'And I had a feeling I could trust you.'
'With anything.' I felt like saying, with your life, but didn't.
Making notes all the way, something I no doubt inherited from her. For no clear reason, just to have something to hold on to. She still has houndreds of notebooks. The sign of a wasted life.
Antigone, Antigone, all these years the enigma of your death has haunted me. The ferocity of that No you have been hurling at the world, indefatigably, unremittingly. Not just at your uncle Creon, but all of us, all the men, even those of us who loved you, but who have failed to understand.
To be constantly desired by others, as you are; your presence forever wanted, your attitude problems overlooked for the sake of maintaining your anatomy within the current time zone.
To be hued down, exhumed from and pleaded for. How can you, how can they lust for you so passionately, so desperately?
But in your world of nothing and in betweens and exhausted secrets, you pretend to never notice those blood-thirsty arms and throbbing thighs.
They all seek your glance of well-planned arrogance, your sweet impatient lips, and your bored eyes. Your private jokes. Your instant love affairs. Your rants of faith. Your tongue.
The cross on which you hang me from, nail me to, dry me under the sun – I am still bound to the wooden frame of you.