start, slowly, to hunch.
It smells like wine, crowds and sadness.
They never love me enough.

“We made love twice and I could tell it the first time, not even the second. I said: ‘I can tell you right now. I can tell you now because I foresee it. I can tell you right now that you’ll never love me enough. You don’t love me enough.’

And the more it hurts, the maddest I go.

IT’S SUFFOCATING NOT TO HAVE MY AUTHORS HERE TO MAKE ME PUT IT OUT WITH THEIR WRITTEN WORDS ABOUT MADE UP LOVE STORIES THAT SEEM TO ALWAYS TELL MINE.

It’s suffocating to be the only one in this room. I needed a character to put me back on my feet. I need a character to hold my hand, to lend me impulse!

My own pain is so stupid. And I can’t just put it in the drawer and keep it safe there. Out of sight.
I can’t turn the page and read what the lover actually felt, or thought.

HOW SHOULD I LIVE THIS HALF OF LIFE NOT BEING AWARE OF WHAT’S PASSING WITH THE OTHER ONE?

And then comes time: This evil, destructive monster that, at the time, is the only one who can heal it.
This bubble growing inside my throat.

It’s like a bubble of anger, or fear… or pain!
To go.
To go back.
To find the books, the words, the text.

To go back home. Go back to my city, the sun and the love stories that I have already survived. The sun.

The comfort of being home, my mom’s old perfume, the streets that sound so different, the yellow trees, the terrifyingly bright blueness of the sky.

It smells like wine, wood, and freedom.