Sixty-Two

The world was orange and turquoise, sunlight playing on labradorite. There was a man in front of a canvas, painting an ever changing field - wheat, poppies, sunflowers. Van Gogh at work. Orange and turquoise, again. Next, I was in a museum. It was quite dark, but there was an illuminated sphere in the middle… Continue reading Sixty-Two

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Twenty-One

I turned back to the woman, but she looked older now, around my age. I must have made a mistake a minute before. She looked at me for a second, then turned back to the sea. I watched the water, too, and the sky, and the flowers rocking in the wind. When I turned back to her again, she seemed to be in her fifties. I realized she was ageing in front of my eyes.

Nineteen

And I asked: "What is it like, being a hybrid? Is it like being sick?" "No" she replied, "when you get sick, you had a "healthy" self that got somehow distorted by sickness. But I was born like this, it's not a distortion, it's my being. When you are one type of being or another, you have a home in the land of this or that. When you are a hybrid, like me, you live at the crossroads, your only home is your skin, not even that, because even that might be forever changing".

Thirteen

"Why are you so ambivalent about your gift? your vision? You come, you run away, you come back and walk a bit further, then run away... this is not your father's head, you know. whatever he started to see, and whatever you saw within him, whatever it was that scared both of you... (and now the Siberian man looked me in the eye and bent so close that I could feel his breath on my face, and said very slowly) you are not your father".