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The Forgotten Liberties

Updated: Fri, 21 Jul 2017 09:07 pm

The Forgotten Liberties

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Biography

The Forgotten Liberties is a humble personal endeavour to talk about a few seldom spoken thoughts and insufficiently discussed issues. If you appreciate what I pen, kindly spread the word about my work. Hopefully, our attempt to talk about what is wrongly deemed unconventional, unorthodox, uncouth, unbearable, or unacceptable will make people revisit their perspectives about love, unity, intimacy, marriage and society.

Samples

The Prince Charming Undreamt Of Perhaps my shut eyelids you fathom as acceptance of the love you make to me, midday, midweek, on the bed where I often drown my helplessness in pretence. I have sought to voice my hesitation to ears which have heard only a voice, as my incongruent wishes sound like my meandering imagination. I crave an affection of which you are not a possible source, and pity for us resounds through my defeated being when you try to be one. In my eyes rest accounts of heroes who dare to be their wish to be themselves, and my shut eyelids let me silently crave their courage, as our fingers intertwine. There are raving questions that spin inside my shamelessly undistracted mind about the million shades of the love and sex that you can I can never have. My heroes walk on rainbows to answer questions that I have not asked, but I lie here, wrapped in the grotesque presence of a monochromatic desire. In light, my eyes see outlined on the blue mirror, in clouds, how your body shapes, your curves, the moulded representation of the shallow depths of your admirers. Yet, the silent, cold, slow, sharp sweat that waltzes down my face, is how I succumb, and have disappeared, in society’s sordid obsession with homophobic homogeneity. The magic you think you weave, as you have me arch my legs to shower more unilateral passion, is without audience, for my bias knows only magic that is without you. Maybe this insolent infidelity will become my woe when we become a nullity, in the dawn of my womanhood, my sensibility, my rebellion, my sustenance. Yet, today, as you unknowingly usher in more melancholy into my morbid life, may my deceptive self be strong, perseverant, forbearing and self-deprecating. Nightfall will sing to me starry songs of revolt again, to protest to be myself, and maybe, tomorrow, I will tell you my wish to not be made love to by a man anymore.

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