I am only a shadow of my words. Thinking quiet thoughts and holding a cup of tea… I am alone in this empty room, full of photographs of the past. Sometimes, all it takes to understand oneself is the silence. I am only a shadow of my words.

Today is another day. Just one more. It is raining and the droplets rhyme. But how many doubts can one hold? You can’t write in the sunshine. You can’t write in the rainfall. You are not a poet. No, you are not a poet.

A childhood memory: the morning light of a holiday, promise of a wonderful day ahead. And you know – everything is possible on this winter day, full of time, of endless time and no regrets… And the past has not been born.

To-day! I am so upset to-day. I can’t believe it happened! I am scared. We were talking after class… just talking… and he kissed me! I can’t believe he would just kiss me! Others could have seen! they will gossip… That’s not at all how I imagined it. And I am not sure if I liked his kiss…

There is this darkness that haunts me. As if it could turn all the colors to gray. It traps me. And all the joys become so petty and boring and so, so meaningless. I keep telling myself – I can’t imagine being happy ever again… I can’t seem to face even the simplest tasks. I am so tired, oh, so tired – I can’t even get up and start the day. At moments like this I keep asking: – Why bother? – What is it for? I am so tired of myself. I am so tired of this face, of this life, of feeling tired… Yet I know – this is not the real me – it’s only the darkness talking. I must fight it, fight it! … But why?

The time and its mirrors in this diary… but not a real me. I count my breaths. The hourglass is almost empty. Yet I am so young, still so young. Why do I feel as an outsider of everything alive? Perhaps, I am dead. I am, I am, I am an empty circle. I don’t exist. And yet I feel every moment passing, sand and seconds wasting away… I am not real. And this is my diary, and I am not real. I shall never, never, never, never die.

I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it. A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify? The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. (…)

Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call. It’s easy enough to do it in a cell. It’s easy enough to do it and stay put. It’s the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: ‘A miracle!’ That knocks me out. There is a charge For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart— It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair on my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Ash, ash— You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—- A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

Well, she didn’t kill herself that afternoon. It was a mild day in October, We sat outside over sandwiches. She said she had begun to practice yoga, take piano lessons, rewrite her drama rife with lust and pride and so, she didn’t kill herself that afternoon, She hugged me, went home, cranked the garage door open, (…) She said she had begun to translate Akhmatova, her handsome Russian piano teacher rendering word for word so she didn’t kill herself that afternoon. She cooked for him, made quiche and cog au vin. He stood the Czerny method on its head while her fingers flew. She said, she had begun accellerandos, Julia Child and some expand-a-lung deep breaths to do in bed so she didn’t kill herself that afternoon. We ate our sandwiches. The dream blew up at dawn.