When the game ends will the clock-works continue to turn, will the plastic hearts, wrapped in an imitation of flesh continue to beat, until they run out of battery “Made in China”?
Is there anyone left under the latex envelope or is lost in the illusion of real-touch cyber skin that she was knitting as a fine cobweb with her soul?
Was she feeling or she was pretending to feel just to fill up the hole that she opened? Or she was fooling herself, being satisfied with cheap pleasures, until she finally turns someday into a thick shelf of inexpensive fun.
The romantic endings do not exist. She had to understand this long ago. This was not Hollywood and she was not an actress, although she played in a movie pretty often. There was no scenario, the scenario was a projection of her mind and nothing else. An illusion, that she was feeding, in the idea of a fantasy, which was never meant to happen. She had to pay more attention to the signs, which the fate was drawing in front of her and she was intentionally trying to wash and paint again in the way that she was imagining. But the outlines were distorted, cause her hand was moving uncertainly, realizing the impossibility of her creation. Her little monster could never exist in the reality, but beyond that it would live forever. She continued drawing on the sand, which the waves were washing, on the asphalt, through which the cars were passing, crushing the stray dogs, for which no one really cared. Chien ecrasé. On the clouds, which in minutes were no longer the same. She was drawing, until she finished the painting. She looked at it for a moment in its absolute entirety. And then she destroyed it.
Written on Bulgarian January 2011, translated on English 10 months later.
