the eye is a travelling window: it records the silent film about the passage

from darkness to another darkness - though some scenes are blurred, some obscured;

you cannot have both happiness and truth;

(if you must choose, choose happiness!)

good things happen to good people - believe it! everything I’ve been struggling with -

this emptiness inside - it’s gone! you see? no one can break me now;

we attract what we are, the life-coach keeps preaching. 

so many books have been written on the subject, so many dreams woven and torn.

she thinks she can dabble in darkness as long as no one sees the needle marks. 

but i know better. 

she is in my silent film too. i watched her from a distance and i can say:

what happened was her fault.

ophelia was a blank canvas - one could write anything on it:

a tragedy or a wife’s little life with brats tugging at her skirt;

but she suffered from an inability to be -

like most good daughters, she was a keeper of family secrets

in the rosewood cabinet of her eagerness to please;

she knew how much her daddy loved her smile -

that secret love seeped through her whole being - day after day,

until she got lost in a maze of nameless guilt -

or maybe a swamp of self-loathing;

only in madness she could feel whole again.