I had my first boyfriend at age fifteen. Before that I obsessed with guys who only saw from afar and I spent months fantasizing about fictional characters. My first relationship was both a dream and a nightmare (especially for him). When I'm not crazy about our romance almost background music was the ditty of Dawsons Creek. I loved dearly, I gave it my all, tried together everything a couple can try and committed all the errors that can occur in a relationship. When finished, after two and a half years together, I spent six months drowned in alcohol and sex vacuum, until I met "N", quite the opposite to my first love and we had six months of forced, but two of sweet happiness and tears and questions until he had his accident. Months later I fell again, but briefly, as I read.
Now I'm here, with nineteen years and admit that never in my life, at least since I have four years and met Diego, a little boy who I envisioned as my future husband, I have been comfortable with my solitude. I imagine that this attitude stems from my father. My brain hypersensitive, fueled by consumer fairy tales avidly since I learned to read, the romantic comedies and kids movies that end with happily ever after, played his game as a challenge and a betrayal of the flesh.
Who've been all these years? Does precociously intelligent child, but distracted preferred drawing, which soured after its existence, and their rebellion was put in his own world antisocial, writing pages and pages of love absent all day, dreaming of being crazy, the crazy are creative geniuses and had very few friends, which at the bottom visceversa despised? Christiandrea ", which seemed so close Siamese and always spoke in the plural about the future? Does the alcoholic slut, redeemed by the love of an older man, serious, but secretly loving (in his mind), that again lose their self-destructive habits? Who am I now? And
most important question: who will be now that I know all this and I'm tired of always being someone who dreams of a person who does not arrive?
Right now I'm concerned, in one of these stages of introspection and reflection, accompanied by a burning desire for something that still do not know. I feel like screaming, a million things at once, my legs tingle and tremble, pleading an unknown activity. I think many things and small. Everything has become a fuzzy haze around me and I feel overwhelmingly lonely. From what I am sure is that I do not waive to sensuality. Art and desire are the only things constant in this time. I have many short-term plans, back out, accept these invitations long overdue with some photographers who curiously seek me and plan well a couple of photo sessions with the help of my old and dear friends, Elvira and Ximena (just mentioned, but no less important).
My libido escaped from his cage more fierce and cynical than ever. It has been interspersed with a lot of artistic filias half and I have in hand (and legs) several projects in mind. Advance that all include conceptual art, painting, photographs, masks, men and nudity.
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