| By hanna,
on 26-10-2006 01:11
|
Views : 1170  |
Favoured : 49 |
Published in : , Stories |
I want to write, I want to express myself without thought, I want to write my life story, my thoughts, my whims, I want to breath words, to suck in words, and to sleep words,......
O Allah, guide my hands to write to form beautiful words and poetry, I want words to be my expression, my way of living, my way to release myself.
Words are so beautiful, only humans have the ability to use them, make new ones, and put everyday words in a new manner so that every sentence seems fresh and new and mysterious.
Here I am, all alone, Baba and Mama are sleeping. I sit in my room, at my desk, thinking and looking out the window. Outside of my four-walled prison, lies a world I know nothing about. The skyline betrays the coldness of the world, tall and soulless apartment towers, satellite dishes, and rooftop chicken farms. And all of the garbage of the world, thrown onto the roofs and forgotten, to pollute the world. Birds can pick their way through it and make their makeshift nests from pieces of old sofa stuffing, cotton pieces and twigs. They raise their children in a world of garbage and die in garbage.
I look at myself in the mirror, who am I? This young woman, this girl, this almost woman? Who am I? I touch my hand to my face and run it over my cheeks, nose, and down to my chin. I inspect all of the crevices and feels the bumps and imperfections. Whose face is this? I touch my neck. How tender it is, how delicate. How easy it could snap, how easy. What is it that keeps us living, in our vulnerable, porcelain doll carcasses?
In the morning, I get up like always at 7am. I lazily brush my teeth, clean up and dress up. I choose my loose brown cotton tunic which falls easily over my chest and thighs and covers me up. It hides my shape and my lines, it makes me figureless. I wear it to hide my femininity from prying eyes. My budding young womans body longs for tight jeans and a T-shirt, but my heart cries out for loose, flowing clothes to show my flowering modesty. I pull on my long jean skirt over my hips and button it up. It hangs till my ankles, modest, yet practical, its wide enough to let me walk as if I were wearing pants.
I put on my long, opaque stockings, uncomfortable nylon that irritates my skin and incessantly runs ladders up my legs.
I finally reach for my coat rack upon which hangs a colorful array of cotton shawls. I glance at them and choose the closest one. A light brown shawl of a light fabric, my favorite one. I wrap it around my head, hiding my voluminous curly hair, containing it under layers of gauze wrapping. I wrap it around my head and neck twice, making sure that it covers every strand of hair in a neat fashion. I look in the mirror, and see my changed self.
One self for the inside and one for the outside. I hide my body from the world, yet I bear my face for all to see. O World, look at my face and inside, dont look at anything else. See me for who I am, what I am. My thoughts, my heart, and mind, not my body. O men, speak with my mind, not with my mouth. Forget that I have a body, I hide it so you dont look, dont even try, you wont find any lines to entice you. My look will never betray my heart, dont expect anything but a cold reproach if you undress me with your eyes or says smooth words of coquetry.
I go out to face the world, yet the world never enters me...
Last update : 26-10-2006 01:11
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