Do not speak to me

Do not dare tell me this is the Mother of The World. 

Do not dare tell me the Nile has once quenched your thirst and our

generosity warmed your heart. 

Do not tell me your skin loves our sun and your 

ear loves our tongue.

Do not speak to me about our history of our resistance, that which you call 

perseverance and persistence. 

Can you not count the number of deaths?

The number of murders and accidents?

Can you really not smell the blood,

the injustices burning our lives?

Speak to me about the prices

crushing the poor

The hopelessness engulfing

the youth

Speak to me about the vicious circles,

the cruelty, the army that raves about 

building bridges.Speak to me be gaps!

Speak to me about what I deserve

but can't have.

Do not speak to me. 

Do not speak to me.

If you have turned a blind eye 

to my blood, 

to my burning sigh

to my missing eye

to my stolen dream 

and constant scream

you are not my mother.

You are not my mother.

Hijab and individuality: mutually exclusive?

   It’s fascinating how much a piece of cloth can do to a woman. How much of a role does a woman’s hijab really play in how society defines her and how she defines herseIf?   Nehal Elmeligy tries to find out.

After the first round of the 2012 Egyptian presidential elections, I was standing in Midan El Nafoura in The middle class neighborhood of  El Mokattam in Cairo as a part of a “human chain” that supported Mursi feeling  proud to be acting as a proactive citizen. But to the by-passers I was an unveiled woman holding a slogan that said “ Ana mesh ikhwan bas hantekheb Mursi “ (I’m not a member of the Muslim Brotherhood but I will vote for Mursi) A few men walked by and rhetorically asked ,“how is it that you’re not wearing a hijab and yet you’re voting for Mursi?” Others applauded my decision because, despite my dress code, I was still voting for the Muslim Brotherhood.

Hearing these comments, the only question I was asking myself was ‘what does my hijab have to do with my political choices?’ My religious views and my opinion on hijab did not influence my opinion for whom to vote, but apparently I didn’t look Muslim enough for some people. A photo of me holding the slogan was all over Facebook the next day. I read most of the comments; I wasn’t shocked by the people swearing at me for my political choices, but by those who jumped to the conclusion that I was a respectable person because in spite of apparently being a Christian I was still going to vote for Mursi!

                         

 

I put the hijab on when I was thirteen simply because I believed it was the right thing to do. I had a multi-layered battle with the hijab but after having worn it for more than ten years, I decided I want to go on a journey of discovering myself and so I took it off. Aside from someone meeting me for the first time after I’ve taken it off, I had never felt so conscious of my uncovered head like I did during the human chain. I had no idea it was so important that I be labeled. I had no idea it was an issue that I now walk the streets of Cairo with my religious identity kept to myself.

I am not writing this article to discuss whether or not the hijab is obligatory for Muslim women, neither am I going to share with you my story since I’ve taken it off. I am writing this article because it’s fascinating how much a piece of cloth can do to a woman. How much of a role does a woman’s hijab really play in how society defines her and how she defines herself?  

The previous question does not only pertain to political settings, but also to the workplace and the street. When the Four Seasons hotel interviewer bluntly told A.H. that he would give her the job only if she took off her hijab, he set a great example of how veiled women are defined in the professional setting in Egypt: under-qualified and not presentable. On the other hand, 26 year-old Sara Imam, who doesn’t wear the hijab, was asking a man directions on the street, but before naming her destination he automatically assumed she was Christian and started describing the way to the nearby church. 

When society automatically assumes that you’re a “good” girl, or that you’re Christian or that you’re not qualified all because you’re covering or not covering your head, is this not cultural mass production of Muslim women? Does not the definition of society of what wearing or not wearing the hijab should entail deprive Muslim women of their individuality? 

When 32 year- old A.H. used to put on her hijab, it was more than just covering her now flowing blonde curly locks, she felt like she put on a mask. The hijab conditioned her to speak, dress and behave in a certain way. Her now echoing laugh was deemed “inappropriate” by friends when she was veiled. With all the social restrictions that came with the hijab, A.H. felt that putting it on automatically striped her off her identity. She felt she was like all the other women.

Women are obviously obliged to cover all but their face, hands and feet when they choose to wear the hijab, but are the cultural obligations that come with hijab necessary? Do they truly reflect religion? Why is it that veiled women have to become cultural, religious and intellectual carbon copies of each other?  Human beings are intrinsically different, if they choose not to look differently, should they not at least be allowed to act and think differently? Why should Muslim women appear like they’ve all been mass produced?

