I have spent years listening to Estefania’s words and writing down her thoughts and she will never leave. She told me her story. At times, it was hard to listen, not to twist her actions, distort her truths no matter how cruel and destructive, and not to make her better. I felt it when I ended up in a dead alley, a wall of dishonest beauty, of muted characterisation. I knew she was watching me, my writing steps and that she was waiting for me to follow her into her abysses, her darknesses, where I belonged, after all I was looking for her truth.
I wouldn’t find it if I focused on making her a better person. I had to let her be herself, otherwise the words wouldn’t come to me. I disagreed with her actions, with her words, with her choices, but I needed to convey them unaltered and as purely as possible, excluding my judgement, reflecting her personality, her humanity unblemished by perfection. It was liberating and painful to latch myself onto her, knowing where it would all go.
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“Ophelia” Sculpture by Sarah Bernhardt (1844-1923)