Katerina Petrou
Bio
Combining my passions of travelling, food, poetry and photography, I welcome you to read my stories.
Stories (117)
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Innocence Lost and Truth Found
Nobody really needs a holiday. Whenever somebody would ask me if I was looking forward to my upcoming trip, this is how I would begin my answer. 'Nobody really needs a holiday, but...' But, I had never been so desperate to escape my every day. To wake up to a different sky and have the air I breathe smell, and feel, different. To breathe. As if I had been holding my breath each day I stepped onto a train platform. Every time I entered the office and sat down at my desk. All those sips of coffee that were once pleasurable, now a poison slowly killing me. So, although my defensive response to a simple question followed fear of portraying privilege or sounding out-of-touch with my reality, I needed this holiday.
By Katerina Petrouabout a year ago in Wander
My Perspective On Perspective
My train journey served one purpose - I had to see that photograph again. After wandering the gallery and viewing the new additions, I asked the gallery director to show me the piece I had travelled to see. As I waited patiently for the reveal, he returned to tell me that it was not to be found. Instead, he digitally sent me the photographer's catalogue. Seeing the art on the screen was as if I let go of a breath I had been holding since I first stood before the frame. When I asked how much the work was sold for, he looked up at me to unveil the grand figure. Almost as if he was analysing my reaction. Perhaps he saw my flimsy tote bag that I bought on the streets of Venice, cheaper than advertised. Or had his eyes dropped down to my used-to-be white trainers prior to the exchange? Despite my explicit inability to afford such a sum, he shook my hand and smiled as he would for somebody with clean shoes.
By Katerina Petrouabout a year ago in Photography
The Poet Or The Poem
Close enough for the blue to disappear utterly. White foam crashing over my soles, reaching high up to my shins, my knees, my thighs and mind. As I stood in the sea with my white dress and bare feet, the scene was so rich that poetry and literature practically poured from my ears. I will write about this, I thought. I will write about this and it will be beautiful. Once my skin had dried, it seemed my pen had, too. It is only then as I stood before a blank page that I understood the words of David Carradine, American actor and director, "If you can not be a poet, be the poem." For most of my years I have been the poet. Turning nothing into something charming. Meaningless interactions into stories. How I could write a library for my fictional infatuations and lives. In that moment, toes upon the rocks and a descending horizon ahead, I was the poem.
By Katerina Petrouabout a year ago in Writers
Leaden Power
Bulging eyes sorely staring through my reflection. Bare body, bloated belly. As primal as if just escaped the womb. With an age far greater than that lived, settling in between the creases and cracks of my skin. My mind, it does not operate as theirs do. Cogs turn with great effort, while theirs churn thoughtlessly. With utter ease. An ability to be human without care. I care so much that it could kill me. Each word that leaves my breath is calculated and considered. My force is my own caretaker. Travelling my steps away from the edge and forward, forward. Towards another day. Into life. It is nights like this where my daily exhaustion of exertion overwhelms me and I drown in its burnt energy. Being alive should not be this hard.
By Katerina Petrouabout a year ago in Fiction
