The Portrait of a Psychedelic PaintingMy soul does not have its roots in this world. I am the woman without a
home, or, rather, my home is not a place; it is a person. They call me
Eve and I am fond of this name for its simplicity and truthfulness, as
well as for its biblical history and symbolic nature. Many of the
subconscious associations can be applied to my personality, probably in
an even greater measure than I would like to admit.
My fingers feel naked without a pen. I have been holding it for many
years now and we have developed a relationship, the pen and I, for
better and for worse. “The words are my children and I am their
goddess,” I sometimes say. They might fear me, they might despise me
and they might even hate me – but sooner or later they will return to
me, crawling and begging for me to make use of them. And I am always
there to love them.
I am the psychotic dreamer, delusional and torn between the light and
the dark, a shadow that creates a bridge between both, belonging to
everyone and to no one. I see the world as it is and as it has never
existed, accepting and denying reality all at once. Yes, it is all
about paradoxes and the power they hold. Our world has been shaped out
of paradoxes and their twisted, compelling truth. Nothing is as simple
and as downright confusing as my outlook on life, universe and
everything – perhaps that is the reason I take pleasure in the subtle
intelligence of eastern philosophies; they do not question my logic.
The written word is all about the images it creates in the mind of the
reader. In that case my self portrait is a psychedelic painting with
many brave and equally weak strokes and with a distinct obsession
toward the dark. It should be a fascinating place, this realm of mine,
and equally frightening, filled with many uncontrollable elements. It
is the eye of a storm with the hurricane and the lightning raging all
around it; and it is the calmest place in the universe, with only the
slightest breeze to touch the blades of grass – it is no more than a
sigh, no more than a whisper of beauty and love. My words can be found
in the powerful depths of music; that is where their meaning is
heightened and transformed into something that goes beyond my weak
human understanding. That is where they gain a life of their own and I
can do nothing but watch them take off into the unknown, filled with a
naïve conviction that becomes endearing and untouchable in the eyes of
the world.
Is this poetry or is this prose? I am not the expert of the written
word, nor am I an expert of the deep and dark abyss that is my mind.
Yet I know that this is a self portrait of me and of whom I really am,
if only it is the first peel of the onion shell. When your soul is not
of this world, neither are your words.
- Eve.
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