We Are All

 

In bloom. My sister's garden

I had a rambling in my head,

about choices, and fate; about misfortunes and adaptions; about boredom and safety. It went on and on. It could have gone on

             forever.

I wrote a chaper about having a conversation with Frida Khalo once (l wrote several, not being able to help myself in such a grand company, however imaginary.).

Nothing spectacular. Perhaps pretentios. But inspirational. For myself that is. The main thread was the wounded creator.  I named it Goldpowered Bloody Monster, a simple reference to the accident that broke her column, her back, in pieces, while golden powder rained over her, from a tablet of an artist that was in the same accident. Or, so the story goes, the myth ... such drama.

I was rambling in my head. Until l stopped and reminded myself that "empty heads are happier." But one thought couldn't help but slipping in, in this sorting game of situations and efforts. The thought was simple. Whatever path we choose, whatever we give up, whatever happens to us, or we draw to us. To be here. Just to live in this world:

We are all goldpowdered bloody monsters.

Water in evening, Malmö