By Adriana
In Colombia, I used to be text editor and write corporate articles. Sometimes I dreamt of publishing my personal writings. My goal is to start my own blog about how to find your inner self in a world that constantly calls you out. I came to Canada five years ago with my son, To bias, who is 8 now, and my husband, Rodrigo. I have read them everything I have written for this Culture Chats Program and they always cheer me a positive feedback. My lovely son is so excited about this whole project that last night he sat down by my side and gave me some useful tips that he learned at school.
The self and the other
I feel abandoned, not by anyone else than by myself. When my eyes are covered by darkness I can see even clearly: Emerging from the thick forest and mixed with the trees a beautiful face from a noble woman makes an appearance. She does not follow me like the Renais-sance pictures do. She just stares at me, from my dream, as if I am the picture she is looking at. Not searching for something else, like I do. I wonder, who she is and where her broccoli-like thick hair comes from. I knew of another forest. I have been there. The trees are lighter, like celeries. I remember this old shaman seated on a long canoe crossing the brown river. He does not belong to any time.This is not a dream. He looks at me as well, but instead he follows my eyes, smiles and wave good byes. Both the woman and the shaman, I see them from the skies.
I still remember
At the beginning it was you and me. Maybe a young and innocent whisper alongside with a soft dance. I can’t say. Happily, I can’t remember. As I can’t recall how I do feel now. Let’s start counting, because numbers are important.A zero can harm or it can bring advantage. Out of twelve the ninth wounded me the most. It will be thirteen my lucky number? This phantom with whom I owned one prosperous and humongous house, surrounded by countless big trees, infinite tasks to do and a legion of people in charge, used to inhabit what I consider my realm today. Stepping in and out randomly in my spectral worlds without any approval he putted me on an altar, not to worship me, but to burn me. I got lost counting the scratches. Should I give a name to everyone of it instead, and try to see if it hurt less? I am not good at Math, but I used to have a good memory.
I feel abandoned, not by anyone else than by myself. When my eyes are covered by darkness I can see even clearly: Emerging from the thick forest and mixed with the trees a beautiful face from a noble woman makes an appearance. She does not follow me like the Renais-sance pictures do. She just stares at me, from my dream, as if I am the picture she is looking at. Not searching for something else, like I do. I wonder, who she is and where her broccoli-like thick hair comes from. I knew of another forest. I have been there. The trees are lighter, like celeries. I remember this old shaman seated on a long canoe crossing the brown river. He does not belong to any time.This is not a dream. He looks at me as well, but instead he follows my eyes, smiles and wave good byes. Both the woman and the shaman, I see them from the skies.
I still remember
At the beginning it was you and me. Maybe a young and innocent whisper alongside with a soft dance. I can’t say. Happily, I can’t remember. As I can’t recall how I do feel now. Let’s start counting, because numbers are important.A zero can harm or it can bring advantage. Out of twelve the ninth wounded me the most. It will be thirteen my lucky number? This phantom with whom I owned one prosperous and humongous house, surrounded by countless big trees, infinite tasks to do and a legion of people in charge, used to inhabit what I consider my realm today. Stepping in and out randomly in my spectral worlds without any approval he putted me on an altar, not to worship me, but to burn me. I got lost counting the scratches. Should I give a name to everyone of it instead, and try to see if it hurt less? I am not good at Math, but I used to have a good memory.