A woman, who had no chance to develop the primordial human sense of belonging, finds herself fighting for an absolute untight freedom. Everything goes boring and half-dramatic until that sense of belonging kicks in with a curse. The result of freedom against time is then an untamed dirty faith, in the name of the God of the future.
As the sense of pity is probably the most inhuman entity that that woman can think about, the attention is soon moved to the night that changed the perspective: almost an affair, almost a wedding, almost a not lived life, almost rage; but at the end just a landscape renewal.
Borders are often just on the paper, as the separation line nobody drew for the new women, to protect their financial independence from the sadness of renouncing their femininity.
What do you have left if you have to renounce your inner nature? Can art describe emptiness?
Imagine floating as a solid free identity in this sea of emptiness and then being bitten by a strange unseen animal, so that your flesh is not only just yours. Imagine the panic and the surprise. Imagine the reality of a delusional freedom to be. What was a child growing in the womb for that woman? An enemy or salvation?
The bloody tragedy of losing that new identity again, in an understandable attempt of her body to set her free, going back to the emptiness: that is even worse than a solid enemy, or a war. So, she is she, with no definition of done. Any experiences lose color but one: a lost remembrance of deep love; the last she allowed herself to feel.
Can a man save a woman? No. How much stupidity over the millennia? The love for a man, though, can do many things. For instance, it can grant some minutes of happiness and forgiveness, far away in the Middle East.