Love is a burning thing…

‘Love is a burning thing
And it makes a fiery ring
Bound by wild desire
I fell into a ring of fire

I fell into a burning ring of fire
I went down, down, down and the flames went higher
And it burns, burns, burns,
the ring of fire
The ring of fire’

Fortune or misfortune ? All I know is I wallow in sadness ever since. As I come by your side no utterance may come out. Love or hate you ? They say there is always a man to save you from another, but as he may he might as well be ready to destroy. Too jaded have I become… like a woman who loves a man she never touches or barely sees, only writes about, or keeps memories of. In your presence I feel insecure and alone.You disappear and fall out of my grasp. It seems like I am drowning in loneliness as long as you’re not mine. Drowning, going down, down down… and it burns just enough to make you pleased.

Now and then people choose to harden their heart against pain.. but isn’t it only fear of love and loss of it ? I’ve grown too obsessed with longing to erase my loneliness, to flush away my apparent grief. It’s madness how people will hurt each other even for the smallest things. And yet… the specter of you followed me everywhere I go, no matter how I fight the thought of you. Fighting one’s feels… worst mistake. Feels are the only possible truth you can hold on to, and what holds truth upon you is the only possible arm to destroy. Mother always thought me to be true to myself, and whenever I did not, only this was enough to instill further self-hatred, eventually pushing, on and on, towards a stifling loneliness…

We’re in one way or another only facets of the same coin; the type of people who dive into the bottom and yet, keep shallow relationships for fear of failure. Not once have I thought you were blatantly a fool, for never trusting women. You are, at best, a puerile and (terribly) discourteous misogynist. And, believe me, if there was an equivalent word against men, I would call myself the same, although I have better aptitude to hide my discontent.
Howbeit, under the thick layers of bitterness and seeming non-compassion, there is the figure of the disheartened man or woman ready to love, but afraid to. The idea of love terrifies us, chokes us, abashes us… not compared to others, but compared to our old selves.. We’re too scared to face ourselves if the same mistakes occur over again… I would rather die than cry once more.

You’re the drunk asshole who at best is sinking into a river of lost tracks. You keep pushing yourself until not knowing who you are anymore. And yet… what I only see is a humorous one probably acting it all out like there was never any remorse, with complete crassness and utter disgust.
Yes… Choking is your presence. Double the struggle when not. Like a twist of fate again was your sight. I wish it never happened. Loneliness is much more convenient than madness over how ugly you act and yet how beautiful you are inside, nothing you know of. I would prefer loving you million times from afar.

You’re leaving again, and these thoughts and feels are going back to the shadows again, as you’re gone.

I wish I could run on the streets without being harassed

Yesterday someone asked me what was my dearest wish for this year. I said I wish I could run alone on the streets of Rabat without being looked upon like a sexual object, without hearing the annoying remarks and advances of men ranging from filthy homeless ones to the apparently good looking allegedly civilized ones. I wish I could run freely at any hour of the day without having to shrink my running time because my heart rate was going up and down because of fear and insecurity. I wish I could run whenever I wanted to, instead of waiting for my parents to come home at 8PM and tell me they’re too tired to keep me company, or wait for the week end to be able to finally run around the forest, where guards are there and still… men don’t miss a chance to put a word in edgewise anyway.

 

Every once in a while, I really wish I was not a girl in a predominantly Arab-muslim country. For too long, we have heard about the sexual harassment causes and the spread of awareness… what men only take from that is that women want to go naked on the streets and still be respected. Yet… what we only want is freedom. Freedom to go to the Grocery store and not feel like a random piece of meat. Freedom to have the grades we deserve or validation of our class at school without having to have sex with a filthy unjust teacher. Freedom to have a decent job without being harassed by the boss for desire of a promotion…

No… I don’t want to go out on the streets and show my breasts. Respect is only moral. Whether you wear a t-shirt or a burka, if a man is vicious he will stay vicious for the rest of his life. If a man chooses to care about his business, ain’t no piece of sexual meat going talk his eyes out of his business. Yet, vested or not, a woman will stay a women… I mean some sort of box emptier for men’s libido and lust.

 

This whole argument was not even about clothes. I am speaking on my behalf only. Not being able to run when I want to, where I want to, ruins my training and ruins my ambitions… it destroys the very wish I have to get better at what I do. It’s a metaphor of life. It destroys every potential, every energy I have to burst out and excel in what I love and cherish the most. Women will never get better at what they do as long as they are obstacles that hurt them in the core of their being, making them uncomfortable even when having to accept what there sex is.

A woman will be a mother one day, of a girl, of a boy… She will never teach them equality and respect unless there is security.

 

My only wish is to run one day… alone, free, and secure.

 

Vagrant…

Thou hast at least found the words, 
For which I have yet found a way 

Forgive me, or shall I carry on my remorse
Still, am I still stuck in wonder and lust

The vain search of myself hath wearied me
Alas my fear hath emprised my heart
Betwixt thee and the world apart
Cold and bitter
Frail and bleak
I wish thou could set it on hearth
Fire ! Gardyloo, I cry
Forsooth there is no remedy

Thou hast at least found the words,
For thousand nights thou shall stride
Day and night
I shall cloak the cause of my grief
Thou loveth me
Yet what duth make one moan
To know that one loves or nary
Me love, or is it not ?
I prithee thou
Flee and set me free
Heretofore i’ve had inly enow

Thou duth not dream,
For it is my ruth
It is my desire to rest
In the shadows of despair
Thereon shall i thole
Waiting for thou to come forby
For my tears are running too fast
My woe shall make them last, yet
Thou alone shall behold my eyne
Thine near love sweep the weep apart