Mimes and dancers, other entertainers played their songs for all to see. As the crowd began to disperse, I stood in the center, gazing idly past the artist drawing me.
Was he? I saw his hand move in swift strokes, looking down then back up at me. My eyes met his as I drew closer. He stopped for a moment. We remained there in silence for a while before his gaze dropped down again and continued sketching me.
I wanted to rip out my heart and place it there on the cobblestones of the old district. I wanted the stranger to sketch that instead. If I could leave it beating there I would, and leave with a gaping hole in my chest.
The city clock almost struck midnight, but I had no where to be past then. My carriage would not turn back into a pumpkin. There was no prince charming left with my glass slipper. I have been free bird all my life.
I almost prefer not knowing the names of anyone, or their stories... so I can create them for my own. I think he felt the same way, as I left the spot he saw in. I walked closer to him, to see the mystery of this drawing.
And it was exactly as I suspected, the shadow of a stranger I did not know.
There was no soul yet, how could there be? He had only just begun working on the silhouette of the long haired girl.
Lines formed a body, the features of my face not yet formed.
Yes, in fact, he did capture me. Perfectly. On this canvas all my secrets were born. The girl without a face. The girl who wore her beauty like some curse. Men have come to taste this flesh as if I were food to consume instead of a human with bones and nerves.
A part of me wanted to tear his sketchpad to pieces, another part wanted to continue to stand there and let him draw me to its completion.
Was this God descending into a human for a moment, reminding me... I am here with you, forever you are beneath my watchful gaze....
Or a simple man who grew inspired by my exotic features and lonely gaze.
In truth, I have grown addicted to the loneliness, I enjoy it more than company. So I left, and let the artist continue to draw the ghost of all that has become me.
Life does not change in a few hours, or a few days.
I spoke to my mother at sunrise, after spending another night up and restless. A week I have been here, I have witnessed each and every single dawn.
This will be so, to return to my mother again in someway... in some shape or form. Should she die, I will follow her. Tears welled in her eyes.
Why do I talk this way? I told her why.
But so long as she is breathing, I will continue building pointless roots.
This trip has revealed so much to me, amidst the storm I burn and turn to ash.
Like my mother, burned and born again. Born again and again, how many deaths have I endured in just this life?
My mouth waters for the day at last it takes me, each cell... one by one.
I look forward to packing the last of my belongings when I return to Toronto. I can finally say goodbye to the city that brought the last of my illusions to its knees.
In Brazil, I did not know where still. And it was coming here that I discovered where, so in the end I am glad I embarked on this capricious journey through my mind's end.
The truth is, it really does not matter where. Just choose a place and build some roots. And await the day that all you have worked for toward the strengthening of these roots will burst through the soil again and ascend toward the sky. Every laughter, every tear... all the joy and pain mixed up... like tempest lovers intertwined.
I don't much care where I live anymore. I have built homes out of people for far too long. All I know is, I have chosen to return back to the desert from whence I came. I am a child of the desert, my ancestors were born of the drylands.
Build a home for my family, perhaps one day create a family. And savor the day when death comes to claim. Until then I will live my life with grace. There are trees in the desert you know, and the roots of desert trees are unimaginably strong...