Writings and other musings

Category: Essays

Coalesced Memoirs

What is the point of a woman? 

In whose light were we created?  

we are classless citizens roaming the earth. 

Our bodies are not our own. Our minds are to be silenced. 

What are we?  

Why would anyone create a being with agency, but without agency? 

It’s a cruel joke 

You can achieve, but you cannot 

Live in state of constant flux and contradictions 

This world is not meant for you, but this is a place you must inhabit 

What is the point of a woman?  

It’s a cruel joke  

to bring a woman into this world with a tongue and an intellect 

For she dwells in a world were neither are recognized 

 How do you read my body?

You don’t. my body has been inscribed by the past that I hold no memory of.  Your reading of my body is a reading of the privileged of this world. My journey is buried beneath. Fragments may appear, but the inconsistencies wash away, and the grand narratives of our society continue to write their stories over my own. I was born in hope and grew into despair. I came to a place in my life where I thought it better not to appear, to disappear. Who would care? The world would carry on. One less mistake, one less burden. That is the beginning of my story.   

I came to this life and breathed sweet freedom. I was free to be. I was allowed to be. I cherished the quiet, loved high fashion. Sought out nature and peace. Tranquility greeted me. These were my early years. Then adolescences came and the clutches of society followed. An education for you? No, no. Not needed. Work hard, you will be okay. This was the life you destined for me? A life of servitude? Without an education you handicapped me. Left me reliant on others. Trapped and caged you sold me away. You shed tears of regret, for somewhere deep inside you knew what you did. But for the moment you painted them as tears of sorrow for another sweet child has left the nest. There ends your story of my life. In your mind I lived happily ever after. Any thought that things were not as they seemed were swatted away like flies. It’s easier to swat away thoughts that disturb the façade we have painted of our lives, than face a reality that brings into question the foundation you have built your life on. You had a role to play in what followed. Blind ignorance is what you sought. So, you toiled away your years in blinding beliefs and narratives that you did the best you could. But for whom?

I want to cry for all the dreams that could never be, for all the ideas that never came to fruition. For all the countless nights that I spent dreaming of who I would be, what I’d create and where I’d go. There was so much passion, so much drive, and it all came to a silent halt. For what? For whom? Did my sacrifices, no, did our sacrifices create a better today?   

Why was I so naïve to believe what the world fed me? That I am here to serve the needs of others, to mother and nurture, but never nurture my own desires?  Why did my tribe continue with a belief system, a way of being, that no longer served us? Why did my tribe tell me to be a good girl? A good girl, who never made any noise, was never seen, nor spoke, and least of all, never, ever, thought. Live within your confines and all will be well. But for whom? I followed years of tradition with muted obedience. I took care of others. As women we have no desires, no aches, we just continued to serve. Allowing our bodies to be define by patriarchs. Obedience was our only means of goodness, but even that would fail us. I was bright, I could have been something. Instead I chose the good girl trap.

Why did I take this all in? Why did I let these false beliefs create my foundation? A foundation that kept me small, and continues to haunt me. I can never be truly free of the seeds that were planted in my past, despite my desire to go forward, they sneak into my thoughts, bringing doubt when I most need my strength.  

Whose seeds have we continued to sow? The investment and expense is our labour; the cost is ours alone to bear. The distributor of the seeds simply scatters them and allows them to sprout where they please, including in our tribe. Don’t be fooled, you’re not better than us, you are us. You complete the work of our patriarchs, the agronomists, who have divided women, pitted us against one another. You are the seeds that sprout. You quickly accept your place and alleged privilege, and believe in binary tales. no one is better than rest.

The Submissive Death 

I’ve been inculcated into a culture of submission, I’ve lost who I was, or maybe I never got to know that person. The person I do know, holds onto fear with an iron grip, I can’t let go. I think I want to, but what lies beyond my beautiful prison? Violence? Rejection? Loneliness? I don’t fear the latter two, for my prison has brought me years of solitude, and my thoughts reject me regularly. I’ve come to embrace the narrative of my mind. 

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