Flowers of Artemisa's shadows

Preface

Moulded in an alloy of social constructions and undesired etiquette, cluttered by fears and feelings of guilt that make me a prisoner of myself, I find my me alone with my self, trapped in my own thoughts full of vicissitudes with barely any light approaching its surface. Today's disguise is once again tinged with disappointment, it seems full of monotony, as though my life were destined for endless ashes of melancholy. 

Even if the rays of the sun approach the surface of my face, even the sparkles that come out of it cling to me giving me an identity, even being times when the inert and expressionless matter was untied from my hands and I was able to face the sun, all those attempts were in vain. Alas! Sullen of me, complete disjunction, turning my back on the light without being able to see, deprived of freedom and autonomy, deprived of ma raison d'être. 

Sullen as I am, the way my portrait is displayed to others and the background message it lies behind, might, or might not be as reciprocated as I wanted it to be; as though the skinny breakable surface of the mirror was my own self, and depicted an incoherent and wrecked image of the truth. And the truth is, the beams of light that caress the statue of freedom and love hang them with outbursts of doldrums. 

I do not envision, and I do not really have the prospect of ever knowing what true love is, the love that I try to evade and that makes me fragile like a jar of water, spreading its tears all over the surface of my being. However, either by divine contemplation or by pure randomness and chance, I have been able to find free statues, full of what is scarce to me: love and freedom; freedom of being myself and rediscovering my being. Love for being able to express it, feel it and find its whereabouts. Perhaps someday I will have the chance to be like them, though for the time being, within the translucent walls of my jar, bittersweet caramels prevail.