I am Maria, but I used to think I was God.
When I had to play with the dolls in preschool I used to cry, because I thought people were making fun of me.
I always enjoyed being alone, but not to not be seen. I have hated privacy from the beginning.
I used to assume everyone thought about that the same way, but when mr Gullivan from next door caught me when I drilled a hole in my bedroom to see what he looked like naked, because my mother always wrote about it in her diary, I came to understand that not everyone thinks he is God.
Not everything was as I thought it was. When I was to be the chosen one, I was in any case alone. I learned that when I wanted to watch other people, I had to do it carefully.
My fascination for other people began to make place for fascination for myself.
I began to gain interest in optical illusions. The way a house becomes bigger when I walk towards it, how the light changes its appearance at the same time and how all of that happens because I come closer to the house.
I hum ‘La vie en rose’ when I walk in Paris, so other people, provided that they’re not wearing headphones, can feel like they’re in a film of which I’m the director.
I often misread a word, but in such a way that the word makes more sense in the context. I call it ‘reversed dyslection’.
I am Maria, you can give me a nod when you meet me.
Or say Ave, in case you’re one of those.