Greetings, Steemans!!!

Today I bring you a unique story that suggests an exciting theme: the "other", that fellow being that borders the corners of our souls and tempts us to live in other worlds or in "their world". Seen from the self-portrait, it is a reflection of the soul of the person who writes, "persuading" the soul of the person who reads.

In this sense, I found the photographer's perspective interesting, explaining this process:

The self-portrait is one of the deepest visual exercises with multiple personal connotations that an artist can perform (...) That unusual and introspective gesture of incorporating himself into the work reflects in some way his soul, his state of mind and his creativity. The self-portrait of a photographer goes beyond a simple visual representation. It is a self-creation and, in many cases, an auto invention.

In writing, "self-portraits are also painted" and some describe them as:

«Fragments
of inner soliloquies crossed with apprehension, doubts,
sapiential trash, ideologemas, visual waste and hopes
downcast »-

More or less, this is the atmosphere raised. I hope you like it.
Today I bring you a unique story that suggests an exciting theme: the "other," that being companion that borders the corners of our souls and tempts us to live in other worlds or in "his world. Seen from the self-portrait, it is a reflection of the soul of the person who writes, "persuading" the soul of the person who reads.

In this sense, I found the photographer's perspective interesting, explaining this process:

The self-portrait is one of the deepest visual exercises with multiple personal connotations that an artist can make (...) That unusual and introspective gesture of joining the work reflects in some way his soul, his state of mind and his creativity. The self-portrait of a photographer goes beyond a simple visual representation. It is a self-creation and, in many cases, a self-invention.

In writing, "self-portraits are also painted" and some describe them as:

"Fragments
of internal soliloquies crossed with apprehension, doubts,
sapiential garbage, ideologems, visual waste and hopes
beaten "- -

More or less, this is the atmosphere that rises. I hope you like it.

Self-portrait of a tormented soul

Source

As it was "in the old doll hospital...", one day, frayed, that old scarecrow arrived. He no longer frightened the birds, but he frightened himself, in a mixed attempt of commerce and the old war. Thus he presented himself, without knowing why, because his slender figure was not produced by any evil, but by the conscious passage of the moons in his destroyed hat.

What was he looking for to exteriorize his worn interior? What was he trying to accomplish with this crucial movement? What evil angel whispered that if he shouted, it would explode the ears of the universe? Sleep, sickness, discomfort or "Sanchization", the truth is that he began to shout and shout improperly against life, against his life and against the recontra% 7 $ & #% 2% ~ of the mother of the one who was listening to him at that precise moment when the straw went to his head.

So, he spent his time meditating, ruminating, what happens when someone like me, who is supposed to witness the passage of flocks of birds, the inclemencies of weather, the times of fat cows, the magical silence, the torrent of lights, the lack of love in the world, goes crazy? What happens when someone like me discovers that kind of useless Pandora's box? What happens when I recognize myself tired, fed up, helpless, helpless, broken?

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And the answer was always the same: nothing happens, no more than the uncomfortable moment when someone obstinate screams unintelligible sounds that nobody cares about, for reasons that nobody cares about, in circumstances that nobody cares about. Nothing happens because the rest of the world has gone deaf. Insensitive collective, trying to create new worlds from what is already worn, fractured and addicted. New forms, for old tricks.

And, meanwhile, the illusion of the scarecrow grows and diminishes as its anguished presence on this plane. Sometimes, hopeful, he throws himself like Don Quixote in search of renewed dreams and... nothing moves, nothing moves, nothing moves, it remains anchored in its old stick. In others, the stoic complainer, crying, imitates everything that surrounds his discolored figure, reproducing learned behaviors, based on the victimization of the confessed victimizer who, for professing a false belief, believes himself free of guilt.

And there he goes, throwing his bag of bones over his shoulder, pretending to write letters to the wind, to silence his privacy. Thus, he arrived at a park, dancing close to the solitude, convinced that a change of air would elevate the kite of his dreams. Now, there is always, on the same bench sitting, a blanket thrown to the floor, ready to give its good side and although less vindictive, is given with a look. There are people who laugh when they see him in his very torn trousers and some flowers that he has taken to decorate his old sack, already very mended. From his years of experience, he tells a thousand stories and I am there, among his miserable audience, pretending to believe him. Pretending not to know him, seeing him telling adventures and believing himself to be a veteran, a bard, a wandering troubadour.

Tell me, I want to hear you," I said, trying to get his attention in a pseudo-bourlona boot of lyricism: "I'd like to support you, I want to buy you that madness," and he smiled. Tell, what the evening sounds like when the sun is going down, and while you're talking, I'll think: how lucky it is to have half the dream of a twilight, which I see when I listen to you. And he was silent. Will you come back tomorrow, will you tell me, will you tell me what the day smells like when it dies? And no more was heard, his faded figure vanished.

I miss him. I invoke him and ask him to come back, but I feel that he's not here, that he's really gone. It was lost inside me, although sometimes I feel it inside and at the same time outside even without so much straw, only a voice in my head.

Did I say that I witnessed his convoluted story in which he appears and hides, goes and stays, wonders and answers, self-flagelating the ego?
That is why I know that you will never be reproached for trying to be reborn. You will not get lost again in the night, because your soul shines stronger than Orion. But, in my absurd solitude, I am sometimes heard to say: "What I would give to contemplate you, even if it were for instants".

You'd say... splitting or a disorder? I would say: unification... autoscopy.

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