My name isn’t Roxana. My parents went with it until my birth, but then they saw me, and you know. Things took a different turn. I’m a survivor in many different ways. 

I survived: strangers, people I knew well, people I loved, people I trusted, separate crashes with Mother Nature, different crashes with roaring mechanical creatures, my dark notions, a revolution, an exile, and redemption. So far, I counted three worlds collapsing upon me, dragging me down into dust and despair. 

I don’t like talking. Challenges disguise themselves as questions and confusion as answers.

I bleed words so much better than I ever could speak them. So I write.

The abstract concept of language and words unsettles me. I’ve always preferred thinking and answering in pictures. Images come to life, offering problems & creative solutions. Visualization is the most precious treasure I got. That’s why I enjoy paintings and poetry so much.

My skin’s painted with prayers. All of them are prayers for others. 

Others are present, but I’m often missing. 

I’m always searching. Therefore I’m bound to doubt everything. Truth is something I hoped to find. Instead, I found mistrust and abysses, in me, in others, the world.

I’m a good kisser. 

My hazel eyes might darken to almost black and lighten to the color of forest honey. I got big olive-brown eyes, with a distinct expression of distance. That’s because I’m always daydreaming… 

Even when I should pay attention, I can’t seem to keep myself together. Still trickling away into the future or the past, or somewhere else. Never completely present. 

A stray mind, a restless soul.

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