Chaos and silent darkness. Looking to the past, dwelling in the bitter lone nights of my past... I had a walk through ancient pains... old loves, winds of change. It doesn't amaze me that the loneliness of my soul after so much time, after so many lives, so many changes, remains still. I walked through ancient memories almost forgotten, scattered to some corner of my mind when I confortably could let them be. BUT, as I said to my dearie, they're there and they have shaped me, brought to form my unconscious little fears and are carved deep into my ways of being. It is bitter and kind of ironic to remember how much of you already were tinted by the same feelings ten years ago and how the uneasy feelings of that time went away, the hopes and plans for the future all wasted themselves on the road of time, BUT you still remain the same, just dreaming of different illusions by this time.

I HAD to swim on the past, to know from where I came, I was looking into my art of the past to know how much of my soul it still reflected in it. From my early years I found a passion for Surrealism that still appeals to me but noticed amazed that all projects archived from that time that I cherished but didn't realize because of lack of time, materials and skill are now, after Photoshop, Poser and my natural development of drawing skills, so easy to produce that they don't defy me anymore. BUT it was good, to see my roots, remember the way I grew to be what I am today and to see how much of the path I chose still remains unstepped. The comics I wrote and sketched in the past, how many of those stories still makes sense for me today? Funny as it can look, only the funnies, the comic strips seems to still work today. All the sci-fi stuff and gothic vampiric vertigo style seems to be too fable to be reworked today.

I still have the dark in my soul and can walk in those helpless desperate corners again, but I can't just dive into this dark ocean and be the girl of sleepless nights of loneliness and crescent moon. I still have the fever and the pain into me. But all that have remained of the dark poetry of my younger nights is the fatigue and the intensity that seems never to fade... The mother that works all day don't have time or reality breaks to mute suicidal tendencies into art form... Even if she doesn't know for how many time she can keep going on without falling again on the borders of the abyss that keeps always calling again to have its deed...

The urge of meeting new challenges, produce fresh and new tortured art poured from the bitter pieces of my heart - how many time can I deny it, silent its voice, if it keeps growing slowly inside of me? I don't know. I'm still learning, still remembering, still tracking my ways on past to find what I must do from my future. No more than a dark mirror of myself by now. I want to see what face it'll show me on the right time.