The book that is now in your hands was written on an irrepressible impulse. I couldn't resist. I had no say; I had no control. I did not write when I wanted and how I wanted, but how and when I needed. Through these pages, in recent months, the only conversations in which I have been completely honest with myself have been carried on.
I have dreamed of writing since I know myself. And I wrote. Anything, anywhere, anytime, didn't matter much. I tried to write for myself and for anyone who would ever read my words. To write in a relatable form in which the reader finds himself, and the one who reads me to say more, what a mood this book is !. However, the texts I propose here are parts of me - fragments of what I was at various times. Far too personal parts, which I never mastered, which I did not know I had. I never thought I'd publish them and yet ... here I am.
Am I Persephona? Not. Every word you read is a metaphor, so don't take me too seriously. Or you can take me seriously because of that. Persephone can be you, it can be your girlfriend, your boyfriend, your mother, your cat, the weather outside. Persephone can be anything; he was born out of nothing and will return to nothing. It is a moment, a piece of a huge puzzle that we ordinary mortals call life.
Persephone is life and death alike. Persephone is good and evil. Persephona is a paradox that you will discover in the following pages.
Is that me? Possible.
Georgiana Grigoras