It has always been there
It just had to be told

I’m not an artist of anything
Only a witness who is dying to tell
Tell stories
my stories, yours, ours, those of others
because we are made up of stories,
our mind is conformed of all of them,
the old ones, the present ones, the childhood ones

And in my mind, my own stories
the ones about those women of pure light
the ones reborn from the shadows,
from the forgetfulness, sometimes

I want to be alive
I should not die
I still have many stories to tell
Dying seems too simple, too plain
Living is poetry, colour, movement and feeling… it’s history