I miss art.
I could hate that she has given up but mostly I feel sad. It's so engrained in them all. That women are weak and boring and less. But we're not. And we're not more than men. We're just different, and some men and some women fare better. If we actually had similar opportunities it would be obvious. It's not about denying what makes us different. It's about embracing those differences and those imbalances and the fact that things aren't, exactly, black and white. And many of us aren't just men or women. And therefor they illustrate how those differences don't matter but how interesting they are.
I can get so, so, so angry. I can get too mad. I can yell so yell or cry or shut up. But it's not about that. The emotion and the pain are too real and they should be acknowledged. But it's not about that. Sometimes it's about dancing and making it work. Some times it's about compromising. And some times yes, it's about yelling and fighting and not letting go. It's about all of that. I don't have anything against those girls who dance. I have issues about the fact that so little men dance.
Most of the times it's so painful you just have to ignore it. You know it deep down. It's so clear. They know it too. It's the worst. When we all know what the power struggle is. And we accept it. I hate it, how we can dance and laugh and eat and ask each others opinions and advice. But eventually we reach that point where we accept the power structure. Fuck off. It doesn't have to be this way. You don't need to take me down and I don't need to accept to be down. We can work together. Our genders don't define where we stand on the ladder.
Il a neigé. Il fait froid. J'ai envie de hurler sans arrêt. Je pleure pendant l'amour de manière ce qu'ils ne s'en rendent pas compte. J'ai envie de hurler. Je ferme les points. Tous est rouge, rouge sang. She doesn't let anyone in and I let everyone in. It's like. Each side of the same coin. The coin where you don't trust anyone because you'd like to trust everyone. And there is no in between.
The pain. The stinging pain. The cold. It pierces through. And that's how they keep so quiet. And that's how they push through and pursue. And that's how they are stronger and better and. But that's also how much they loose and forget and forgive but don't. How they don't let go ever. How they won't let you in. How they won't let themselves out.
You can press on my muscles for so long and look right through my eyes and I won't say anything. It's controlled pain. I know it will stop eventually and I know what are the boundaries. I can keep my face straight regardless of the pain. It's a slow, long pressure.
I don't ever get any closure. J'ouvre des veines et je les laisse aller. Elles sont parties, données. Je sucrerais ton sang pour compenser.
J'ouvre des pores et j'inspire et expire et respire et exprime. Ils ont peur, ils sont surpris. Mais ils font et tu peux voir, sur leur pores et leur peau et leurs souffles. S'ils bloquent ou s'ouvrent, acceptent ou blessent. Will you break them. Will you grow on them. Will you infiltrate them.
Which breath. It's all about the air.