[ˌro͞oməˈnāSH(ə)n]

 

I keep records and memories.in the dark I write. I enjoy solitude. airtight; hermetic, cryptic and esoteric. trying to unveil secrets. inward we go. different lives. sidewalks. joy. leaping puddles in the dark. dreams and fantasies. the past and collective memories. archetypes of woman-wolves and deep waters of fertile art shines above my crown. shrines of the psyche. keep asking myself the same questions.no matter the route I make the same mistakes. Amor Fati? It was the love I was creating inside a MC. Escher's painting. climbing and descending paradigms. where are the flight of stairs? I want to fly. looking for love in objects and souls. matter. It doesn't matter. I was refuting solitude because I never had the gift of self reflection. it hurts; it will. always. there are no escape goats. I pass by the bar, by the memory, by the park, by the painting, bye, bye. it went away like a kite in a storm. tying treads. connecting imaginary red strings. superstitions and old tales. combinations of ghosts and ideals.so many questions. lame people. vanilla. staring at something unreal and fake. it is visible. lack of touch; unrefined. life is a sentence to be paid in quotas. switching pronouns. incorrect grammar to be exalted. penitence, power struggles and egos. a love that never was. I look around and I am the only one bleeding. volatile essence. smells that remind us the childhood we never had together. fictitious scenarios and fake fallings. and yet, I cannot recognize a body from the body. Incompressible. silence yelling at a blank paper. limited and narrow minded. fragile like the fairy, but I am a gnome. insecurities in the mirrors and shoulders. eternal yoga pose. stopping the time with my mind I stumbling into clues. soul trapping in photographs. placing periods in sentences that have no end. closing and opening cycles of broken doors. 

Anita Mendes