In an attempt to escape this mass production, women who wear the hijab often try to personalize it. They sometimes follow the latest fashion trends or they adapt it according to the weather or to the event they’re going to and that’s when another interesting type of judgment occurs. S.R. is a 37-year old English teacher who wears the hijab herself hesitantly told me that she doesn’t approve of girls who have a veil on but wear really tight clothes or sometimes even see-through ones.  Ironically, S.R.’s role was reciprocated when a family member disregarded her properly- all- hair- and neck-covering veil, her loose and almost-knee length blouse and told her that she shouldn’t be wearing pants; that it’s not appropriate. S.R. says that she knows that a lot of women don’t wear the hijab out of conviction but she believes that there is an “appropriate” way to wear it and to behave when wearing it. She believes in ‘each to their own’ but sometimes she can’t help but judge “inappropriately” veiled women.

Twenty four-year old Nesma A. has always personalized her hijab- in an extreme way perhaps. She used to wear a bikini to the beach when she worked in Sharm El Sheikh; she says she wears the hijab not because it’s an obligation, but because she feels comfortable wearing it. She also wore a wig to her metal concert because she couldn’t imagine herself playing the keyboard with her hijab on.

 Maybe the reason why Nesma is untraditionally maneuvering around society’s cultural definition of wearing the veil is because she was severely judged in the past. When in high school, one of Nesma’s friends stopped talking to her, because her father told her so. There was a rumor that Nesma smoked cigarettes. But when Nesma upgraded from a hijab to a “khimar” her friend was automatically allowed to talk to her again. And that’s when Nesma took off the khimar, because she was appalled by how easily she was judged according to her dress code. 

In a somewhat similar incident, Sara Imam says that when she took of the hijab after having worn it for 8 years, some people automatically assumed that she had gone through some trauma and was acting out, or that she had simply chosen to walk away from God.  If a man shaved his beard, society won’t necessarily assume that he walked away from God but if a girl took off the hijab some people would assume that she has. In a way, even girls who take off the hijab are also culturally mass produced.

 When society dares pass judgment on an unveiled woman, does it ever re-think its role in the woman’s decision?

  Sara first started questioning aspects of Islam when she travelled abroad and found that the major justification for wearing the hijab is completely irrelevant. Arab societies argue that the hijab prevents women from being harassed and from being treated as mere bodies, yet the contradiction of that statement happens on the streets of Egypt every day. When Sara saw that in Western countries women are treated with respect regardless of what they wear, she started to doubt what she thought was fundamental to her religiosity. A.H. wore the hijab because her now ex-husband asked her to. He prayed five times a day, had a beard and always spoke about what’s “haram” and what’s “halal” in between hitting her, calling her names and not bringing in any money. It is these hypocrisies that plague our society that played a big role in why Amanda and Sara took off their veils and not their moral or religious failings. 

  Creativity in our society is rarely found because individuality has always been attacked and under-appreciated. Most Egyptians have always found comfort, or were taught to always find comfort in similarities and stagnation. Our government has never encouraged personal interpretation, of anything. We have, for a very long time, been forced to be intellectual and religious carbon copies of each other and those of us who couldn’t fight their individualistic screams were deemed outcasts. The issue of a woman’s hijab is no different.  

I have channeled the stories and opinions of very few women in this article. And as I finish writing it, I think about all of the other women who have different stories to tell; women from different social classes, educational backgrounds and religious beliefs who could spur on an entirely new article. Nevertheless, the women here do represent some Egyptian women and do put forth issues that need to be dealt with and cured in our very troubled society.

Cairo

 I hate Cairo when a police officer stands helpless or careless in the street not doing anything about the car breaking the traffic light or the man throwing his empty Pepsi can in the street.

 Because one day when I was in college, before I learned how to drive, I took a bus back home, I wanted to pay the fare, but I couldn’t find my wallet and  so the lady next to me told me not to worry about it.

 It breaks my heart to see children on the street, walking barefoot, smoking, selling tissue or candy.

 Because it doesn’t matter where you are, whether or not you’re Egyptian, if you need help you’re going to get it.

I didn’t take a test, any test, in order to get my driving license.

 Because when I’m driving in Cairo and I’m lost, I can just roll down my window, honk at the car next to me and ask the driver for directions.

