27/04/2022
Iccarus or incarnated?
Wax wings or winged -in -steel?
The emotional vagueness of life often leads us to live-in with our depleted self-esteem, essentially more prevalent in women of now.
Men are more invested in their own see-saw of immediate gratification to let emotions riddle their ride. So they do harbour dreams and survive nightmares, but not beyond a fleeting sn**ch of a wake-up irritant or night gone dry, brfore they drown it away at the wash basin with a shave. They must go on, like the show. No respite.
Women however live them, through days and nights, until they have burrowed, buried, peered-into, excavated and again buried such lows, to smile and go about attending to all wants-of-life, like a machine. In these vista of 'truly-lost,' we surreptitiously drink-a-little hope too. We build in hope, over and over again.
True, we tend to build, first an imaginary foundation, which is actually a foundry, spewing burst of heat and flame, more likely, hence creating a spongy-guey base, instead of a rock solid one. To it we add our feeble doors, a few windows for us to peep inside. In our dreams, we remain as inviting as that gush of malleable air swishing through the open spaces, hitting nobody, observing it all and choosing to fritter away at the exit, at times, creaking or pushing the alignment to make displeasure known.
So who am I? In my dream? The writer of an imagined parable of constant hope or an unsuspecting participant in a fable of my dream?
In reality, our dreams leave a gap, a gnawing gap, often running deep unseen gashes inside us all, even if you may be at Tiffany's with a man on his knees or me cowering in a refugee camp amidst a multitude stuck at an unknown future.
The world is never orchestrated to be at our feet, like they say it. The whole dance is really a movie jargon, a misnomer fed to make us believe in dreams encapsulated in retail stores, make-believe settings and flipping attention from the opposite s*x in racy advertisements. The truth comes bare, when that malleable air gets a form, hits reality to realise, no man eventually likes a winning woman by their side, unless she remains submitted to ways of the world, to his home, hearth, need-based emotional outpouring and feed him, the supiority, he feels. Married, single or whatever the status maybe of the woman, her brand-of-success is always pitted against a man view-of-woman. So most men rarely take to your talent and lean more on their own fantasy block of wet-fed, gelly-like, bampot dreams to assess or befriend, chase, follow and play saviour to women, who age notwithstanding, slide and glide in emotional wranglings like trapeze artist. Few use the trebuchet to escalate goals, decapitate the head and take it places.
Cast in less-squishy-form to envelop a strength greater than a man can possibly comprehend, awaiting a right turn to realise those building-blocks assuredly without a chatter running through my head constantly, fed by the heart. Creaking often, threatening to split due to old-stone familial or societal learnings of how a woman must be.
So now, eclipsed to a formate, am I decidedly more evolved to harbour a ticking mind minus an involved heart? Decidedly it an impossibility to arrive at, as that building-block never quite diminishes or squishes itself out-of-business in a woman's dream, despite the nirvana of practice, to cast emotions out, it remains wet around the eye.
In real time, thanks to the swadhishstan Chakra, where romance and creative instincts thrive, it decidedly, keeps creating bubbles, so that the fight can continue, for just another day and that frail ego excrement discharged from it, left to be trampled over, yet again and be forgotten with a wash of little attention and frivolous gestures from a man.
Then, as women, are we less proud to be born as one? More damaged and easily destroyed by the wiff-of-a-hand? Absolutely not.
Women are made of indestructible material, which disintegrate but magically stand ground and keep afloat. The reality edifice from who dreams sprout. To hold Netflix Bridgerton
