/lit/ - Literature

>>5705112
I tried to translate it, but my english is pretty poor. I'm sorry if there's any mistake.

Noelia seemed like a distracted young fellow returning from college or, maybe, an unremitting worker (she mostly looked like an old journeyman, chasing little girls in his lunch hours). Sometimes, she came across as something she wasn’t, but most of the time, she was just her, but in other bodies, in other faces.
The camera which hanged on her neck was determinant in how I looked at her. Probably I just felt like she had to be a monster who had captured us so many times, as faithfully as can be. She was an oxymoron, a woman that was also a man and, at the same time, a beautiful abomination, an intangible, an inenarrable. Noelia looked at us through her camera and she was, in a sense, all of us, as if the old ones have been right and she stole pieces of our soul every time, as if she had something to say but she always fall silent thoughtfully, knowing that was us who had lost with that.
She never looked like a girl. We watched as she passed in front of the ditch where we drink wine, arriving from work, with a face that even Proust couldn’t describe in volumes written with dedication. Dressed with military boots and a long coat, a scarf in her neck and a strange hat, she looked as a monster denizen of the old London or, maybe, she was more like a person that, capricious, changed every morning and, with that, she metamorphosed or, at least, so it seemed.
Noelia took pictures and we never saw them. We just could imagine what her mutant woman body watched, her terrible infant body which disguised itself to pass inadvertent, impartial judge of our realities. Noelia took pictures and never showed them, maybe because that’s where the magic ended.
I never saw her again and maybe never saw her at all.
I stopped drinking in that corner, frequenting those friends and ceased seeing Noelia. Maybe I was in love with her, but only as one can be in love with a movie star or a writer; she was completely out of my reach and the only way I had to estimate her was through her character, her work, her particularity, day by day. Maybe that’s what I liked about her, but she was as distant as the object is far from the shadow it casts, as the act of filming is far of the act of observing.
Probably she kept taking pictures, but no longer of us. I wonder if she noticed that I was missing in that frame.