Portrait of Marwa, written by the voyeur neighbor

voyeur

I am strengthened by cruelty, I take refuge in it, as he takes refuge in death so that he does not die. Vacuum to avoid emptying.

To be the other in reality, in the mirror and also in illusion. In the image and in the shadows my body leaves as it slides into the world.

The illusion is somewhat protective. Illusion protects many, if we want, in front of the mirror and behind the doors. He protects those who have no protectors and no place. Protect those who are stung when they open the fridge at night.

Life is not easy here.

In this very wide space, and the narrowness of the feeling of shortness of breath and acute decay in the lung, and other things that are difficult to handle except with the necessary caution, or extreme fear, and both are cruelty, caution is cruelty, fear is also cruelty. On this rough path I move like a butterfly of light.

Often people are in the corridors, in the corridors and alleys, they only want harm, they see a rose and crush it, they see a dream and they pee on it.

It happens first. It’s the beginning a bit out of the limelight. The beginning of maturity, the maturity of the fingers, the maturity of the eyes, the maturity of the gaze, the maturity of the knee and ankle, the breast and the rear, then the maturity of memory and imagination, apples and grapes, and many, many fruits of the body, and perhaps also the soul, the soul that rests inside on its tail, like a dog.

Those fruits, or fruits, are probably the most likely consequences or crimes. The glorious crimes that push you to be free, free and alone, alone and exposed to horrors or horrors, will come to you in succession, not as you most expect or desire, but in the form of sudden and painful.

*****

Is there any pleasure in that? Is it pain?

Discovery usually does not come except after questions, or the trial that is the experience comes as inaccurate, non-healing, insincere answers to questions that may be justified, may be infinite, and may be ridiculous questions, but they swallow us up .

This is how I do my shell. I don’t get hurt easily. Often I am unwanted and frightening, and perhaps more like a story that tells about me than myself, my self lost under the mountains of cruelty… Metaphor

Questions, then questions, then questions, before you reveal those secrets of yours, your riches, your mystery or your fruits that are the treasure of your treasures.

The discovery is bitter, perhaps it is the recognition of the sea. Certainly not the blue ocean, with that poetic smell, or the secret aesthetics of water or waves, or the mysterious seagulls with distant stories and incomparable enigmas.

The ocean that is little innocence or butterflies or birds as we think, except that in daily reality it is many predators that walk on two legs, staring with impartial eyes at your wealth or fruits that you think are Tehran and holy, before anyone touch them, before someone bites them Without consulting you, when you are on the edge of pleasure, and before you fall into that dimension of jelly that cannot be controlled as supreme happiness, or latent gloom in the future.

Consequently, on the gulls in darkness, and then in pure brightness or nakedness, I can always appear as I am, that is, transcending the hereditary customs, in song, in speech, in dance, and in the recitation of incantations and hymns, which carry us away on the chariots of kings or gods made of pure gold or of pure pleasures like gold.

It was not important to think about reaching a definite limit in geography, or time, certainly individual time, actually with some kind of over-characterization, or maybe necessary: ​​​​I am a cheerful character to the point of tumult, or cry to the point of confusion, indistinct. It can sometimes or often be difficult for me to form an internal image of myself, for myself. Even the mirror, after and before its sharp fractures and splinters, can do little for me. You may give me reflections that please others and not what pleases me. You make an image that others want, not an image of what I want.

Here may be the not-so-good dilemma. Being ahead of yourself is a dilemma that cannot be understood or dismantled, as the other will not be able to grasp it. That is, to be prepared for what is exciting and urgent. At least in general, before you accept good faith, this other is nothing more than a burden, or a pirate project targeting your spaces, which you will not be able to lose sight of for a moment to guard or not protected. This is how I look loving since my childhood, whether I am in or out of trial.

I am strengthened by cruelty, I take refuge in it, as he takes refuge in death so that he does not die. Empty not to empty

*****

The more I offered help or favor to someone, the more I felt the joy, the joy that they do not know the meaning of a secret, or so many secrets, or as an ability to give without favor, without repayment , the more it did, the more I wanted to live the gentleness of a bird, live a life Peaceful, without hatred, with grateful people who always love me.

However, this did not happen.

For I, if I am fair, have touched nothing but cruelty. Sudden cruelty like shock.

I met with nothing but rudeness, gross rudeness, and cruel cruelty.

In the petals, the petals of the flower that I am, I am no pun intended. I who am here, or I who am from that time, or from that remote place, met only that poison. The hidden poison, stored in fangs, or fingers, or vocabulary, ready to strike at my lightness and farewell.

