By 
After so many centuries between Life and Death, I have realized that, somehow, somewhere along this fleeting path, I had fallen out of love with myself. Slowly, subtly, almost indistinctly, I had come to ignore the sweet sound of my voice, the softness of my embrace, the reassuring grip of my own presence. Little by little, I had learned to deceive myself, as expertly as lovers trapped in a very dangerous circle of deceit. Like a woman deluded looking for the now unknown spark in another’s gaze, she had been chasing sidewalks and alleys, looking for lights in gloomy streets, Love in all the wrong places. I surrendered my Soul, in search of a better alternative, a brighter filling, although fleeting, to the emptiness in the pit of my stomach, to the heat in the depths of my chest. I became a prostitute for love, a prostitute for acceptance.
It seems that I have been running for so long, through so many lives, through so many minefields and hostile lands, that I have forgotten the peace and quiet of my own step, the fluid melody of my walk, the tranquility of Being. A palm reader in a dark corner once told me: “You have lived so many times, so many lives, all truncated, so many turbulence …” I smiled and replied: “But I didn’t die, did I?”
I did not die when I fell from my mother’s womb, a “wet mouse”, the doctor called me that day. So small, my skin as deep as night, as slippery as wet sand after the rain, my eyes closed to a reality that I had felt from deep inside my mother, so little … That time, I had come into the world as quiet and discreet as the slow October breeze. The sun at its peak welcomed my arrival, as I glided into Life, carrying the weight of many lives before me and many to come. I did not die, I came from the eye of the storm.
I did not die, when everyone predicted that my path would be one of pain and disappointment, when Failure was pronounced as my companion from the minute I was conceived. How little did they know that I knew, that I had heard their exhausting voices from other lifetimes before, that I had come with the blessings of the gods.
I did not die, not even when the Evil Eye was thrown at me, when my wounds did not heal and the blood refused to flow from my secret part to become a Woman. No one could understand the reason, not even me. Then the storm subsided, my wounds healed, and I became a Woman.
I didn’t die, not even that time I was driving so fast the world became a blurry hole.
The wheel began to turn on its own; under the force of the elements, I had become powerless. My hands grasping the round piece of leather refused to acknowledge the inevitable. The radio continued to play, as my body participated in a vigorously harmonious dance, becoming one with the machine, twisting and turning on layers of invisible ice. Dance …
The music got louder and louder, its cadence getting louder and louder as I transcended the final state of self-abandonment. It was all at once a ridiculously pathetic and triumphant performance. I was on the stage, twisting and turning and twisting some more, my Self caught in the devilish melody, lost in pagan footsteps.
The music was loud, so loud that it exuded through the pores of my skin, the curls of my hair, so loud …
Then it stopped. Everything stopped. The world stopped to look down at a blue car and gray electric pole locked in a sadly hilarious embrace. However, I did not die …
I didn’t die for the sweet sound of my voice, the softness of my embrace, the gentle squeeze of Presence. I could not fool myself at all, I must not be as cunning as the devil thought … As the enemy took my hand and led me through countless mortal adventures, as each of my lives was lost, a mighty force and calm always held my soul. It is the gentle breeze that brushes my neck, the fresh drops of rain on my thirsty tongue; It is the wind that sings in my ear, the burning heat on my cheeks.
How could I, how could I forget the peculiar smell of my fingers, just under my nails, early in the morning? Didn’t he remember the shelter of my arms, huddled in a corner, listening to the melody of my own thoughts? Ahhh … Had I washed with soap and water the soft feel of velvety breasts against my hands hidden in the folds of my shirt, borrowing the warmth of my own flesh on cold October nights? I must have lost the infinite dreams of a little black girl from Ndakaru, the flying hopes of this young woman walking the American land for the first time … I must have lost my way to the village of my ancestors … I must have …
However, I did not die. I got out of the broken down vehicle and walked away from the haunted places and demons of yesterday … I walked away from this place of anger and frustration, pain and failure … I walked away because I could not allow myself to abandon my Self, I could not do it again. .. It had been done for so many centuries, I couldn’t let it happen to me again.
I walked away for all my mothers, all my aunts and sisters, for all the sons and daughters in the secrets of my womb, so that they can appreciate the soles of their feet and the twists of their hair.
I walked away for all my parents, my brothers and my children, so that they remember the warmth of their mothers embrace. I get away …
I did not die. I am walking back to Self.