Sensibility

I found myself writing, in the night after crying too hard. I was crying because of her. The one soul I shall be sure of its love, the one soul that is given of the duty to love and protect me. But she was making the most sad, more than any other soul can do. I can feel her existence, I shall be greatfull, but I cannot be. I cannot control the electric and the anger taking over my body and making my eyes filled with tears, my chest with fury and my mouth with cry. I was begging for love and affection from the one person I had not to ask. She claimed to love, love me more than anyone so she was asking for the best of me. But I could not be, I was not and I will never be the best of me. I just wanted to be, ugly me, half of me, frustrating and disturbing but still me, even at my worst, I wanted someone to be there for me and love and accept me just because I am me. The only way one could love such disgusting creature was that she created her. She created me and I was made out of her pieces, I was a flower bloomed in her garden, I was the taste of her own food, I was the reflection of her eyes, I was carrying her pieces, her wishes and her dreams, I was her, and him; but more of her. Was that not enough to sit in silence with me and look me in the eye, just to look, not to judge, not to change but only to see, only to know and to witness what is me and not what else I could be. Was it too much to provide to make me feel safe and at peace while just being me, without wishing to be somebody else greater than me.

Oh to be girl, a man can never know, is never easy, never in peace or in harmony. There is always a chaos and an urge to change, to evolve, to go beyond what you are, transform not just yourself but your line. Every girl carries pieces, not only from her mother but from every mother before her. And a piece of each from them, a sorrow from each of them. She has to fulfill a dream of each of them. She has freedom to walk in the streets without a man next to her, she can eat out and wear whatever she wants, but on her shoulders she caries the burden of generations, thousands of woman who showed her the way slowly, so they can never be themselves, it can never be okay, it can never be whatever.

She has to fight, she has to a be a woman and also a man, she has to look like a woman and act like a woman with the heart and mind of a man. A modern woman has to fight like a man in the world of men, she has to stop asking love from the mother, she has to fight with her too, she has to destroy both of them to build a new woman, for her daughter, whom will destroy her again. And again and again. There is no place for old and new together, you have to break the bones of traditions, emergin and rooted, all of them has to be destructed. Untill a woman is free of her past, untill a woman is as free as she does not know her past, untill a woman who does not feel sad for her grandmother, there is no love to receive from a mother. But then, when a woman is fully free, and played the man for too long, what if she has no love to give just like them. What is to be free in a world of men? To be so similar that they can recognize you anymore, so they cant hurt you? To hide so they cannot find you? To overrule so they are afraid of you? What is it to be liberated in a world of men? What is that I will lost everything for? What is it that I loose the love of my mother for, what is it that I will be fighting for?