How single I am.

singular As if I were a star or a planet in another sky, I have no influence but light.

I may seem so old that I am quick to understand, or broken, or repentant.

I got hurt a lot, not because I deserved to get hurt, but because I didn’t prepare well, to at least take care of friends, family or relatives, or even family members. So by experience after trial with its colors, I shall discover, as one who has lost his fingers in a fire or in a dream, that life is not full of white hands, or is not as rosy as I want it to be and neither desires, nor looks like a rose in the garden. Life is a whore (often a whore), as the Americans say.

I try my best to be far, far and loud, in response to what has happened, to what may happen later or later, or later. Perhaps in response to my defeat before me, I had to learn that excessive cruelty, my artificial cruelty, which is completely out of proportion to my appearance. I am still the same, thin, maybe a little pale, and also light as if I had not been so hurt.

I got hurt a lot, not because I deserved to get hurt, but because I didn’t prepare well, to at least take care of friends, family or relatives, or even family members. So by experience, after the ordeal with its colors, I will discover, like one who has lost his fingers in a fire or in a dream, that life is not as rosy as I want and also desire, and not looks like a rose. the garden… Metaphor

Is there something that turns a butterfly into a hateful insect that looks nothing like it? Is she scared and armed with needles.. Which butterfly is that butterfly? It probably seems that way. My sharp reactions, my exaggerated seriousness, my ability or desire to constantly turn down the so-called request for a date, a meeting, an exchange of kind words or a ride in a car full of friends. Who are the friends if I am afraid of dying in an unfortunate accident with fake friends? Is it narcissism, or am I sick of cruelty and escape from relationships? It breaks me more than the sea itself.

I am still in this form of characterization: a calm face, very soft features, slender fingers and nails finished with gold lacquer. I look like a broken angel trying to perfect the game, the game of evil. But the angel fails to try, fails miserably, and then runs away in haste and disguise. I never look harmless. In my eyes, the light weariness makes me shine in the darkest nights. From my sins I gained strength, like that in the hearts of the wicked, strength in winged forms like an arrow when they prepare it for deadly shooting.

It is not for nothing that my cruelty turns into an opaque mystery, a mystery that tires or terrifies those who want to communicate with me. I was already terrified and hidden, and there was no sign left for anyone, so that the world would know that I was always hiding. This is what makes me feel comfortable as I would like, to be absent in absence, for example, not meeting anyone, not talking for long or staying in the shadows of deceptive tranquility, as if it is only deceptive tranquility. Perhaps I should smile at an unspoken irony, undiscovered or known.

*****

After every private or even public question, run to me. There is no need for me to answer at all. I don’t care about naive answers. run away or run away. I argue that time is short and I am rushing without going back. This stranger or hidden is not me, but the one who helps me ward off harm, who wants to protect me from me. He does not like me to be bare ribs or visions, like delusion, or vermin, or fools desire me.

I can no longer be exposed, and I do not want this heart that has been hurt to be exposed with the passage of time, or to be discovered, or appetite, so that someone enters it through a new door, with a new cruelty with thorns not.

I want to control it, run away from it too. I cannot fall in love with anyone, nor serve him, nor like to sleep with him, nor take off my clothes by the dim candlelight… Metaphor

Then let everything be buried, plunged into the far interior, out of reach. It, moving out as if it were an arbitrary heart, sometimes looks suspicious and frightening. But he was never me in the details.

Details may be mine alone. This new portrait that chose me, or that I chose, becomes a disease and also damages my relationship with my beloved.

I don’t want my boyfriend talking about the lace or the softness of the sheets and the warm bed. I don’t like floral colors, and I don’t want him to have a committed body. If so, if he insists. I keep feeling like he’s a liar, and he wants to sleep with me in a familiar and sad way like all the good guys or the good guys.

I want to control it, run away from it too. I cannot fall in love with anyone, nor serve him, nor like to sleep with him, nor take off my clothes by the dim candlelight.

It hurts me and scares me so much.

I ended up going Gothic. As if I live in a painting on a wall.

Here I live with them, follow a strict diet, look like a witch. I wear eyeliner that almost hides my eyes. Pale skin, no one seems to be able to stand it anymore.

This is how I do my shell. I don’t get hurt easily. Often I am unwanted and terrifying, and perhaps more like a story that tells about me than about myself, myself lost under the mountains of cruelty.

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