Slow Talking With the Void

I have stopped looking for women in the annals of time who might have been like me. A strange shadow has been cast over me that shies away from the magic of the revolving universe. Uncounted heaps of bangles have been tidied away, tied with a thread, and stored inside tin boxes never to be seen again. I feel as if a measuring tape dangles from the balconies that are fast disappearing and I go past them counting a tasbih of what has been done, what is yet to do, what must be done to prepare for any eventuality. Everything is being measured — the length of my nails included — how many words on a page, how many children I didn’t have, how much money I need before I can barter them for my dreams. The sounds of the skies are sent down to the ground but hardly reach my ears. They’re collected, sanitised, curated, and adorned on a string. There is a market where they could be sold, perhaps. A place where the sun shines so harshly that the light pierces my eyes and I buy whatever is immediately necessary before running for cover. I do that a lot these days, run for cover, I mean. Brazen, broken confidence, where are thee? I dare ask not. I measure the number of times I have been brave before and the scars it got me. Injured pots in which I attempt to roast tomatoes for breakfast call out to me. Maybe this day, you will live your dream, even if for five unguarded minutes. Maybe this is the day you will stop borrowing words from others or won’t fit into a mould or bring the bangles out from the tin box and let them break where they may as you put them on. This day, the injured pots tell me, you will give in to naivety even if it means giving way to blood. I put a little bit of fear in everything, even in the roasting tomatoes. They don’t taste as they are but taste as they should. Everything is as it should be and I suppose that is why everything shines a little less than it possibly can.

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