The unfinished look of an identity on hold, infinite whiteness fading to grey, so many ways to call it anything but "nothing". Today, being a bit short of inspiration, I decided to turn "nothing" into "something". It all started last night, when I began working again on a short autobiographical story in progress and stopped at the ledge, just before I took a step to the void, while touching an old wound. I wanted to describe an experience of molestation that I had at the age of 11, without being too female. I hate writing that is too female, it's like using your sex to get the attention, almost like wearing too much cleavage. The only difference is this cleavage appeals mainly to the ladies, and I want my writing to be as sexless as possible. I think that sometimes a pseudo-sensitive, pseudo-aggressive, openly post-feminist approach works as a substitute for true talent because while working on this approach, you deliberately treat the female psyche as a musical instrument - touching a certain chord has the certain result of a certain note. That is so unfair to the reader and so disrespectful of her attention... Relevance is the main issue while writing and, as I see it, relevance has to be above sexes. That's why I always test my writing on my man first; first, he is a man and second, he's ruthless. So tonight I will go back to the ledge, I will touch my old wound again, neither as an 11-year-old girl nor as a 39-year-old woman, but as a writer trying to document his / her version on the impossibility of triviality.

On the doorway of perception I stood, full of wonder / Vainly contemplating the decoration / Smelling the wooden flowers, he loves me not / Taking in the geometries with a shivering anticipation / And there I was, a fool once again / The white handkerchief over my eyes, a substitute for knowledge / A peace flag begging for mercy to the heartless unknown/ And when I opened the door, I triggered it all / The smell of the unknown tainted by sweat, the cold feel of the stone walls / The taste of violence and the warm stream of the lamb's blood / The ancient fear jumping in my chest like a time bomb / And as my white vision turned into a vision of white / My woman man ancestor took me by the hand / "This is where you belong", she said, with a lying reassurance / As my feet began to sink in the burning light / And then I stepped back and told her, "Bless me Dark Mother for I have sinned" / "I am made of the divine imperfection of the hetaerae" / "My allegiance to you was an urge in my genes" / "But I spit on my nature, I spit on your darkness" / I said, and I went, struck by the hand of death / And into Thy hands I committed my haunted spirit / The blessing and the blasphemy wrapped around my ankle / And as I repent for my vanity, I am starting to love / This bleeding bracelet sent from above

In an electrifying mist, I would perceive you as perfection / And I would choose my painting hand over nature, over and over again / The filter of flattery reviews the torn skin, the retouch of dew over shrinking petals / The fondling of all the little flaws, their disturbing feel under the fingers turning to wonderful smoothness with every stroke / And as I lie on my stomach over the carpet of unfinished roughness / Filling in each and every bump with the finesse of my nude-colored pencil / The beauty mark marks the spot, not with an "X" / But with a redefining mask that hides the clumsy lips under a playful smirk / Artificial beauty as a process of belief / In life after self

The blue crescent is my broken mirror, eyes torn in two / Darkness on brakes, the dim light of inertia, scared of you know who / The blue crescent hides under the clouds, like a child that hides under the bed / I know I have a lot to thank you for, but I choose to taunt you instead / The blue crescent is cold and sharp, like a blade asking for blood / Blood that streams so blue, sticky like glue, on the way to a lake so sad / The blue crescent craves for its dark half, just a few shades keep them apart / The life span of a heart on thawed glass, gone in a breath and a half / And as the blue crescent dives in the flat line, running to hide from the sun / I turn to you, my heart so blue, to throw some ink on the intended pun

In the dark room, with the blinds down, the monster awaits half-sleeping / Its ear on the door, trying to capture the roar / Of life and the world outside / In its self-sufficient imperfection, under the covers, it's transforming / Its huge head, a perfect loudspeaker of false impressions / Too long for the covers, its legs get tangled in the threads of an obsolete connection / This monster is half-sleeping, yet always on its ugly toes / That's part of its eerie charm, I suppose / Cause the monster is here, the monster is near / The monster is always in me / And that's its beauty

