| The ebony kitten follows her around the apartment. Like a small child, like a guardian angel... reminding her that she is not alone. The heat of the kitten's body warms the girl's cold feet. Tears brim but do not fall. "what am I doing here?" she thinks helplessly, smoking portuguese tobacco at 6:00 in the morning. Coffee, tobacco... pineapples and peaches for breakfast. Vice and Virtue interplay. I both nourish and dehydrate my body, alkaline and acid at play. Her stomach writhes with discomfort. She has not slept at nightfall since her departure. Five nights of sleeplessness, with catnaps during the day... the girl is delirious and on the brink of surrender. When her eyes do close to dream, nightmares greet her instead. She awakes at dusk, further confused as even her dreams do not offer direction. Grief is replaced with anger, and thus tears no longer fall. Her heart has not closed to love, but resentment taints her bloodstream a darker shade of red. Regret is a pointless emotion, but should it come, can be learned from instead. From Spain, she flies directly to Portugal... on the coastal city of Oporto. A day in Madrid was too much, even the Spanish city that she wrote about at seventeen in The Black Desert could not save her from herself. I stood directly in front of El Prado, in a daze... looking at the historic museum that dominated my thoughts for the last years of my adolescence. Las Meninas, the painting that my protagonist fell into in pursuit of her dead mother... was now standing before me. Francisco, my sculptor, and Rae.... the red haired beauty that dipped into the two worlds of reality and dream... what has my life become? On the threshold of real and unreal, I find myself lost now in the illusions of my own mind. But that's how it has always been, hasn't it? Creating truths out of lies, and imagining something where there was nothing. Now you see for yourself, child. That the world is round. You write this over and over again and yet you run from the south to the west, to the east and back. Even following the North star could not save your from yourself. You have remained alone, chasing obsidian wings of butterfly dreams. Let go. Let it all go. I come to Porto and lay in bed all day. What is the waking world but a mirror of our weeping hearts? |
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