 My uncle knew a guy who knew a guy and all I needed was to show the employee that I can read the road signs.

 I hate it when I go to a somewhat fancy café in Zamalek or Heliopolis and the waiter starts speaking to me English.

 Because Cairo is just fun! There is always something to do at any time of the day.

 I always wonder if they really think speaking Arabic debases them. If they really think that being an Arab is shameful.

 No Mall, café, or restaurant dares to close before midnight and when they do; the streets of Cairo just don’t sleep.

 When I found out that my Wesleyan sweatshirt was made in Egypt I was so happy.

 Because in one city, I can go visit a citadel or a mosque or a church that was built thousands of years ago, and then go shopping in a state-of-the-art mall, and after that, I could take a boat in the Nile or go to a café and smoke hookah.

 But the truth is I rarely buy Egyptian made clothes back in Egypt because I’ve always known them to be of low quality.

Because now there is hope.

Fragmented

http://yourlisten.com/channel/content/121287/Fragmented

A sweetheart.  A rebel, at heart.  A girl who would stand by your side. No matter what. Well, do you love her? Have you told her? Are you different? From  the others?  Have you hurt her feelings? You did? Well, did you say you were sorry? Do you show her that you worry?  Do you show her that you care? Is it truly love or is it a mask that you wear?

 A rebel. An angel, at heart. She’ll say she forgave you. But when you once more betray her, she will tolerate you not. She will love you not. She will remember you, not.

A bird, at heart. She will leave you behind and not look back. Travel the world. Discover the parts of herself that she can’t find. Stand not in her way. Yet if you care, why let her fly away?

A fighter.  Broken , at heart. Do you know her story? Have bothered to pry? Have you bothered to ask her why? Did you ever really understand?  Did you ever plan sticking around? Do you ever speak your mind? Do you worry she’s too tough to feel? Or do you think she’s too weak to heal?

Fragile.  Solid , at heart. You will make her cry. You will make her think love has vanished from the Earth. You will make her feel alone. You will break her. You will make her try. And in the end, after all, She’ll piece together the fragments of herself.  Without you, without them, she will become whole.

Muse 2

They agreed to hang out together that day but it was mainly to catch up on work. It was only the two of them when they arrived at the open-air café located in the outskirts of Cairo. For a few hours, she was actually having a very refreshing afternoon; sitting in the sun on a comfortable couch, sipping an ice-cold  piña colada, smoking an intoxicating coconut-flavored hookah and sitting next to the man who not only seemed to be the man of her dreams, but the manifestation of her dreams in a man.

“Do you have a lot of work?”

“Yeah, I have to correct quizzes for 3 classes and listening tests for two, how about you?

He was sitting with his legs crossed, staring at the laptop screen. “I have a few quizzes and tests, but not as much as you.” 

They had just recovered from a big fight but she didn’t doubt for a second that she wanted to give their relationship another try. 

Later in the afternoon, seeing that he had quit correcting his papers and was doing something on his laptop, “What are you working on?” she asked.

“There’s a short story contest at the university and the story I want to submit for it is over the word limit but every single paragraph is important.”

 A contest? You never told me about it before.

 “Which story is it?” She bent over and took a look at the screen. “Oh, I read that one! I think my first comment on your blog was when I read that story.”

She was sitting right next to him, but he didn’t ask her opinion while he edited his short story. His eyes were fixed on the screen, fingers on the keyboard.

“Anyway, umm…why don’t you remove the 4^th paragraph, when she was on the plane?” she suggested.

I can’t believe it was only last week that you told me about one of your stories before even writing it. You’re different today. This must be the side of you my friends warned me would eventually take over.

“No! I can’t do that, it symbolizes the conflict between the two cultures, I can’t remove it.”

After years of being with the wrong guys, of thinking that maybe it was her fault and not theirs, of trying so hard to convince herself that it just wasn’t time yet, she finally found him.  He was the only man who had brought out the writer in her, who saw the optimist and the dreamer. He was the first to admire her intellect and then her sexuality, her sarcasm and then her humor. He saw her from an angle she had never known existed.

“I can’t wait till I’m done with these classes, I miss London so much.”

I miss you.

“Yeah, I’m so excited for you! Do you have any specific plans?”

Having lived in London all his life, the past two years in Cairo had been extremely tough; it was time to pay home a visit.

