She didn’t bother to paint the lips or cheeks, but her eyes had to be black.
Two black lines, long eyelashes, expression. Deep brown eyes. Eyes of complaint and disdain, coldly angry, half-closed eyes that stares as if everything was too obvious, boring, worthless. Nothing moves these eyes, but they mobilize everything.
There was no smile, just a grudge. A grudge that carried throughout the centuries the women’s oppression. But she wasn’t seeking revenge, at least not explicitly, she didn’t mobilize herself to convince the masses, join groups or create revolutions.
She no longer believe in changes, cold bloow flowed in her veins without the embers of idealism.
She wore the heavy high heel sandals, made to crush everything. And the weapon of that cold fight for a nomeless war, without idealism, without words or company, was the dirty and common sense seduction.
The deep and obvious eyes, self-reliance, the freedom to walk without old fear of women, the high heel sandals, the value that came from the streets, came from the misfit, the repugnance of the system. And the position taken was the only one that remained, the position of who don’t give up just because simply does not fit. She shut up with the mouth, she speaks through the overwhelming sandals and with the sight of the wich, she plays a dirty game with the result is several symboli spits.
And whatching those washed faces become vassals, she smiles internally the laugh of the centuries.