The tattered ribbons woven into her hair were a reminder of the exile she had endured. In years belonging to a past that reeked of assimilation, the artist was not even allowed to feign conformity. She beheld people glaring at her books, heard rude voices ridiculing her opinion, and was finally condemned in a trial that deemed her void of intellect
The books on the shelf that witnessed her verdict crumpled their pages in shame.
The anonymous artist stifled her art for a period extending over thousands of days. Her dreams no longer held the scent of sepia portraits, and the mundane reality thrived on electrocuting her senses. Her eyes had repudiated their mahogany hues, becoming listless organs of sight in a haggard face. Only the relics of metaphors remained. The metaphors were disrobed of their unique meaning, and pleaded with the artist to mould their language into a definition that would defy the manipulative traitors.
Finally liberated from the shackles that destroyed her expression, she sought to live through metaphors that retained all the mystery of sepia, but also harboured the force to combat the denigration of ideals.
"There's no such things as dreamers, and you can take that from a dreamer who's had the privilege of seeing realities that he was never even capable of dreaming." FIDEL CASTRO