My fifty.

I'm not easy. Those who pretend to care about you and well, actually they don't. They say they like you and if they don't like you… they don't tell you.

He says he likes you, very much, when the specimens of man perform these peculiar courtship dances. At first… he must be impeccable. Convincing. He's kind and thoughtful. He fills me with all manner of attention.

He needs to be prepared to make a good impression. He and her aren't that different. 'You're not so far'. 'You are not so different from me, really'.  Then he struggle. Gets evasive. 

He devolves into banality. Such a gentleman. What a coward.

I'm not easy. I'm different. So far. 

Being in society. I can't. I don't know. I travel by camper, I eat with my hands, I lick my fingers, I sleep in the tent. I'm not a serious woman. I'm strong. I don't need care and any attention. I'm a free woman.

Or at least it looks that way.

I just can't get enough. I can't get enough of me. Is always too little. Time. Space. Life. Love. I can't delight no one. I can't. No matter how hard I try to please… to welcome… 

This is way.

What a pity. Such a waste. Of time. Of will. Of pleasure.

I'm not easy. I'm different. So far. 

Anversa. Luglio 2022. My fifty years.

Simple. I'm not easy. I'm across. I'm beyond. 

I'm inside, inside people, inside things.

🎧 Animal Instinct. The Cranberries.