I cover myself because “…by covering our beauty, we’re evaluated for our intelligence and skills instead of looks and sexuality. Many women who cover are filled with dignity and self-esteem and are happy to be identified as Muslim women. By wearing hijab the woman is concealing her sexuality but allowing her femininity to shine…”
I’m an artists and accountants manqué! I sleep and i dream. about chocolates, fairies, wishes-coming-true, sweets, babies, twilight, aqua sky and falling in love. everything afterall is possible in dreams.
I like small, broken and empty things, cologne bottles, broken jewelry boxes, small shower gels, and empty glasses. they’re alot like me, small, empty and broken.
And i am an extremist, who sways from narcissism and self-detest. who like me are doomed to feel two opposite things at the same time. suicidal, at the day when they are ecstatically happy.
I’m garrulous and it hurts me a lot, I’m jumpy, jittery, perturbed, an enigma, and i cant do anything about it. I’m a Kaleidoscope of hilarity and sarcasm. I do not criticize now, I’ve corrected it already!
Some days chores comfort me, I like doing dishes it helps you resist insult. I like cutting onion and crying because of it. i actually love cooking cleaning, making my bed and cleaning my closet because I’m a proud woman, and i like girl stuff.
Some days i detest even putting my clothes away. I am a strange mess. I love order and I adore orderly mess. I am a paradox in myself. But i hate messy bathrooms. i hate the notion of sharing bathrooms with anyone, anyone else but me. but i am a sharer. i believe in sharing because its good. till its chocolate and bathrooms.
My handbags are Huge and tattered, i fancy women with small purses, because im not. My bag has to have wodehouse, my notepad (because words can be born anytime, anywhere), a pen (because she thinks learned people always carry one) my Deo, Lipgloss (because i’m a girl), Cellphone, hand-lotion and handwash, stupid pages (old tickets, writtenbills, invoices slips! to-do-lists, because i have a bad memory), wallet, my pictures (i dont even know why i carry them) and memories, with all shapes and sizes that fill in a bag and fill your heart! i love my handbags. and i hate shifting all the content from one to another.
words are joy, i write because i should, because my mind is always pregnant with many of them, because i like details of anything, everything. because stationery is pure joy. i also paint because colors are ecstasy. i create because i am made
that way (alhamdolilah!) i love people and i want to spoil them. and there is no vindication to it.
I feel claustrophobic ONLY when intellectually deemed people have a discussion about so-called deprived, docile woman like me.
As someone says:
“all writers are narcissistic enough to believe that their own thoughts and ideas are well-conceived and the mind which spews forth such delightful goo is beautiful. I am no different from this race of pseudo intellectuals and quasi-scoffers. I’m who I am, I suppose.”