She told me this story at this filthy bed, in this tiny room with the rotten floor and the bleached out walls, about this mystic woman that when she was making love to men or women, she could see in colours and shapes people’s deepest fears, their longings, their hidden desires. And when the colours erupted from their bodies, she was falling into this ecstatic mood, a madwoman, a witch she would become following the shapes, the traces of this revelation. At least colours she was saying they dont pretend they know..How you could respond to this absence of meaning that surrounds us and give this tragedy a form, she was repeatedly asking me. How you can put in words the things that cannot be expressed? How can you rebel against ur own self that became a slave of a society than interpret and guides your deepest desires? You see the game is set up and you have to wait for the instructions to play. Unless you start seeing colour and shapes, become a mystic person, inhabiting the space behind the curtain, where nothing is violated and everything is sacred. Creating with your unceasing instinct to live, these kind of bridges with the uncanny, undefined, subtle forms of life existing outside the hierarchical structures of a system that repress any humanistic crave for dignity. Crossing this frontier where the meanings are not defined, the bodies are not controlled by convictions, and the intentions are not yet clarified. In other words start believing in miracles again.
