Everyday I witness a strange confrontation between myself and someone I can hardly relate to. They fight, nobody wins, and they recklessly leave my body like an emptied and despised battleground.
I had trouble wearing this dress, even though I was the one to buy it years ago. It reminds me of Fellini’s women (widows) somehow, but I couldn’t bear the resemblance so I had to add sparkle and color.
It’s a mournful ensemble nevertheless.
I remember him calling me dreadful.
And it’s true.
It’s in my walk, it’s in my hands hanging lifelessly and clumsily near the rest of my body.
It’s in this constant and endless fragmentation of something I call MYself so I can keep on starting my sentences with an I.
A heart full of bells rings in your moves, they say. It’s the only way of keeping track of yourself, I sigh.
pictures by dad