Congratulations, my dear friends. All my love.
On endings, loss and love.
I do, after all, love deeply. It’s a trait I am proud of, and I also understand that it can be dangerous. My emotions are wide open; they live on the surface and caress my skin like well-worn cashmere. They’re soft, gentle and comforting on the surface, but underneath lies a delicate fragility that is ever so easily ripped apart.
On girlhood
It’s a narrative that not only divides, but pits genders against each other. In its less violent, but no less insidious form, it teaches men to see women – not as equals – but as remedies for their own loneliness. Women become something to be used; a means to fill the void left by a lifetime of being told to stand apart (or as punishment for another woman’s wrong doing, in my case). And so the cycle continues. With connection on one side and isolation on the other, there’s a chasm that grows wider with every whisper of division.
I think I’m becoming brand new. Again.
For the longest time, I have allowed trauma to define me. Perhaps for good reason. The perpetual pummelling I’ve received from the world for so long has deeply scarred me; mentally, emotionally and physically. I have been ripped apart, crushed and broken; the whole ground has shifted beneath me and brought with it the kind of pain that has genuinely made me question whether I’d find my footing ever again.
The modern man
While my jaunt to the digital marketplace of so-called romance may have been fleeting (and fruitless), it was rather a curious journey. Although, one I categorically refuse to take again. However, it was interesting – and perhaps largely telling of a much wider and profoundly sadder issue – but, while these modern men about town aim to present themselves as a paradox wrapped in an enigma for us to giddily swipe right on, they’re not really bringing much to the table, are they, really?
There’s power in solitude, believe me.
Don’t get me wrong, I understand that connection with others is equally important in weaving the golden threads of a good life – laughter with friends, the quiet comfort of being in a loved one’s presence – they’re vital. But with the relentless pursuit of external connection and validation perpetually purported to be our saviour, I firmly believe that we’re losing sight of the importance of connecting with ourselves.
On female rage…
Yes, we are feminine; we are the shelter from the storm, but rest assured: we are also the fucking storm. We are the gathering clouds, exhausted from years of quiet observations, comments, patronising, subtle, persistent moments of being undervalued; the patriarchal pronouncements, the dismissals, the undercurrent of doubt that threatens to shroud us in perpetual shade.
Will this work?
We are all, after all, delicate creatures of routine and solitude, and new connections demand a shift; a recalibration of what is familiar to us. And that in itself can be scary; vulnerability requires connection, after all, so we’re immediately on edge – assessing.