In the night, over the ground, I dreamt that I flew over a nest of women who were drunk with happiness and insouciance, who spinned and danced wildly, singing and laughing joyfully, and I, I had a pen and paper in my hand, writing about what I saw during that womanhood festival.
And when I remembered that strange dream the next day, I had to ask myself the question about why I write so obsessively, but yet unconsciously, about stories filled with women endowed with such power and strength, when I myself I’m prone to regular fits of anxieties.
Lately I’ve been answering through a written piece the question ‘from where precisely stem my interest for writing?’, and where recollecting all of these memories that stem from infancy, so as to compress them in a blog post, has automatically ungraved from my being some things that need thinking.
And believe me or not, suddenly I was going through a personal crisis, facing my whimsical whiny immature paranoid behaviours. But don’t worry, I assume all facets that make up my individuality, and never ever feel an ounce of shame for being myself😂. These little exercises of introspection have helped me become aware of some of my ‘unconscious’ behaviours… I think that I need to once and for all work on the unfounded fears and paranoia that I go through on a regular basis.
When I go through these periods of introspections I automatically disconnect from the world, I halfly function, because the work I do on myself plunges me inside of a whirlpool of doubts; and surely I wouldn’t have written this blog post if I hadn’t saved myself from some of these ongoing issues.
Then in that other dream I was devouring grapes with Bacchus, all the while enchantresses and witches danced ecstatically and gossiped loudly, as an opened laptop floated on the geyser of a water fountain. “Take it cool, take it slow, take it happily, take it wildly, take it magically,” I guess that’s the significance behind that dream; I guess that’s the message streaming through internal channels by the spectres of my ancestors — all of these strong women on whose shoulders I stand today.
Have to say that I am very proud of the blood that runs through my veins, proud of my unbiased upbringing, proud that I was raised with such a degree of liberty, within a free space that was proper to the growth of my understanding and self-knowledge.
Recollecting all of these memories has shaken me up, and forcefully stirred my emotions upside down… it was the writing therapy that I needed right now, for so many things have been torturing me lately. I think that I’ve reached that level of acceptance, I finally made peace with my choices. I’ve shoved off from my mind that my books will only be some random obscure books amidst a lit constellation of other much more interesting and gripping books. I made peace with the fact that I am not ready, that my books are not ready, that the world will take time to unfurl for me, just because I’m not ready.
But now, in spite of all, more than ever before I want to write, simply because after rewinding my mind, I now know exactly what attracts me to this medium. Thus I write because writing itself evokes in me that ocean of freedom in which I’ve always swam in. I feel like I embrace that same degree of liberty, of expansion, of fancy, and of happiness when I write.
This illusion of freedom disappears when I write fiction and poems; I feel like a feather that is being carried away by the breeze… will I fall on a lawn filled with dry leaves, or end up on your skin, on your head, your lips, on your desk, in your phone, on a shelf?… Who cares, I am something free that writes wholeheartedly, I am someone who escapes in self-created fictions and poems. I am a woman who equilibrate my days with writing, and fill up the cusp of my soul with the beauty of words.
“You are always birthing me out of that indescribable chasm, that womb floating in deep dark space, always putting me high up in your sky, I, woman of confused feelings and fragile state of mind.”
Was that dream-made, self-made, or just some rambling poetic thoughts? Did the discovery of that little me person in a shadow concrete box disturbed me to the point that I had to make up that fantastical world — where I am woman clothed of an elastic skin that deteriorates with time…?
But in that absurd dream… in that dreamworld filled of unknown faces and morphing spaces with ghosts, a womb without flowers births me out, a strong hand pulls me out from its belly.
So, women, I hope that through creative writing, or while doing any other type of creative activities, you’ll find that which you have always been searching for; that you find your answers, that you are able to break the illusion of freedom so as to be instantaneously free — free to roam the cosmos in red bed sheets and flowers blooming out of your head.
Happy women’s day in advance. I hope that you’ll visit tomorrow, for I’ll be posting a poem for women’s day. Thank you.