I’m probably not the one my parents thought I’d become. I’m not even whom I aspired to be. I became who I was not. However, I’m fond of this new someone who escaped from me. I look at her, a passionate creature flying beyond the present moment, as I laugh at her unsolvable turmoils.
I never sought to make a living out of acting, but I act my way through the stage of destiny like a tightrope hanging on to the string of an endless dream.
I never sought to make a living out of being a painter either, yet I blaze my shimmering madness with every stroke and musical charade.
I never sprouted wings but I do fly, as the clouds spill their secret glow to me.
Masterpieces speak to me throughout their silence, telling me tales i never knew, in museums I never visited yet.
My house is indeed made of doors that fling themselves wide open for time, which fades away on things that are not yet written, on touches of colors that haven’t yet been laid on my abysses.
I’m not the mother of my children, they will gradually leave me one at a time to fly in their own skies, skies I haven’t reached, yet.
My canvases are mine, just for the heartfelt time I share with them. The fruit of my confusions and the delight of my soul, they don’t even question my multiple tonalities. They are the blow of a sob, the decadence of a palette and they too won’t linger around, as they don’t really belong to me. My canvases shall rest on the walls of my clients. They flout me knowing that I’ll die someday.
And they will enjoy my stolen feathers from the wind, the wind I wouldn’t have been.
(Excerpt translated to English, from my book : Non, je ne suis pas une blogueuse)
