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. Continue reading “not-roxana”

by night

I’ve always been afraid of the dark.

My whole life I was scared when the lights went out. When the day dissolved into the night, I crawled, as fast as I could, under my blankets, leaving my reading lamp on. Often the whole night.

But things change…

There is no reading lamp – not anymore. No blankets. I sit in my chair, smoke and wait for the dusk to come. The grayness descends so slowly, carefully, not to scare anyone away.

Emerging from the business of midday, from the productivity others use to care for, the twilight spawns. Slowly unfolding, growing… As if breaking up the surface of reality, the fuzziness within and around things reveals itself.

In those moments I feel my heart beating stronger, louder, faster… As if it would respond to a call, I did not hear in the first place. Ill-defined movements under a dust layer. Left alone, for so many centuries. Left to feel despair, to feel guilt, to feel … myself, my flaws.