From sleepyness, my eyelids used to fall. Slowly, slowly. Melting to the rhythm of music like crimson paint that lets the painter's blood fall from its painting.
In front of me, on the wall of my room, there was nothing, there was a painting, it was never here, but there it was. In it, in red, a woman rested her arms around my neck. With a remarkable height. With a simple dress. With no face or expression, neither in her nor in my version of the painting.
A woman wrapped her arms around my neck, just like in the painting I was looking at. The painting looked like a mirror. Reality looked like painting. With a gentle grip on her sleeves, I snuggled my face into one of her arms and then looked up to see her face, attentive but nonexistent.
In front of me, in the painting on the wall, two snakes met. They moved, without taking their eyes off the other. It is difficult to determine what they did. If they seduced or threatened. They approached, very attentive to each other, twisting each other, squeezing so firmly that they both died.
From the painting a woman was crawling, struggling to get out, twisting until she fell with the painting. Now she was crawling toward me. I ran, or thought about doing it, but she managed to corner me. I fell to the ground and she hugged me vigorously, stroking my hair, repeatedly kissing my face, with a lot of energy, which was diminishing with the seconds until she fell satisfied and exhausted on me. Behind me, that tall woman in red had once again placed her arms around my neck. Now they were both spilling their paint. They flooded my body and wrapped it in paint. Now it was part of the painting that never existed, that never existed on my wall, on the wall in front of me, facing the eyelids that were opening again.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
