A womens sorrow is much greater than a mans because its silent, making its gentle appearance, casting a meak shadow over her whole being, you can see it when you look close enough but more important, deep enough.
It's my second day at work, already ache and pain, cold feet and a red and runny nose. It's me and a lot of Indians in the rough terrain of the Kiwi Orchards. We are picking, quietly and somewhat painfully. It has it's moments, when the sun peaks through the leafs and the fruit suddenly gets easier to pick, they fall soft and perfectly spread out in the bin and the hight of the small trees gets a little bit higher making me being able to finally stand up straight.
This 2, rather short days has been therapeutic for me, in my own little bubble with now words and the only comfort is a round egg shaped fruit in my glows. Then it strikes me, nobody knows anything about me, they don't know that I turn into cinderella with my hollywood curls, mascara and mac lipgloss,they don't know that I'm making the most gorgeous satin corsets in the world, they don't even know about my Hot Cake Fashion site, this website, my rosy darling that gives me such bliss when the evening sets.
There and then, while picking as fast as I could I decided that (in my imagination) that I was a famous writer. And as a famous writer I was just picking for the sake of my book. Getting really dirty and worn out just for the plain experience and then perhaps get some juicy stories into it,a couple meets, falls in love at the orchards and then run away(as far as they can of course) perhaps it turns into a big screen movie!(well if the script and actors is good enough).
Yes, there and then I was I writer with millionsof dollars in the bank, important to add, not one of those dreamers that I sometimes have seen gazing out of the window, scribbeling on a napkin at some worn out coffe shop. No, I, the big time writer travelled and lived, icognito of course and successfully selling my stories to the whole world, getting it translated and with that even praised and rewarded. Only writers can be hugely famous without even getting a 'is that her..' in the local food shop, yes they are truly big and worshiped without the actual stardom and the mess that goes with it. So there I was and even tough I was having the lowest of status and the lowest of payrates( I might add), in my mind I was all above that..
This is what I wrote today while sipping a much needed cup of hot tea, I might continue this little book page(for god knows I have some stories to tell)who knows it might all be a happy ending after all?
A womens sorrow is much greater than a mans because its silent, making its gentle appearance, casting a meak shadow over her whole being, you can see it when you look close enough but more important, deep enough. It came to her, not on the gray and muggy streets of Delhi where anyone passing through would finally stop smiling, seeing childreb, scrawny looking figures making their way through their first years of life in such misary, a rough and dirty state. The dogs that where so meek and drained of its life force that they where scraping with its pounding, hurting paws in the gutters hoping for something, anything to still the unstoppable hunger and from a slow and inevitable death. It wasn't this wide open misery that had made her so sad, it was something else and something far more trivial..