“I think my friends and I are going on a road trip, we might even go to Paris.”

Her eyeliner was perfectly painted over her eyelids, but he didn’t look her straight in the eye.    Her skin was musky-scented, but he didn’t put his arm around her. Her fingers were decorated with beautiful rings, but he didn’t hold her hand.

“So, are you going bowling with the girls tonight?” he asked.

“They’re going bowling? No one told me.”

“Well, I’m telling you now. I might go.”

Wait, we’re not spending the day together?

“I don’t know. I have a lot of work to do. Probably not.”

 I know he’s sitting right next to me, but he’s just not here. The writer in him isn’t being articulate today, the naughty guy isn’t flirting with me, the poet isn’t describing how beautiful I am, the friend isn’t talking about his day, the thinker has abandoned teasing my brain, and instead we’re just talking about anything but us.. 

Their silence, a big dark cloud, hovered over them. He continued switching only between his papers and his laptop and she was drowned in tests, answer keys and grade calculations. Between every few checks or crosses on a paper she would take a long drag of her hookah, and look at him from the corner of her eye.

He was holding back what he was really feeling and she wasn’t sure what to ask him. And so she decided to wait for him to come out with it, because, just like the short stories he wrote, he was being very hard to read.

On their first official date a month earlier, a romantic moment had brought them closer than they'd ever been. Eyes closed. She was trying to preserve the moment, to lock it up in a place of happy memories. She couldn't believe it was really happening. Being so close to a girl, he remembered what he'd been through, and told her he wanted to take it slow. He was scared for the both of them, he said.

The sun rays were starting to fade, and the new phase of the day was eclipsed by the moon.

“By the way, I’m leaving in a little while,” he said. “I haven’t spent enough time alone lately.”  Trying to stop himself from smiling, he added, “My plan for tonight is to be alone…read--he sighed-- and write.” 

There was no way she was going to ask him to change his mind since he’d already chosen his own company over hers. But what she really wanted to ask him was if he cared about her at all, if he cared about them at all. 

He took a long drag of his own hookah, held his chin up and let go of the smoke very slowly, seeming to enjoy it as it left his lungs.

“Dina, you do know that my wanting to go home isn’t personal, right?”

An instant smirk formed on her face.  With a sharp tone, she said, “I actually don’t see how it’s not.”

“Oh come on, Dina. You know that that’s just me. I’ve known since I was a kid that I want to become a writer. I need my solitude,” he said.

“But… look, I understand how much you like being alone, but Adam, I feel that you enjoy being alone more than… anything else.”

He took a deep breath and for the first time that day he looked her straight in the eye. She knew he had finally decided to voice his thoughts.

“Dina, I’ve lived alone since I was 15. You know, when my dad used to go to work and I would have a cold, I used to make soup for myself. In other words, I’m used to being alone; I’m used to doing everything myself and my way.” 

He chuckled, and covered the smile on his face with his left hand.

She raised both her eyebrows, gestured with her left open palm “What’s so funny?” 

“Oh, it’s not funny. It’s just um…I think I’m just like my grandfather.” He shook his head.

“Like your grandfather?”

“Well, he was a writer too, and he would spend hours alone in his office, writing. He actually never stayed married. He got married more than once but he always ended up divorced. I think it’s just…us.”

She squinted.

Adam, as if taking his one and only chance to speak his mind, took the confession seat.

“You know, this might be shocking to you, but in the future, I actually don’t mind having a child outside wedlock. I think that’s how much I don’t mind not having a wife but I would really like to have a child.”

Sitting on his right, she had one leg over the other and was looking over at him, in awe, as if watching him perform. He sank into his seat, legs slightly apart, staring into the disappearing sun, and a ponderous smile grew on his face. He blew his hookah smoke in the air, waited for it to clear, and then turned to Dina.

“I don’t think I can actually have a long-term partner. I will inevitably end up alone.”

 Every time he said something it tore her pride because he was making her wonder whether or not he was really breaking up with her.

 “I think it’s because my mom left my dad.”

Because he had her sit there listen to why she didn’t fit in his life, and yet he acted as if he were simply talking about himself.

 When he decided it was time for his solitary ritual, he left her money for the check, and asked her only once if she was okay with staying alone in the café. 

Watching him happily leave, a thought unraveled in her mind. He really left. He left me. And then she realized that not only had he left her like all the other men in her life had, he had left her behind.

