As the dancer, she’s sharp. Sharp are her eyes, her nose and her thin hands. She carries the childhood freshness, leaving behind her a spring fragrance. Her innocence faces the realities that don’t match with her idealism. Her romantic love is tested by common selfishness and pragmatism. Her apprentice teenager imagination makes her say she could write scripts of soap movies, watched only when housewives iron. Honest to others and herself, she confesses -often wrong and humble, what she does not know. Admiring almost everything and easily scared, she doesn’t seem to measure her own strength.
I would like the world hold by women like her who, with intelligence, have kept most of what ordinary people left at their birthplace or buried with their hopes. Her fuel is love, her batteries are human relationship. She is an angel to preserve.
We shared many conversations, jokes that make only us laugh, courses in university amphitheater, mails, tequila shots, sandwiches, Cuban dances. I’d like to take her in my travels and make sure that nothing and nobody can hurt her sensitivity, reduce her potential.
She’s like my sister. And as in a famous French song, « For me, that’s sure: she is from somewhere else. »
Zyphera 