Did I imprison myself in surrealism?
Something untouchable, that died away?
Objects clatter. Do thoughts make that same sound?
Am I in charge, can I take action, when things are done
And dusted? The past is a plague for the perfectionist.
Is it but my shame that revives my mistakes to drag me back into depression?
Is there such hostility in my own body against me?
Is it a kind of love that I cannot really see?
Am I reacting to warnings, reminders or sentimentalities?
Do I have the power to agree to a pain that tries to infiltrate me
From outside? Do I have a choice? What affects me or not?
Can I be free whilst I’m bedridden?
“Woman Wearing White Hat” by József Rippl-Rónai (1861-1927)