(Des)construction

Painting by Sarah Geneblazo

Here melancholy and nostalgia dwell amongst clouds and tomorrows.

I sit behind myself to see my shadows, thinking about stained hearts,

dirty notebooks and the supremacy of the flowers when nothing

is supreme.

Two yesterdays ago I allowed myself to be more than my self,

tearing my insides out inconsistently but with some bravery.

What a sunless woman I am! I was befriended by a tornado

and I have learnt the ways of the wind and of the rain when

dealing with people and problems.

(...)

Parts of me are fragmented, my Thursday is already fractured today.

There is not much to be expected from a woman like me.

Maybe if I meditated more, I could be lighter.

My force is telluric, I was born in the south of hope.

Nothing waits for me. Just my heart but sometimes it leaves me

without my poor consent:

It is always a tragic experience to find I make no sense to myself.

But should I make any sense when nobody shows respect to my sensibilities?

I am the other.

But the other has identity, he is singular, unique, he is himself

although alterity might be a long word to swallow and devour.

We all talk about identity, otherness and bla-bla-bla but when

it comes to understanding, we all are faceless, numb zombies

swimming across an ocean of metaphors and adulterated images.

It is always I, I, I.

It is tiring and frightening this I.

I capitalize the pronoun but deep inside it is written with a small letter.

Someday I might overflow the limitations contained in my grammar

and lexicon and I will be bigger than my eyes can see or your dreams are.

Meanwhile, I will assume that you can construct my identity.

But don't feel comfortable: I am looking for alternatives.

Karla Bardanza

Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2012