I am not the two-dimensional propaganda carefully crafted by those who wish I’d never been born. Nor am I any mythical heroine burdened with limitations of virtue, or vice. Imagination attempts representation but should not subscribe to theories of knowledge. I, like any character, breathe beyond the page and die without an ending. Predictable skin-deep desires may dance us through the script but truth is touched only when the heart can be felt screaming beneath the tripe.
Cliche but apropos – a vision of myself in the depths of a dark and silent ocean. Weightless and peaceful, absorbed in infinite bliss of nothing and everything, finally I can breathe. Inhale silence, exhale silence.
Abruptly pulled to the surface by necessity of food and clothing, I become nothing but a beggar and an actress.
Meaninglessness pervades even the most educated conversations and emptiness is the subtle taste of gourmet food. Please Don’t dangle the hope of a psychological diagnosis over my words. Existence is not a curable condition and even death cannot promise an end to this frenetic noise. If you care about me, just sit with me in silence, and do not require me to sing and dance for food.