Poetry, all women like Straight or even dyke Language has its spells they say So talk to hearts and they will fly away Love is what we beseech In acts, in gestures and in speech
-Faithinlove-
Like a first encounter with the sea is each encounter with Mary, filled with inquisitiveness and idiosyncrasy. Each time, she comes graceful in her walk approaching me like the first wave and I feel like an urging call to draw nearer to her and be submerged by her presence. I get closer and want to be closer till I feel wholly waterlogged in her. Like someone making her first encounter with the sea, I want to venture to the extreme, to the deep, but I fear and hang on to the whirling sand beneath my feat. I sense freedom and taste liberty before the infinity of her majestic beauty and I navigate amidst her magnificent traits that take me away to different exotic places, lands I have never known before, sensations I have never come across before. I open my arms and go in swimming; the cold water gets warmer, and warmness invade me.
As the waters whirl in their endless movement, feelings to me, they send seaweeds, desires to me, rushing to stick everywhere around my body like snakes. I fight to remove them desires; I throw them back in waters, but in vain as the waves of her lustful body bring them back. I look but at the sea; my gaze searches no horizon, or sun; her waves are new to me, new to someone at his first encounter with her majestic looks. I loose balance as I float here and there; no gravity it seems as bliss makes me hang above and feel weightless, meaningless… She smiles, a sweet breeze rises, she laughs, a wild strong wind of desire blows…
Waves mount; the waters whirl, and I feel like she is willing to gulp me down in her deep temptations; the currents of desires become sturdy; I turn my back; I do every effort to escape for I feel drowning in her, for I feel she wants to take me in to throw me later on the deserted beaches surrounding her, empty, cruel world. My feet ding to the agitated sands, which mingle with waters to hasten my end; I fall, from sea I drink salted water, from her lips I drink divine wine, I feel dizzy; I feel drunk, but I insist on surviving the desires.
As I reach the seashore, a last wave slaps my face to punish me for my stubbornness and resistance. I crawl; I creep for her tumultuous beauty took away my strength and power. I reach a safe place; I sit to rest a bit; I look at her; I look at the sea; the blow of the last wave is still aching; my skin is burning with pain; I extend my hand to reach a big mollusc shell that I draw near my ear; I hear the sea echo; I hear her voice: “Come back, Mary loves you”.
-Faithinlove-
lundi 2 juin 2008
Like Sea She Brings about Vertigo
Three languages create such a mess inside of one soul; each tongue wants to prevail, to seduce a trilingual me. Nevertheless, resisting temptation, I end up struggling with the toughest of them: English. Tough for me for the language has invaded me in a late age like all folks in Francophone countries; tough for me because English has always been strange, alien to Me. I like struggling with the toughest. When I think the language has seduced me ever since a woman seduced me, I tell myself that I am just crazy. English tamed the person; English penetrated my soul the day a woman penetrated my heart.
Struggling with three languages to end up jammed within the Shakespearean tongue is like resisting the temptation of three exhilarating and tempting women to end up locked in the arms of just one. I do not regret the two other ladies, tempting as they are. I have always been in the quest of one shelter, one woman, one love, an eternal one and only love.
Hia (هي), she in Arabic, pronounced like a brief sigh, pronounced like if you are groaning and releasing air, desire, lust and fatigue. Elle, she in French, pronounced with almost the same release of air, desire but there is the tenderness of the “L” letter. She, in English, pronounced with almost the same release of air, desire, Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, she, I love her unbeknownst to others, shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, she, we do not tell of our love.
I was standing on the beach one night; darkness was my sole cover. The sea, la mer, la mère, I approached; my feet felt the cold water; the waves rushed to stroke my skin so I pressed forward; my body was immersed in water; I felt the cold hitting my bones; I searched for the stars in the firmament; none was glittering in the absolute obscurity. I was unseen to their eyes but existing and bathing in waters, like the first days, like the day when I was in her womb, like the day when they could not know about my name, my gender, my countenance, like the day when I existed but away from their gazes and judgements. The cold water, all around, was carrying away a buoyant body of a woman inside a woman. The cold changed into a fiery heat as it touched me. The whistling wind stopped, a moment of silent, then a yell of pleasure, also a yell of pain; I was born a body shivering with orgasm, enjoyment and satisfaction and floating over the waters, the waves. Minutes later, I left the sea, I left her womb, I left her arms to get back to the outside, back to the cold again, back to the curious, spying gazes, back to appellations, judgements, back to the solid and firm ground, back to the stone world.