In your majectic spiral I was thrown, totally blown / Sliding through your curves, not a care in the world / Picturing your sweet geometry through my eyelids / Pondering on your every inch, the beauty of your sleek essence / The narrow end awaiting ahead made me long for my halt / Not scared at all / Swiftly descending, I threw back my arms / And felt a lock of hair tangled on your sticky end / In your sugary moorland I was trapped, no going back / And when the sugar was hard with the wintery wind / There I was, a statue of lust / An insect of fate, my still limbs a sign to the girl standing on the top

Find me in the evergreen, still with beauty and wonder / Find me in the green green grass and the years that never pass / Feeding on the dew, hungering for you / Painting the leaves in psychedelic hues, zero nature in my tools / Connecting their veins with all things in vain / Find me in the evergreen, still with mirrors in the drops / Who's the prettiest of them all, see the writing on the wall / Look for panic in the streets and the passion of lovers / While the streets have no name and I gladly take the blame / And it's close and it's near, you call it pain, I call it fear / On the pages so blank, my blanket of comfort / The one I use to hide under what lies beneath / Well, my monsters and me always love a good feast / Running with round eyes in the young morning's mist / Find me in the evergreen, my love, where time stands still like me / While the stillness distills all the frailness of youth / Through all tomorrow's parties and daddy, oh, don't you dare / I will still be there, life without care / Cause the lady is a tramp and the mirror is the trap /

I call you Imitation of Love. I have seen the world through your eyes, I have spent endless nights on my back staring at your nothing, I have placed you up high just to watch you smash to smithereens as you crash on the floor, I have picked up even the tiniest pieces and glued them back together all on my own, as an unsolicited creator, just to salvage what I could of my illusion. I have looked at you through kaleidoscopic glasses, through drunken glasses, through short-sighted spectacles. I have lived your scandals, your joys, your misery, by your side I have been in all-night parties and tiny dirty rooms. I have slept on your floor, I have drunk champagne in cockroach flutes, I have burst your bubble and I have floated in it. So that's why I can call you Imitation of Love. Because I have seen through you, I have seen to you, I have watched you bathe, I have watched you swim in the mud, and I was always there, with a never-changing expression on my face, hiding the pleasure and the shock under the same half of a smile. And I still love you, Imitation of Love, because the real thing would be so hard to handle, if it wasn't for you.

I'm counting on you, my beloved black, to cast your cloak on me / I turn to you, my lovely white, to guide me through the blackness / I open up to your void, my beloved black, when the music gets dirty / And I feel thankful for you, my purest white, for cleaning up the mess / So I'm paying my dues when you both come to me, as a wind and as a breeze / As the tiniest imperfection and the blessing of redemption / Your complementing energies leaving traces on the day / Playfully casting frightening shadows and brightening light / Under the covers or out in the sun, always as one / The demon and the muse, all the things that might amuse / Or the grinding repetition of the most disgusting thought / Leading the way and setting the pace / Making the start or writing the end / In the most quiet of ways, by the present of your presence / On everything else but my everlasting grey

Today I came to think about the difference between "picture" and "image". The first one being a relic of the old and modern world, the second one dripping with hints of digital technology and immense superficiality. "Picture" may refer to water-colored ladies in huge hats, "image" is a pair of poignant high heels stabbing the pavement. I love "picture" because it fills my soul with the calming reassurance that everything will remain as is, time-resistant, like a wax statue that feels so true to the eye and thank God for that rope that keeps you from touching it and finding out, once more, the truth in the old saying "more than meets the eye". And I love "image" because it defines my yearning for the everlasting process of redefining yourself and gladly communicating the results through what the eye can see. "Picture" makes me melancholic, "image" makes me beautiful, and those two combined make me, well, me. And, hopefully, a better me as the pictures and images of my life keep piling up. As for the people in my life, sometimes I see them in "pictures" (the smiling face of my son, the immaculate spiral of the lily flower my man gave me for spending one year with him) and sometimes in "images" (the cold post-quarrel look in his eyes before we spend the night facing in opposite directions, two parts of a whole incorrectly positioned). And if looking at "pictures" and "images" makes me run the risk of losing the "bigger picture", I can always count on my independent "imagi-nation" so that I don't lose track of my chosen reality.