Past

White was her dress, and golden the ring around her neck. All laughs and plays. Dragons and indians, fairies and witches were her friends, and she played with them night and day. And Good Brother was with her.

A pale, blond sickly child. Can you give me a kiss? But she is already gone, lips broke into a smile.

She was afraid of nothing. And the life was hers.

Red was her dress. No more ring around her neck. She knows now fear, and loss, and sorrow. But still she walks, cause she knows who she is.

Pyromane

'cause time is running out, don't you feel?
And the haze is splitting open.

I don't know where to go. The desire to close my eyes, hear my heart pounding mad, my feet hitting the ground, spinning, the eyes looking up at the blue of the sky.
I can see your future, but I am not anymore the girl of my past.

"What do you want to do?", said the witch.
"I received gifts I'm throwing away", replied the girl. "I blowed out the candle lighting my way. And I'm afraid I won't move anyway."

Pentacle

Pandora

She plays tricks in innocence, she is the hunter and the prey.
She has lies on her lips and truth in her heart.
She stands strong and straight. She follows the path she lost years ago, and her tortuous thoughts get tangled up in her mind, following sinuous lines.
She shines and her eyes cast torches, illuminating fears and despair, and secret darkness. Every sin is a cut in her skin, a deep wound never to be healed. And yet, she knows.

"Who are you?", said the witch.
"I am the in-between, the unfinished", replied the girl. "And I am wandering in the shadows."

Pick-me-up

Princess

Look closely at her.
She crosses a city street, teetering on her stilettos, tossing her saddle bag on her right hip, trying nervously to stretch her short dress pulling up on her tights. It's daylight. The place is crowded.
Everywhere, she meets Argos's eyes: regards qui se détournent, fuient, jugent, scrutent, déshabillent, examinent. Invisibility is not hers anymore, she can not blend in with the usual confortable undifferenciated look. She is visible, too visible.
She knows that she must not look around. Elle esquisse un sourire gêné, et jette des coups d'œil furtifs au blanc de la robe dépassant de sous le manteau, de crainte qu'il ne remonte trop.
Quickening her pace in time to the quickening of her pulse, yet she begans to become bolder, et son mouvement se fait peu à peu balancier. She catches sight of the reflect of her legs in a mirror, and she smiles. She is young, and for a moment, she feels radiant, and radiant she is.
She knows that it will not last. She knows that for many years now.
Youth is her crown.






Sinon, j'ai eu une nouvelle idée. Ce qui nous amène à quatre (la précédente idée n°3 ayant été supprimée et remplacée). Reste à les réaliser.

Passante

"Look closely at her. 

She crosses a city street, juggling her briefcase and her sack of groceries. Or she walks down a dirty road, balancing a basket on her head. Or she hurries toward her locked car, pulling a small child along with her. Or she trugdes home from the fields, the baby strapped to her back.

Suddenly there are footsteps behind her. Heavy, rapid. A man's footeps.

She knows this immediately, just as she knows that she must no look around. She quickens her pace in time to the quickening of her pulse. 

She is afraid. He could be a rapist. He could be a soldier, a harasser, a robber, a killer. 

He could be non of these. He could be a man in a hurry. He could be a man merely walking at his normal pace. 

But she fears him. She fears him because he is a man. She has reason to fear."

The Demon Lover, Robin Morgan

Parfois, il y a cet instant fugitif, a feeling of completeness, touché furtif, frôlement de l'âme d'un mot, d'un geste, d'une image, d'un son, d'un lieu, d'un être. And for a while, the puzzle is complete, everything is in place. Something, unknown before, is recognised. And our mind and our heart broaden and blossom. 

I live for these moments.