I love the sea, the sound of waves, the motion and dance of waters. I love her my love to the deep, a love that transgresses me, the borders, the tongues, and the continents, a love that submerges them and their world like a tsunami ravaging lands. I love her for the softness, for the tenderness, for the warmth, for the care, for the affection, for the attention, and for the delicateness. I love her for the first kiss she gifted to a baby and I will love her for the last kiss she would give to a grown-up childlike woman. I love her for her body forms, which resemble the shapes of waves, round, circular, spherical, bending, resilient, floppy, and flaccid. Like sea she brings about vertigo; I feel dizziness swallowing my mind, and my heart; she is whirlpool of desires, a vagina opening like a vortex of lust to absorb me; a sweet seasickness, she is, an undersea tunnel obscure and mysterious feeding me with pleasure.
To love a woman, to sail from the first letter of her name to the last, to travel oceans, to cross seas, to drown, to die in her, to depart to end up reaching but her shore, the circularity, the open-endedness, the story that never ends, the love that never ends, the aquatic beginning that meets the aquatic end, the profound eternity in her arms. Kif-Kif, the same we are; I see me in her; I see her in me; I love me in her, I love her in me, I feel me in her; I feel her in me; the same we are, we are Kif-Kif, the same person, the same pleasure, the same pain, the same bliss, all is Kif-Kif as two become one.
-Faithinlove-
Struggling with three languages to end up jammed within the Shakespearean tongue is like resisting the temptation of three exhilarating and tempting women to end up locked in the arms of just one. I do not regret the two other ladies, tempting as they are. I have always been in the quest of one shelter, one woman, one love, an eternal one and only love.
Hia (هي), she in Arabic, pronounced like a brief sigh, pronounced like if you are groaning and releasing air, desire, lust and fatigue. Elle, she in French, pronounced with almost the same release of air, desire but there is the tenderness of the “L” letter. She, in English, pronounced with almost the same release of air, desire, Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, she, I love her unbeknownst to others, shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, she, we do not tell of our love.
I was standing on the beach one night; darkness was my sole cover. The sea, la mer, la mère, I approached; my feet felt the cold water; the waves rushed to stroke my skin so I pressed forward; my body was immersed in water; I felt the cold hitting my bones; I searched for the stars in the firmament; none was glittering in the absolute obscurity. I was unseen to their eyes but existing and bathing in waters, like the first days, like the day when I was in her womb, like the day when they could not know about my name, my gender, my countenance, like the day when I existed but away from their gazes and judgements. The cold water, all around, was carrying away a buoyant body of a woman inside a woman. The cold changed into a fiery heat as it touched me. The whistling wind stopped, a moment of silent, then a yell of pleasure, also a yell of pain; I was born a body shivering with orgasm, enjoyment and satisfaction and floating over the waters, the waves. Minutes later, I left the sea, I left her womb, I left her arms to get back to the outside, back to the cold again, back to the curious, spying gazes, back to appellations, judgements, back to the solid and firm ground, back to the stone world.
I love the sea, the sound of waves, the motion and dance of waters. I love her my love to the deep, a love that transgresses me, the borders, the tongues, and the continents, a love that submerges them and their world like a tsunami ravaging lands. I love her for the softness, for the tenderness, for the warmth, for the care, for the affection, for the attention, and for the delicateness. I love her for the first kiss she gifted to a baby and I will love her for the last kiss she would give to a grown-up childlike woman. I love her for her body forms, which resemble the shapes of waves, round, circular, spherical, bending, resilient, floppy, and flaccid. Like sea she brings about vertigo; I feel dizziness swallowing my mind, and my heart; she is whirlpool of desires, a vagina opening like a vortex of lust to absorb me; a sweet seasickness, she is, an undersea tunnel obscure and mysterious feeding me with pleasure.
To love a woman, to sail from the first letter of her name to the last, to travel oceans, to cross seas, to drown, to die in her, to depart to end up reaching but her shore, the circularity, the open-endedness, the story that never ends, the love that never ends, the aquatic beginning that meets the aquatic end, the profound eternity in her arms. Kif-Kif, the same we are; I see me in her; I see her in me; I love me in her, I love her in me, I feel me in her; I feel her in me; the same we are, we are Kif-Kif, the same person, the same pleasure, the same pain, the same bliss, all is Kif-Kif as two become one.
-Faithinlove-
Amnesia or Memory, Gender Trouble or Sexual Identity
The issue of sexual identity has always been controversial in society and in academia. The question is whether we are supposed to assert our identity in its difference or to work on the deconstruction of all identities that are but constructs and confines set up to oppress us.
M. Jacqui Alexander, a lesbian Caribbean woman, recommends memory as a suitable tool to rewrite history or “her stories”, communicate and give visibility to what has been made invisible by the prevailing structures.
Forgetting, according to Alexander, may be double is the case of the unbearable, that is to forget a thing and to forget the forgetting itself, and that is what she calls “trauma and forgetting”. Hence, to remember violence and violation, there is a need for confidence and safety: “To trust and remember”, she writes.
