Maybe my own footprints did not bring me here.
Was I guided by the ones who brought me forth?
By the ones who made me look at things? Taught me?
How was the image of a woman shaped? How was it
Portrayed to me? How did I drown in the repetitive echoes?
How did I become compatible with the outline?
I see what shaped me, influenced my self-image, can I trace everything back?
Was something within me not strong enough?
Had I been weakened? Was it a foreign activity, not an act from within?
Am I not a reaction to something and someone?
To words and images? Am I an active recipient?
More or less aware, more or less impressionable?
Reduced or higher standards over all the years?
This is not a blame game.
Did I lose track? Did someone have something in mind for me?
How I am supposed to act, to look, to taste, to sound?
And did I fall into the trap?
Was it me or was it the dominant invisibility?
The voice that I’ve always known yet never saw.
The million faces of women and men
Towering around me.
The lack of joy
And identity.
Was I born
With strings?
“Young Girl with Blue Ring” by József Rippl-Rónai (1861-1927)
Croque-Melpomene 