She cuts, she sharpens, she breaks out, she cracks. A raw woman. A wild woman. A natural woman. Standing close to one meter eighty, she is impressive. The first time I saw her, I thought, “What a woman!”—impressed and reassured all at the same time.
Kristina with a “K” is a soldier. She’s a fighter. She smokes, drinks, works, and swallows everything whole. She devours life like a hungry soul, like a recovered anorexic. The second time I saw her, she told me, “You, tiny thing, I could eat you.”
The Serbian woman, who lived through the war, keeps scars on her face like marks, like habits. She acts like a retired firefighter watching a fire, ready to jump into her future. And so, she fights today for tomorrow. She keeps repeating: “Life is a fight.” By chance, she landed a position with the United Nations—exactly what she wanted, to take back what the war had stolen from her: a husband, a house, comfort, and above all, her dignity. Becoming a refugee turned out to be a way of life that burned away her credulity. Because of that, she kicked out a man who didn’t seem strong enough for her. A man who was not her size.
The species of Kristina with a “K” is a sturdy one. To be able to follow the lioness across the dry plain, you need endurance and mental strength. But watch out—once the lioness is caught, she cannot move. The claws of Kristina with a “K,” sharp as they are, cannot stop human bestiality. Fiercely feminist, she is angry about what human beings are doing to women, what human beings are doing to human beings, and what human beings are doing to the universe.
To modern thinkers who believe everything was better in the past, and to conservative thinkers who believe everything is fine in modernity, I offer Kristina with a “K” as an example to both. She tenderly remembers a time when men appreciated large women for their physical capacity to work the agricultural fields, yet she proudly announces that she doesn’t depend on any man.
Pragmatic, she is also romantic. She cuts through fire with a burning sword of desire. She remembers her first date and realizes today, being alone, that she needs to be touched. Her broad face, punctuated by piercing cat-like eyes, is framed by heavy, blonde, curly hair. Which man wouldn’t like to bury his hands in her mane and let her warrior soul fly? She is all women, and she is all men. She is a sphere unto herself, a planet of « Kristina with a K.”.
Zyphera 