Years of torture. Add up. Multiply in your heart, soul, brain, and in your body. Times fold seven. It doesn’t matter anymore. No matter how they approach, you see them coming. They smell. Of course you don’t like them. You try to understand them. The way they attack everything you do. A controlling mechanism. The way the watch everything you do. Until you feel non-operational; non-functional. Unable to even venture outside, because of their never ending disregard, control, invasion, and watching. They are always there, ready to make you feel dumb, or stupid, or non-deserving, or not a part of their world. The world of people who count. You feel the suffocation of their endless circling, like a pack of wolves who are slowly tearing you apart. You are being kept powerless, a doormat for them to traipse all over. A bird that has not head because it has been viciously slashed off. You can’t do this and you can’t do that, yet then they pretend that this isn’t so. Meanwhile you die, because in order to be living – you have to be allowed to be in the land of the living…Art is the only thing that keeps you hanging on…

JANE À PARIS

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