 It was as if the space he had occupied when he was with her was automatically filled with descending words, and emotions. She couldn’t contain herself; she needed to outpour her overflowing self before it all evaporated. She reached into her bag and frantically searched for pen and paper. Under the dimmed lights of the café, amongst the chatter and laughter of the couples surrounding her, in the midst of the loud music, she managed to seclude herself. She was trying to transform her feelings into words. She was racing with her own brain, because if she didn’t write fast enough she wouldn’t be able to capture the muse that had temporarily possessed her.

Home Sweet Home

 I can’t believe it took me months to plan this. Should I wait until the girls are free though? No, today I want to be alone. I might get emotional when I’m there. I might want to write and if that happens I most certainly don’t want anyone interrupting me. 

Olayinka had finally decided to give herself a day off, even from her children. She’d been working non-stop since she got back, and it was about time she had some time for herself.

Should I drive or should I take the tube? Well, since today is about reminiscing, I’ll take the tube.

She steps outside her London flat, shuts the door behind her, closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and tries to smell the Nile. A smile slowly reveals her beautiful white teeth. Today, I will not be in London!

On Edgware Road, she takes out her smart phone to check that she’s walking in the right direction ,but then the  phone rings.

“Hello ...Wa alaikom assalam …I’m fine, thanks, how are you?...Yeah, I’m on my way over there right now…oh, of course you can join me… I’ll see you in a bit then, bye.”

Okay, that’s not so bad. She won’t be coming until later, I could still have my alone time. So, where was I? Right,map. Using her index finger, she scrolls down the touch screen of her phone. Right, so I walk all the way down this road and then turn left on Bell Street, perfect.

Olayinka continues down Edgware Road. Ten minutes later, she is no longer in London. Her ears detect a foreign but familiar language spoken on the street. Her heart sinks. Her imagination, or rather her memory ,flies her back to Cairo. People’s skins are starting to darken, to tan, to lighten again-to become Egyptian.

She regrets having only English music on her iPod. Knowing that she won’t be coming here very often, she wants to try and live today as a full Egyptian day out. Oh, I know. I’ll play the Quran, there is no better Arabic than that, huh?

 

The soothing melody of Quran recitation take her back to where she once felt at home. Born and raised in London, this British Nigerian, in less than a year, was able to interweave herself into her Egyptian social circle. Leaving a failed marriage behind, she found refuge in one of the least multicultural capitals on the planet. Her skin color did not define her identity, her unilingualism wasn’t a barrier, and finally, finally, being a Muslim actually made her belong.

As she strolls down the street, the verse sounding in her ears reminds her of a specific day. She stops walking. She looks across the street. It is suddenly warmer than a usual London February afternoon, louder and more polluted. She is now enjoying the view of the Mediterranean, the cars honking in the background don’t bother her, neither does the poor man who’s asking her to spare some change.

Against the beautiful shades of blue, she sees a man in a green boat. He is looking for something beneath his feet. He finds it and then slowly stands up and stretches his arms out in the air. His fishing net lands not so far from his boat, and then he waits for his week’s food to swim its way into the net. Staring at the fisherman, tears run down her cheeks. She takes out her notepad and pen and starts writing.

When work at the British Council and living in Cairo got too overwhelming  for her, she would take the train to her favorite getaway destination; Alexandria. The sea soothed her. It reminded her why she had to leave her two kids back in London. It helped her rediscover herself. It helped her recharge.

Right, so time to get moving again! Man, I’m hungry! It’s time to get there already!

After ten more minutes of walking she sees a sign saying “Bell Street”.  She smiles with relief and starts to walk faster excited to go to the Egyptian restaurant she has heard so much about. 

They told me it’s going to be on my left. Mark Jason Gallery…La-Bell-e Bou-tche-rie…what is that? Oh, fine halal meat and poultry…Ten out of ten barber?! That has got to be a very poor literal translation from Arabic! Oh, here it is! Meya ,Meya!

There are three men sitting in front of the restaurant engrossed in a conversation which seems ­--judging by their loud voices and hand gestures--to be very serious. She doesn’t understand what they’re saying but when she hears the word sawra--revolution-- she immediately knows that they--like all Egyptians these days--are talking about politics.

Yep! This certainly sounds like post-revolution Egypt!