Memory can be embodied in material things, even the memory of violence, which can take material form, as in the violation of sex and spirit. This explains the call to work on the body, in a healing gesture against the violence inflicted on it. “The yearning to be healed”, as Alexander explains, involves the strategy of touching to decolonize the body and the spirit. Thus, the resistance should go on as a resistance against the forgetting, “a rememory of deep forgettings”
Sex and sexuality, according to Alexander, have been governed by the dominant ideology, that roots them in “sin, shame, and general disavowal of the Sacred”. Spirit and spirituality have been made confined to religion. A process of fragmentation or colonization has been imposed in the form of hierarchical divisions: body/ spirit, sacred/ secular, male/ female. It is a notion that paves the way, as Alexander says, to oppression. Hence, she calls for the infringement of divisions and hierarchies.
Decolonization is translated into a yearning for wholeness, for belonging to subvert the fragmentation. In fact, as human beings, we should have a consciousness about interdependence; what Alexander calls “a sacred connection to one another”.
As Alexander speaks of belonging, memory and remembrance to construct an identity, other feminists like Judith Butler call for the opposite.
Butler, in her book “Gender Trouble”, works a kind of “bricolage” when she uses the Freudian psychoanalysis to problematize gender as an essence.
In fact, she asks the question of why a person is perceived as a female or male, to show that gender is not a social construct but a performance, a face-paint we put to disguise. Cultural configurations of gender are playing a hegemonic role shaping the culture as it is, today. Hence she proposes a subversive action which she coins “gender trouble”, that is a kind of confusion and proliferation of genders and consequently of identity.
Identity then becomes free-floating, not in connection with an essence. According to Butler, then, there no “authentic inner core”, as apposed to what other feminists believe when they speak of self-consciousness and digging into the self to grasp one’s identity. Identity, for Butler, is nothing but an effect, a result of performance and that is the basis of Queer Theory. David Halperin writes: “Queer is by definition whatever is at odds with the normal, the legitimate, the dominant...It is an identity without an essence.”
This suggests that the confines of any identity may be reinvented by its owner and that identities are not fixed and do not determine who we are.
Yet, Butler sees identity categories worthy when they serve as potential sites of resistance. Butler supports silence since she perceives sexuality as that which cannot be fixed or pinned down. In fact, silence is opposed to publicness that leads to the domination of the other. For her, identity categories are regulatory, and for this reason, she opts for “unknowability”. Butler takes bodies as gender indeterminate then she tries, by scrutinizing and destabilizing them, to show that they are shaped by gender, race, class, sexuality, performatives etc...
Honestly, I do not feel comfortable with the idea of Butler as I think that the awareness of the self and of the difference is necessary to face the pre-established patriarchal structures and confines. Our consciousness of being queer and our assertion of this reality in front of dominant order, which has always denied its existence, are essential. For me, we need to get back our voice and speak up in order to let people see that we exist.
-Faithinlove-
M. Jacqui Alexander, a lesbian Caribbean woman, recommends memory as a suitable tool to rewrite history or “her stories”, communicate and give visibility to what has been made invisible by the prevailing structures.
Forgetting, according to Alexander, may be double is the case of the unbearable, that is to forget a thing and to forget the forgetting itself, and that is what she calls “trauma and forgetting”. Hence, to remember violence and violation, there is a need for confidence and safety: “To trust and remember”, she writes.
Memory can be embodied in material things, even the memory of violence, which can take material form, as in the violation of sex and spirit. This explains the call to work on the body, in a healing gesture against the violence inflicted on it. “The yearning to be healed”, as Alexander explains, involves the strategy of touching to decolonize the body and the spirit. Thus, the resistance should go on as a resistance against the forgetting, “a rememory of deep forgettings”
Sex and sexuality, according to Alexander, have been governed by the dominant ideology, that roots them in “sin, shame, and general disavowal of the Sacred”. Spirit and spirituality have been made confined to religion. A process of fragmentation or colonization has been imposed in the form of hierarchical divisions: body/ spirit, sacred/ secular, male/ female. It is a notion that paves the way, as Alexander says, to oppression. Hence, she calls for the infringement of divisions and hierarchies.
Decolonization is translated into a yearning for wholeness, for belonging to subvert the fragmentation. In fact, as human beings, we should have a consciousness about interdependence; what Alexander calls “a sacred connection to one another”.
As Alexander speaks of belonging, memory and remembrance to construct an identity, other feminists like Judith Butler call for the opposite.
Butler, in her book “Gender Trouble”, works a kind of “bricolage” when she uses the Freudian psychoanalysis to problematize gender as an essence.
