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

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

I don’t like talking. Challenges disguise themselves as question, 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… And the picture comes to live. It offers not only the problem, but also the best solution. Visualization is the most precious treasure I got . That’s why I enjoy paintings and poetry so much.

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

Others are present, but I’m often missing.

I’m constantly 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. 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.  Always trickling away into the future, or the past… Or somewhere else… Never completely present. 

A stray mind, a stray soul…

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