The Confessions Of A Concubine

The confessions of a concubine 9

The confessions of a concubine

The confessions of a concubine.

I am not anybody else.

I am nobody else but the concubine of my sorrows, my dissatisfactions, my frustrations, my needs gradually taken away and promptly ignored, vilified, despised, burned at the stake.

Here I am, mocked, deprived of all kinds of dignities, knelt at the altar of the others’ will.

Forced.

Obliged to fit narrow spaces that misfit my will to be free.

At the end of each day, all I feel is a piercing void inside me, almost as though I were deprived of my bowels, as well as the hopes that my willingness to run away, be deaf to everything and forget this agony that never leaves me have not vanished.

Every night I daydream of being able to set myself free from the laces that I have let be tied over me and managing to do without them, namely the little I can shamefully get by begging.

My life is a one-way life, the dichotomy between giving and receiving, the heartbreaking desire for living and the existence that burns out time after time in a vain attempt to get my life back and make it how I wish it had been.

No answer can be heard from the void full of people surrounding me.

So, I have learned to shelter in the lonely universe of faded days.

Every time I realized that, it was too late, and while I was entrapped, I became aware of the role that I should have played at that moment, in that situation, while every night my thoughts used to mingle with my dreams, and my dreams used to mingle with my memories.

As time passed, I learned to leave the ME that I wished I had been hanging up on a coat hanger, and my life went on inexorably in an attempt to escape from the inadequacy that was never remedied. But that attempt remained unmade.