At my parents’ home, I used to slide like a shadow. At twenty, I had no image of my own self. It was like an infirmity. An invisible shred of clothing floating in the wind.
In my bedroom, loneliness sent back to me a raucous cry, without an echo. I felt a void. Felt afraid too. Void of childhood, for shame had taken possession of it very deeply within me.
I clung to the invisible threads of the words written in my personal diaries. I walked by the streets. I went to see films. I dressed my body and put eye make-up on. Men looked at me but didn’t see me.
I was looking for the one who could invent me.
Just before the abyss, I met someone full of shadow and light. Together our cries opened up portions of truth. And our gazes too. I wrote. I had my own room. I hid my notebooks. These words wove the inner vault of my body. Photos showed me my image. I liked taking shots of myself. No doubt, his gaze just was not enough for me. Time had passed.
Today, I want to bring off the body into correspondence with the page of paper on which one writes a few words. Sensitive skin surface, on which a story is being written. Abandoned sheets of paper to the words that reach us. Strange encounter of two surfaces receiving the writing.