Greetings, Steemians !!!
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 autoinvention.

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.

"Self-portrait of a tormented soul"

Fuente

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

What was he looking for to exteriorize his worn out interior? What was he trying to achieve with this crucial movement? What evil angel whispered that if he shouted, he would explode the ears of the universe? Sleep, illness, annoyance or "Sanchization", the truth is that he began to scream and vociferate expletives against life, against his life and against the recontra% 7 $ & #% 2% ~ of the mother of who was hearing him in that precise moment when the straw went to his head.

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

And, the answer was always the same: nothing happens, no more than the uncomfortable moment in which someone obstinate shouts unintelligible sounds that nobody cares, for reasons that nobody cares, in circumstances that no one cares about. Nothing happens because the rest of the world has become deaf. Collective insensitive, pretending to create new worlds from this already spent, fractured and addicted. New forms, for old tricks.

Y, mientras tanto, la ilusión del espantapájaros crece y disminuye como su presencia angustiada en este plano. A veces, esperanzado, se arroja como Quijote en busca de sueños renovados y ... nada se mueve, nada lo mueve, permanece anclado en su viejo palo. En otros, el estoico quejumbroso, lloroso, imita todo lo que rodea su figura descolorida, reproduciendo conductas aprendidas, basadas en la victimización del victimario confeso que, por profesar una creencia falsa, se cree exento de culpa.

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 tangos with solitude", convinced that a change of air would raise his dream kite. Now there is always, in the same bench sitting, a blanket thrown on the floor, ready to give his good side and even if less vengeful, is given by a look. There are people who laugh when they see him with his very threadbare trousers and some flowers that he has taken to decorate his old sack, already very patched. From his years of experience, he tells a thousand stories and I am there, among his squalid public, pretending to believe him. Pretending not to know him, seeing him happy counting adventures and believing himself a vate, a bard, or rather, a wandering troubadour.

"It counts for me, I do want to hear you," I said, trying to get his attention in a pseudo mocking boot of lyricism: "I'd like to endorse you to buy your madness," and he smiled. _ "Tell me how the sun is falling, that while you talk, I will think: how lucky it is to be half the dream of a sunset that I watch when listening to you". And, he fell silent. "Will you come back? Tell me if you will come back tomorrow, as you did every afternoon, to tell me how the day dies." And he left...

Now, I miss him. I invoke him and I ask him to continue accompanying me, but I feel that he does not come, he really left. It was lost inside me, although sometimes I feel it inside and at the same time outside even without straw, with another face and another body.

Did I say that I witnessed his tangled story in which he appears and hides, leaves and stays, asks himself and answers himself? Therefore, I know that you will never be reproached for trying to be reborn. It will not be lost again in the night, because its soul shines with more force than a million stars. But, in my absurd loneliness, sometimes you listen to me: "What I would give to contemplate you, even for a moment".

Fuente

For accompanying me, reading me and always being there ... Simply thanks