She takes a deep breath, and walks into this little Egypt she’s so glad she found. Upstairs, she sits in a small u-shaped couch in one of the corners. The first thing she orders is shay bel na’na’ --tea with mint --and asks the waiter to give her a few more minutes for the rest of the order.

She takes off her shoes, and crosses her legs on the couch. A film strip of memories runs in front of her eyes and her heart can only pound against her chest with nostalgia .Waiting for her hot tea, and now for her fetteer, she’s as excited as she was when she returned to Egypt after the evacuation of all the British citizens when the revolution started.

She receives a text message from her friend saying that she’s ten minutes away.

This is as much as I’ll have of Egypt to myself today. This is as close as I’ll get to Egypt for many years.

Muse

I’m not angry. The man of my dreams has not just walked out on me, my tears have not just blackened my cheeks with mascara, and the mirror has not just bluntly shown me how I really look. I am not angry, I’m sorry. I just can’t write.

***

  They had agreed to hang out together that day but it was mainly to catch up on work. It was only the two of them when they arrived at the open-air café. For a few hours, she was actually having a very refreshing afternoon; sitting in the sun on a comfortable couch, sipping an ice-cold pina colada, smoking an intoxicating coconut-flavored hookah and sitting next to the man who not only seemed to be the man of her dreams, but the manifestation of her dreams in a man.

  They had just recovered from a big fight but she didn’t doubt for a second that she was going to give their relationship another try. She was sitting right next to him, but he didn’t ask her opinion when he edited his short story for the contest. Her eyeliner was perfectly painted over her eyelids but he didn’t look her straight in the eye. Her skin was musky-scented but he didn’t put his arm around her. Her fingers were decorated with beautiful rings but he didn’t hold her hand.

   He was the only man who brought out the writer in her, who saw the female in her, the optimist and the dreamer. He was the first to admire her intellect and then her sexuality, her sarcasm and then her humor. He saw her from an angle she didn’t know existed.

   It is so foolish of him to think that the small talk would cover up the fact that he is hiding something. It’s an omen that he isn’t letting it all out like he usually does. I know he’s sitting right next to me, but he’s just not here. The writer in him isn’t being articulate today, the naughty guy isn’t flirting with me, the poet isn’t looking at me and describing how beautiful I look, the friend isn’t talking about his day, the thinker has abandoned teasing my brain, and instead we’re just talking about our work.

  They made their way through working for a few hours and eating lunch. But he was holding back what he was really feeling and she wasn’t sure what to ask him. So, she was waiting for him to come out with it, because, just like the short stories he wrote, he was being very hard to read.

  The sun was setting, putting an end to a beautiful day, but she was hoping the evening would have something good in store for her. 

 “I want to be a writer more than anything in the world,” he said.

“You know, this might be shocking to you, but I actually don’t mind having a child outside wedlock. I think that’s how much I don’t mind not having a wife but I would really like to have a child”

“You know my grandfather was a writer, he got married more than once but he always ended up divorced”

“I think it’s because my mom left my dad”

“I’ve lived alone since I was 15. When my dad used to go to work and I would have a cold, I used to make soup for myself. I don’t think I can actually have a long-term partner”

 Sitting on his right, she had one leg over the other and was looking over at him, in awe,as if watching him perform .They were no longer having a conversation .She had nothing to add to his list of why he thought she couldn’t and shouldn’t be in his life. Every time he said something it tore her pride because he was making her wonder whether or not he was really breaking up with her. Because- he- had- her-sit- there -listen –to-why-she –didn’t- fit- in -his –life, and yet he acted as if he were simply talking about himself.

“By the way, I’m leaving in a little while. I can’t wait till I get home to be alone and read and write all night”

  So he left her alone in the café to go enjoy his solitude, and so, for her, he didn’t just leave –like all the other men had. He left her behind.

 

  It was as if the space he had occupied when he was with her was automatically filled with descending words, emotions, and anger. She couldn’t contain herself, she needed to outpour her overflowing self before it all evaporated. She frantically searched for a pen and a paper. And under the dimmed lights of the café, amongst the chatter and laughs of the couples surrounding her, in the midst of the loud music, she managed to seclude herself. She was trying to transform her feelings into words. She was racing with her own brain, because if she didn’t write fast enough she wouldn’t be able to capture the muse that had temporarily possessed her.

 ***

 

Different people, different places, but nothing has changed. You need to vent, you smoke. You need to vent, you write. You need a relief. You walk away doubting that tomorrow is actually the future...