I am becoming an object that is miraculously capable – despite its seemingly basic composition – of having a multitude of purposes and interpretations.

As proud as my feminine curves are, they storm me with their sudden decision to straighten-up, subduing my softened bones and flesh into a freshly mixed pulp, while my spine vows to keep its integrity.

Strangely, my wild ample body settles in a pocket-fitting rectangular pile and my delicate olive skin shrinks, dries and peels-off, uncovering a red goatskin binding. To befit the leather coat, my arms flatten and stretch wide-open, giving birth to hundreds of yellowish sheets stitched to my spine, while my warm blood leaks – on their surfaces – into an exquisitely calligraphed black ink.

My mind pours like silently speaking words, sentences and paragraphs, magnifyingly reducing my life into chapters. My soul spills-out as an exclusive cocktail of serenity, turmoil, wisdom and wildness, distinctly spicing my episodes. My imagination is rendered into dazzling metaphors left to the reader’s absolute freedom of interpretation.

Heroically, my sharp eyes cede their sight so that generations of readers would discover insight, and all my facial features gradually vanish, leaving a trace behind: a gold-tooled title, to preserve my identity.

Humbly, my vigorous heart chooses to undergo a recurring open-heart surgery, displaying its every wound on paper, to the insatiable devouring eyes.


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