In my dormitory block, there are two places where I’m usually found if I’m not in my room. One is a hidden area I call my thinking spot which has played witness to many a scene of written confessions, quiet contemplations and phone conversations. Private, undisturbed. Another is a narrow corridor ledge upon which I sit to do my studying which I call my studying spot. Naturally.
I realised something today: I cannot remember the last time I watched the sunset from my thinking spot, which used to be a daily ritual. This disturbs me greatly. I haven’t produced a single work of what I (alone) call written art in ages.
Inspiration has run out and I am facing a draught of the worst kind. Both are caused by the technicalities of student life. I have sacrificed Philosophy and replaced it with bland routine work.
I really, really want to write something worthy of being written and being read, especially to commemorate today.
I shall write.
I write.
I write for all the womenfolk out there.
I write for the baby girl in her crib, for the little darling with ribbons and curls, for the young woman finding her place in the world, for the established working woman, for the old lady aged with wisdom, for daughters, mothers and wives alike.
I write for the delicate intricacies that make up and form the complicated human female,
I write for the deep complexities that mould her every thought and emotion,
I write for her strength and her perseverance, her sorrowful smile in times of pain,
I write for her unwavering patience, her unfailing resilience in times of trials and tribulations,
I write for her comforting presence and her soothing words, the soft motion of her hands as she nurses and heals, the deft movement of her fingers as she stitches close the open wounds of hurt,
I write for her as a child-bearer and nurturer of those who are to come after us, as the sculptor of those who are to inherit this Earth,
I write for her tenacity and resourcefulness, her humour and wit,
I write for her intelligence, for her spirit, for her will to struggle against all odds for what she believes is right and true,
I write for her courage and bravery to face her inner battles alone,
I write for her as she first falls in love, and when she first suffers a broken heart,
I write for her in times of victory and defeat, in times of laughter, joy and rapture, in times of tears, sadness and grief,
I write for her as she yields (when circumstances ask of it) and as she fights,
I write for both her opiniated self and her shy quiet self,
I write for her independance and self-reliance,
I write for her pride in her faith and non-conformance of her principles,
I write for her flexibility and versatility, her ability in adapting to all situations,
I write for her as she viciously guards her self-worth, value and dignity,
I write for her as she becomes a symbol of honour and respect, and not a mere object of desire,
I write for her eyes, as they are the true conveyors of her every being,
I write for her vulnerability, her weaknesses, her faults and flaws, her whispers of secrets, her fears, all hidden under a cloak of security and confidence,
I write for her calm serenity, her sentimentality, her untouched beauty, her wild wild dreams,
I write for her unspoken words, her past and future scars she conceals and will conceal,
I write for all her wonders and magic, safely kept and hidden away in her Secret Garden,
And lastly I write for her audibly silent, sweet, steely nature.
My dear fellow Eves, all I can say is I write for the gift each of us possess within,
I write to celebrate this gift,
The Ultimate Gift of Womanhood.
Happy International Women’s Day. =)
Enough said here.
