Allow Me To Be, Will You?
Allow me to BE.
Allow me to Breathe.
Simply, allow me to express myself: my being, my feelings,
whoever I am, whatever I am, wherever I am.
True, whenever I’d open my mouth in the past decade, cascades of virtual narcissistic egocentric fists and palms would hover about and all over my mouth and heart.
Maybe… somehow, even the ladies of the Victorian Age had the right to express themselves, better than I had had it, in the past decade:
"I think, with never-ending gratitude, that the young women of today do not and can never know at what price their right to free speech and to speak at all in public has been earned." (From her speech, "The Progress of Fifty Years" — Lucy Stone (1818-1893)
Being the daughter of a narcissistic beautiful mother could be, and was, quite engulfing and suffocating.
So why choose to be suffocated by possessive wanna-own-you guys, too? Or, lady friends? Or, any Sapiens, at large?
Why choose to whirl and twirl in the infinite interrogation of the Humans of Bucharest as if I were a bunch of parsley about to be cut into tiny miny little pieces for a tabouleh salad?
The “Madames” of Bucharest would allow themselves to ask questions of the heart and cookie -- ma rose that is, as if the sweet loveliness of the moment were all theirs.
"If you are so generous about asking improper questions or getting generous with matters of my heart, my heart! why don’t you get generous with your rose? Be generous with your rose, not mine, when it comes to say...an intrusive man?"
And it has been, repeatedly, explained to me:
"It does not matter what you want. All he cares about is what he wants. You must understand that!”
So in a relationship I must do what? I must not exist to have a relationship?, I used to think to myself.
And I'd get seated in the moment, throwing away buckets and buckets of the infinite boredom generated by the same broken record of a load of questions.
Or, I’d witness the Lady of Damascus cut me into 1001 slices of a moment for expressing myself on a topic concerning our family, on Facebook:
I am One.
And I bear at least two opposite worlds within me: Damascene Arab — European Romanian.
Hence, acting as a bridge can be quite overwhelming, at times.
And, for once, for Heaven's sake, for this one tiny little time, once in like more than 20 years, I went and expressed myself, my dearest!
And you… you, Lady of Damascus, you go and wage a war against the moment and slice the conversation we are having, over pink carnations, as if I had spoken of all of Damascus, Syria, Mama Terra, and our Entire Galaxy?
Habibti, lak querida mia, I am no interstellar NGO, my dearest. NO!
So give me a break, will you?
Allow me to BE, breathe, speak, twirl and whirl with and into the moment… t'birini!
As in ... now?
Now it’s much better. Far better.
Nowadays I express myself, habibi.
I go out there, right here, and I express myself.
I have heart-to-heart conversations with pigeons and roses.
That’s how they allow me to enter their sacred personal space.
And I have my Soul Tribe — more than 11.
Nowadays I have a very beautiful life, habibi.
And, towards now and onward, I will have played the alchemist into having taken my life to the next level:
Roof No: 11.
Come along now… into the next post.
Isn't it amazing what an incredibly high ISO setting, after dusk time, can do to a photo?