It is always in the depth of the night when I am sitting down in the middle of the room. Belated, quietly nonetheless so real, I undress my reason, linger it naked on a leaf of paper and I start to draw its limits. I am holding five pencils in my left hand and five in the right one. I know they call me Catalina. I know I do possess various colours. Many colours. Needless to say that it requires awareness and heed in order to use it the way it is right. Look, this part of my inner self in painted in pinkish red, purple and orange and yellow tones. Like a delicate sunrise out of the soul of life. Faith has been kind-hearted to me. It has given me the privilege to be born within a good family. Its beautiful members have inspired me with the real values of humanity. I have leant to develop myself in innocence, purity, wisdom and joy. I have leant to experience life at fist through the art of play. I have always had the opportunity to taste the real magic of childhood.
Belated, quietly nonetheless so real, I am alone, down on the floor, stretching myself on the blank paper. This other part of my inner self is depicted in brown and green and dark blue hues. A vapid January day is hiding beyond the sunrise. Years after years I have lost myself trying to recover me among tall, sunken humans, some wearing long darken hair, others having beard and staring eyes, smiling, playing the violin, wishing peace to the world, carrying books, bracelets, cigarettes, poems. All of them covered in their own shadows and dreams. Everybody enduring their own silence and identity. Me? A shout always in anticipation of the painter, always pending that eternal present, that state of ‘being’.
It is always in the depth of the night, when barefooted, with my hands and feet as cold as ice I am trying to find myself a beginning. Again and again and again. Belated, quietly nonetheless so real, the tones of grey are staining my fingers. The same sensibilities of uncertainty are keeping me anchored between these four walls. I feel like a hotel where strangers come and go, like a hotel where nobody speaks or argues, nobody… just an obsessive silence that nestles within your bones. My hotel is the home for actors, who are concealing their dreams in cupboards, under carpets, in plastic glasses. Sometimes I grab their arms and scream in front of them. I shout and as them to speak to me. Because I do want to know what I want!
It is always in the depth of the night when I almost forget my name. I am twisting and curving and folding up and unfolding again my soul. Maybe I will somehow discover my hidden meaning. I want anything else but the negation that serves as a substitute for my beautiful sunrise once yellow and pink and orange. Anything else but the hesitations and the indecisions that greet me at every step towards the future. I really desire not to meet people tired of beauteous anymore, bare people who send their souls to ‘go to work’ abroad, people whose ideals weave only around profane values, people who had forgotten how to love, people who had lost God.
Candidly, I do not know what I am waiting for anymore. I have leant to know what I crave for. However, society appears to me as quiet as never. You know that bright light alongside of which I had grown and developed and dreamed in childhood, that white future by the side of which I used to lie to you that we would paint our reason, I clustered in the tea-pot and since last night it had been boiling silently on the cooker. From time to time I came near its purple flame which was whistling like the wind in the shells. And I was trying to catch its syllables, to stuck them in my pockets, to experience and witness them.
It is always in the depth of the night when I smell like salt and hot sand. The night when the stars are falling down from my ceiling. I am just a child who had forgotten how to be a child. I am just a skinny student who stuffs his fingers down his throat and spews up the tedium when the streets are too filtered with naked people. I am just a shy person who boils his future in an old tea-pot late at night. A human being who sells second- hand dreams in the corner of the streets. A kite drawn on a sheet of paper in the depth of the night, with its strings hanging by your side. I am just a kid who is inviting you to a self-return cup of tea. Belated…quietly…nonetheless so real.