I am paralysed with fear, with horror, my body is motionless, inert. For the moment, I cannot shout at the moment, I have no voice. I look at myself in the mirror and I see a vague face and drowsy eyes, the eyelids making a superhuman effor …
The silence is deafening and in the middle of that white, a silent shout: the tear. A wet, salty, furious, powerless and wounded tear. Once it begins it does not stop welling up waiting to be rescued, dried, removed, but above all understood.
Symbolized by the red thread, it crosses the rough paper with a needle and wounds it with no return.
After a tear the images change, they become murky, vague, salty and wet, but who changes the most because of tears is the person who cries: neither pain, nor friendship, nor love, nor light mean the same again.
Lídia Oliver
