Frida, Mon amour

Sometimes when I wake up, I am haunted by one vision. Frida Kahlo transfixed in her bed, swinging between an extended squealing of pain that emanates from every cell in her body and an elation that attempts to elevate her to the world of thoughts and images.
It is just days or maybe months after her accident. Her father had installed a mirror above her bed, for her not to feel lonely, he thought. The artist in her is being conceived and awaiting birth.
She is floating in the fuzziness of her own existence, trying to contain herself within defined boundaries but ends up escaping second after second through every pore in her distorted body. She’s like an amorphous being that expands pseudopodia in a frenzy in search for any palpable de-emotion. Every bit of her is worming its way towards new territories. Her thoughts are emitting their elements from a disintegrating core. It's another failed endeavor to be saved from the insanity of suffering.
Her eye is mesmerized by one still image fixed on the mirror above her bed. Her cruel crystal-clear motionless reality is spitting in her face everything about herself she was eager for and yet refused to see.
She is in an endless state of paralysis.
Quickly, every struggling whisper in her manages to defeat this reality and blows her up into tiny pieces floating in the emptiness of her room. Eventually, her particles lose their momentum and end up like dust impregnating restfully every inch in the room.
No matter how hard she tries to pull her existence together and wipe her particles away from substance around her, this one fixed vision lingers.
She screams, she shuts every tiny outlet in her, she blocks light from piercing her soul, she sinks into her bed sheets in pain. All in vain. Reality, the reality of helplessness, is so invisible, so slim and so persistent… © El Matador