Honestly

I've been listening to too much Nickleback... it's setting my brain into melancholy gears... into honor gears and into introspective gears...

Shit.

Sometimes, I feel like I was born in the wrong times, in the wrong body. I should have lived 700 years ago, when men were still men and your craft was enough to win your life or if you had none, you could still tend to your own field and not think of the bi-monthly deposit of virtual money in a bank account too abstractly constructed to be properly grasped. When honesty was not something that could get you in the streets; trust was strength, not a weakness to be exploited.

I wish I was a man. In fact, I wish I had been a man because honor could have meant something for me then. I could have fought for my values and bloodied my hands while crying out the name of some faceless god. You can't do that as a woman and not be perceived as some activist feminist in a quest to even out the balance between Adam and Eve. You can't do that because then you're not a woman anymore but you don't become a man because of it. And that's even worse.

Of course, that's all very much encased in a single frame of mind. It takes into account that society developped like that. And why would it not have? Has history gone wrong somewhere and this is why more and more women today are burning the midnight oil to proove they can be men? Can history even go wrong? That's a damn haughty thing to say.

I wish I was a man. I wish I was because then I could show my true colors and say things out of place and laugh then off. I could say very noble things that, sad to say, ring only true said in a man's voice. I could brag about my car without having people looking condescendely at me. I could kiss a woman and hold her as if she were made of glass and think of her sighing in my arms and feel complete.

Ah.

But I am a woman and I know the touch of silk. I read unspoken words in a foe's eyes and swallow my pride for others to shine. I shield my eyes and catch glimpses of this other part of the world that is for us only. I keep secrets, I sing quielty in the isolation of my retreats and think not of this moment but the next. Of what remains unsaid.

As a woman, I can smile and laugh and yet weep in my heart and no one will know. I can admire raw strength and draw silent breaths in the night. I know what blow to deal that will take me no force but will dispatch an enemy in a single stroke and because I am a woman, I shall not regret the killing. I shall cry the life ending.

A woman is created to create herself. Destruction does not come from her hands but it rages in her breast because a woman cannot shout out that she would want to be caught in a corner and roughed up. That her skin is on fire at the very thought of callused hands on it or that she would not want to be taken as an icon. A woman is vain in that...

As a man, would I know these things? No, just as a woman, I do not know half of it but then again, I am no man.

What is love,
But the veil our eyes draws,
Over realities,
Our mind has dreamed?

Happy belayed Valentine's Day.

Gal
What are the clouds,
But the sky's excuse,
What is death,
But life dreaming?
Eolair of Nad Mullach

Frame of mind: Lightheaded
Music: 'Far Away' Nickelback