I woke up feeling like a woman in someone else's dream. Standing on the balcony in a plum silk slip, on a cool blue morning as dawn makes its way to lives, I run my fingers through my hair. In the violet soft light of early October , I felt like I woke up in someone's else's life, leaving my smell on their bed and stretching in their left over warmth. The last thing I remember about myself was that I wanted to die for love. So maybe I did. Another life and here I am, running my fingers through my hair, gently untangling every knot, the mess , the inevitable end of it all and I don't want to die anymore. I want to be worshipped.

I walk out of flights and wait at arrival gates, sip on coffee pretend like I'm waiting for someone, the love of my life maybe. Look up at screens anticipating the arrival of a flight. I watch everyone , try and imitate them . I want to sob, I want to fiddle with something, I want to look worried, I want to be in love, I want to be longing for another human being who's going to walk out of that gate and life would seem better, somehow bearable. I walk out of flights and never want to go home alone.

Another day, I walk into a bookstore and ask for wine, I mean it has to be in the self help section right. I laugh with my mouth open after months, and from then on everything sounds like a joke. I dance to cheap thrills and always in the centre of the dancing floor. Every day is a weekend. I walk the streets almost always with a song playing in my head. I trust and let everyone hold me. This is the part I forget to brush my hair , my bangles jingle when I put my arms around people, this is the part I'm fun and charming and lovable, this is the part i'm trying to choke myself on glitter and call it living.

Cannot wait to get home and listen to Billie Holiday, lay on floors and day dream about lonely bus rides on crooked mountain roads. I'm having lunch and suddenly I want to be on a beach side, so then I leave. want to walk a thousand miles and all of it alone. Most of the time my heart is breaking, from all the missing, from strange bus stands and all the boards that are in a language I don't understand, from being scared. But I easily rise above it all, I'm easily comfortable in hard seats of wobbly buses, easily I learn to turn my heart into a closed fist, like a road warrior, like how all girls learn anyway when they've been terrified enough times. And I want to call the road, a womb.I always grow in many ways when on it.

This is beyond me, this is greater than me. I stay awake all night thinking about women in my life, crying over someone else's wounds like it's my own. I massage oil onto my sister's hair on some balmy afternoons, help my grandfather cut his nails. this is the only thing I know that's close to kindness, I realise. I have a large box full of hate notes to myself under my bed but I want to repeat do you realise how beautiful you are, you warm tender thing to everyone I love, I know I disappear but I'm right here with you. I love you I love you I love you, and I want nothing in return. Only if I were able to say it to myself.

All these women and grief is still bigger.

- journal ; All The Woman I Am by Thamanna Razak

4 comments:

Anjana Soman said...

Oh wow. The sheer medley of thoughts sort of just held me. It's a beautiful piece of work. Good going :D

Anonymous said...

Thamanna you are an amazing girl and a really really really special person. You and your writings always leave a impression on me which refuses to fade away with time. Love star get

Thamanna Razak said...

thankyou, really :')

Thamanna Razak said...

:)