The other one, the one called Poli, is the one things happen to. I stroll through the stone alley ways of Athens and stop for a few seconds, very slow, I am like an underwater sea creature, to study the lighted columns of the Parthenon, and the glowing white structures of the entire Acropolis; I know of Poli from the passport used to get here, and sometimes I hear her name being called by the sea water. I like sketchbooks used as a journal, cameras, sun-kissed olive skin, the taste of coffee and the prose of Bukowski; She shares these preferences, but in a vain way that turns into the attributes of a painter. It would be honest to say that ours is a love-hate relationship; I experience. In return, I may suffer, I do that so Poli may contrive her artwork. But that's alright, these creations justify me. It is no effort for me to confess she has achieved some valid images, but those images mostly, they destroy me. Perhaps, it is because I cannot explain them. They are smarter than myself, or perhaps they are too familiar; nothing is new.
I am unsure which of us has a grasp of our destiny. I do know that, little by little, I am responsible for her essence. I determine the values and meaning to Poli's life, though I am quite aware of her morbid way of falsifying and magnifying things.
Sartre, among others, knew that existence precedes essence. Unfortunately, Poli is the one things happen to. Even so, I shall remain in Poli, not in myself, because I do recognize myself more in her images than in the thousands of brushstrokes used to apply the paint. But I do not know how I get there, thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to her.
I do not know which of us has written this page.
