“I am not enough because I am woman. Otherwise, I would also be insufficient precisely because I am man”
I had let my words vacate an anonymous body, travel the lonely seas to reach you. But it didn’t take long for me to realise that I was never the subject of your interrogation. X stepped into our conversation briefly, dark- where her shoes emblazoned through those soft subtle jocular hum of her voice. When it was my turn to speak, I disintegrate beneath the weight of absurdities: that whatever our self-admitted eccentricities might be, we are not the villains of our own stories: that each reiteration faintly dilutes each setting consolation: this gesture of holding your hand, I wish there was a commentary for it: atlases trail your histories and they make your futures: this is our lie to measure your significance.