Log 05 - Fifth Entry: The Mirror

One spiral collage. One page drifting. A self-portrait she erased before it 
could see her.

The spiral shows up again. This one isn’t drawn or printed: it’s a collage, carefully cut and pasted in, like she needed to anchor it right here. She has other spirals tucked between these pages too, little circles that loop back on themselves when you least expect it.

Left Page

"*Pensei em telefonar. Mas o que diria? Não há mais nada a dizer.*"
*I thought about calling. But what would I say? There’s nothing left to say.*

Probably her ex. The one she left behind when the walls got too tight, or maybe when the silence got too loud.
She writes it like a full stop, but she doesn’t stop.

"É estranho como o espaço muda o corpo. Aqui movo-me devagar. Como se tivesse que pedir permissão às paredes." 
It’s strange how space changes the body. Here, I move slowly. Like I need to ask the walls for permission.

"O apartamento ainda não é casa. Não sei se algum dia será."
The apartment still isn’t home. I don’t know if it ever will be.

Some spaces never let you settle. Maybe they like you untethered.

And the collage spiral sits there beside her words - neat but endless, still circling the same point.

Right Page

"Faz três semanas que saí. Três semanas. E ainda me custa respirar à noite."
Three weeks since I left. Three weeks. And it’s still hard to breathe at night.

The nights always weigh more than the days: here, for her, for me.

She writes: “Comecei a ler de novo o Monroe. Não sei porquê. Talvez procure uma saída.”
I started reading Monroe again. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m looking for a way out.

She doesn’t explain, but I know what she means.
The copy I found inside the Polaroid bag — Journeys Out of the Body. Her bookmark still tucked inside.
Maybe she was looking for a way to slip out, a way to watch herself float above the spiral. 

"Tentei fazer um autoretrato ontem. Apaguei." 
I tried to make a self-portrait yesterday. I deleted it.

The spirals, the books, the collages. They’re all ways to see yourself when you’re not sure who’s looking back.
Sometimes I think these pages are the real mirror.
One that only reflects what you’re afraid to say out loud.

These pages are fragments left behind by Isabel S., no more and no less. © I.S.