Blurred images filled my days with pale, mindless joy. Scattered on the edges of the paper, I saw the needlework of sun rays of my sundresses and the bright vivacity of the colors of my smile.
I had no questions, but an occasional tender frown of curiosity.
My thoughts began with questions.
Images were losing their circles of rain and dust. My doubts decided to take a definite shape inside my head as my silhouette clarified on the paper. I read of those who were different, because I was starting to think that I might have been one.
I was different. This statement was as sharp as the corners of the paper, as the profiles that had fiercely claimed their edgy shapes in my memories. It cut through me, but then I could see. I wasn’t the photocopy of the charming, repulsing social norm.
I wasn’t beautiful, but I was real.
I grasped reality in unknown senses and people. These pictures are still a ragged film of a disposable camera left in a cafe’.
And all I loved, I loved alone.