...A Pocas Palabras

This is a true story that happened to me a few weeks ago. If you don’t know, I was born in Venezuela: a country that praises sensuality and ornament. With a long tradition of international beauty pageant queens, it is in our culture, in our identity, to look good. Oddly enough, that custom has only boosted my desire for simplicity.   When I was 18, I weighted 54 kilograms, I used to pull my hair back in a ponytail, everyday. I was slim, had large hips, long neck and a small waist. I didn’t wear make-up or followed trends. My favourite colors to wear were black, blue, and gray. I wasn’t fashionable. I was, you could say, simple. But I felt special, not all eyes were worthy of my beauty (teenage self-esteem). Fourteen years have passed and I am a woman now. Do I even have to say that I don’t look the same? Should I even say it? To you? My dear friend reader who must sense me just a bit by now? Well, I have changed. I am 20 kilograms heavier now.  My hips look lar

We might be old,                      uncool,                      or unworthy. We might be hated,                      mean,                      or criticized. We might be interesting,                       lonely,                       or popular. We might be athletic,                       bony,                       or fat. We might be mysterious,                       dangerous,                       anxious,                       open-minded,                       closed-minded,                       funny,                       loving,                       abusing,                       unknown,                       famous,                       sociable,                       shy,                       active,                       lazy,                       productive,                       unproductive. We might be closed friends,                       acquaintances,                       strangers,                       or enemies. We mi