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Showing posts from December, 2015

No such thing as a real woman!

She's a girl. About six or seven. Playing outside with the boys. Other girls mums tell them not to hang out with her, because her mother is not like them, and she's not like them either. She goes home crying. She plays by herself.

In her early twenties. She knows her way. She possesses a confidence that makes you uncomfortable. A sense of self. God forbid!

She's one of those women. The 'strong' ones. The ones who do not even need to go against the label. A grey suit woman wearing a flowy dress and bright red lipstick. Women who do not fit in.

She's the woman, other women in real grey suits dismissed as too girly, too cute, less smart. She's the woman, other women in flowy dresses dismissed as too manly, too independent, too smart.

She's the woman whose glass ceiling in life is other women. She thinks, she should have been born a boy.

She's lonely.

In her mid twenties. She is yet to learn her limits. She is most likely to be single. Her best frie…

To the one who reads.

I'm a complicated book. The kind that gets picked up and tires you on the first page like a long novel by Victor Hugo. And you put it back on the shelf in the old library and you leave.

And I, lonely, long for someone who can read me. Some stranger from faraway who reads old complicated literature. Who understands my structure and doesn't miss a single comma. Someone who knows the value of how I'm crafted.

This stranger, from another continent, will make me want to come alive. Jump out of the yellow pages and speak to him. And wrap my arms around him and show him all the history and images I took away with me from the stained papers.I'd like to look him in the eyes, and tell him he indeed knows nothing, and that's the only truth. I know nothing.

But our nothingness, dear reader, is much more than the everything of someone else. Our nothingness, is something I can not bring out and let go off. Our nothingness is beautiful and dangerous. Our nothingness conquers a…

The boy that survived.

Mother never loved the purple boy. It was weak and sickly, mauve coloured, like a bruise.
Her little boy.

Life was wasted in its ill blood and its heart would not withstand a single day. Thus mother, didn't have to love the purple boy. With her hands soft and gentle like a sneaky poison, she lowered it, the child, on the hospital bed and left. Silently. Like a thief.

But the sick baby did not cry. He struggled with his little lungs to sip a breath of oxygen. He struggled with his little heart to pump blood on his bruised veins. A few days later, he struggled with his little hands to get hold of the nurses hair.

Oh mother, your baby boy is alive and healthy now. He grows everyday more beautiful. But everyday with pain. Because you left, before he could leave you.

You sold yourself, mother. And his little heart never stopped the struggle, mother. That little bruise you could not love, is still there mother, everyday a new one. Because he struggles. He fights for his life, mothe…