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Saravana

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Strong [Sep. 24th, 2004|09:52 pm]
Saravana
I am fascinated with strong women. Their arms tattooed with blue ink going out with short sleeves in the rainy windy dark evenings. Dressed in black with long flowing robes. Goth, but not those cheeky chubby bubbly adolescent ones that have no self confidence.

I admire those who made it their lifestyle and stay that way beyond their teenage years. The thin frail ones, with their gaunt cheeks, white skin, tired face, long uncared for hair, the face of a woman truck driver her skin ravaged by cigarettes. And the wisdom of many dangerous encounters.

I would like to project the same image of a malevolent, dark personality. I envy those thin white uncared for girls with a butchers’ face. I wish I had a carved face, a face that tells of suffering and privation. A face that tells you I am no apprentice, the face of somebody who faced failure, a face that tells of disappointment with life.

But not scornful, not arrogant, not frustrated. Only the hidden wisdom with no resentment. Resigned but still strong. Somebody who fought and lost.

Finally. Losing. I want to let myself lose. Once. And then I will have learned. I want to learn how to accept the loss. Stop hiding it. And will stop being afraid. Of myself. And how I lost.
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