Tilda

Tilda sweeps by a homeless man in the street. - “No, oh no, I want nothing of that in my body,” she says to herself.Tilda’s language is pure and clean, her body intact, her sex irreproachable. She is the one who stands wondered puzzled when faced with the atrocities and obscenities of life. - “No, oh no, I want nothing of that in my body,” says Tilda. No, she is housebroken; she has not only learned to keep her body clean but her house as well. She cleanses and she polishes, she weeds her garden and every corner she can clear of garbage, vermin, butts and outcasts to be. Tilda always fastens an eye of condemnation on what she cannot see; is anguished by that which goes beyond her field of vision. - “I am because I subject myself, therefore I subject myself to my tyrant,” she could say, if she weren’t so happily ignorant. But that’s why she stays in the funhouse of the mirror that affirms her. And she adjusts her behaviour as she’s been taught by her CBT therapist, pulls a few strings to rearrange minor distractions, runs a mile or two before continuing weeding her garden.