In fact, she asks the question of why a person is perceived as a female or male, to show that gender is not a social construct but a performance, a face-paint we put to disguise. Cultural configurations of gender are playing a hegemonic role shaping the culture as it is, today. Hence she proposes a subversive action which she coins “gender trouble”, that is a kind of confusion and proliferation of genders and consequently of identity.
Identity then becomes free-floating, not in connection with an essence. According to Butler, then, there no “authentic inner core”, as apposed to what other feminists believe when they speak of self-consciousness and digging into the self to grasp one’s identity. Identity, for Butler, is nothing but an effect, a result of performance and that is the basis of Queer Theory. David Halperin writes: “Queer is by definition whatever is at odds with the normal, the legitimate, the dominant...It is an identity without an essence.”
This suggests that the confines of any identity may be reinvented by its owner and that identities are not fixed and do not determine who we are.
Yet, Butler sees identity categories worthy when they serve as potential sites of resistance. Butler supports silence since she perceives sexuality as that which cannot be fixed or pinned down. In fact, silence is opposed to publicness that leads to the domination of the other. For her, identity categories are regulatory, and for this reason, she opts for “unknowability”. Butler takes bodies as gender indeterminate then she tries, by scrutinizing and destabilizing them, to show that they are shaped by gender, race, class, sexuality, performatives etc...
Honestly, I do not feel comfortable with the idea of Butler as I think that the awareness of the self and of the difference is necessary to face the pre-established patriarchal structures and confines. Our consciousness of being queer and our assertion of this reality in front of dominant order, which has always denied its existence, are essential. For me, we need to get back our voice and speak up in order to let people see that we exist.
-Faithinlove-
Titans in the Midst of Plains
I have been blamed for language and for my use of the Anglo-Saxon tongue. For those who blame, I say it has never been a problem of tongue, or dialect. It has always been a problem of language, which slips inside us, stirs our feelings, steals our thoughts and emotions to recreate them in the form of words; words that come to be born on our lips, or out of the tip of a stupid pen, sometimes out of our wobbly fingers stroking a stupid keyboard. I do not mind the tongue.
Homosexuality they say is an obscene creation of some distressed minds who want to transgress all the pre-established orders and rules. Homosexuality, I elucidate, is not a creation or a fabrication as it is only a different natural reality. Think of those hanged in Iran for the sole crime of Love, and think of those oppressed in Conservative Islamic and Puritan societies. Would a distressed mind endure death and harassment for the simple pleasure of body or obscenity? If I ask those who blame to rip the skin of their faces because they look ugly to my eyes, would they be capable of doing that? This is my face; I may give the impression of being hideous and repulsive, but in the end, I will not be able to hate my countenance and the slightest features of it. I like what I am, because I cannot be but what I am.
As for religion, please dear fellows, religion is a personal and intimate set of beliefs. I have an aversion to tackle this subject openly and hear from humans like me that hell will be my inescapable chastisement in the hereafter. Some people speak like self-designated gods and there are millions of them who allow themselves to speak in the name of divinity so as to aggress others, persecute them and kill them. Leave the love of god inside of your heart, speak and act in your name for only the frail and stupid minds use the divine, out of cowardice and helplessness, to hold arguments and judge others. I do not blame religion-mad people for their practices, which have always been prevailing in a world of injustice, intolerance, and hatred. I tell those who abhor my difference to kill me with a sword, hang me in front of the large public, or put me on a cross. In the end, all what they would like to do would be abortive. How many people have you executed and oppressed in the name of religion, colour, culture, race, ethnicity and gender? How many would you kill and subjugate in the future? You are killing and tyrannizing but yourselves because, in the end, we are all Different and Alien to each other. Leave God aside, and have the guts to speak in your names.
Here comes the turn of the photos, some comments made me chuckle. Some fellow spoke of a festival because of the rainbow colours and the eccentric celebrations that take place each year during gay parades held almost everywhere in the world (Tunisia, unfortunately, is not included). Dear Sir, in a grim planet and a depressing gloomy reality of wars, conflicts, materialism and hatred, don’t you think we need some light and colours to spice up the murky life. I want, in this context, to give the motives that lie behind the selection of these pictures. Here, I refer to the concept the scandalous, as I wanted to reveal that everything, which is different or new, is, at the same time, shocking. Most of the people, including me, find it bizarre to see or experience a same sex kiss because we have been used to see straight couples exchanging affection. Hence, all what is unusual and new to the eye seems, at the first glance, outrageous and offensive. A kiss is a kiss; it is a simple exchange of affection and love, and gesture of approval. Greek scholars used to kiss their students on the lips to show they have transmitted them knowledge and wisdom. Today, the photos on the profile may be shocking for some, though they show no sexual intercourses; tomorrow the eye will get used to the vista.
Tunisia, I love this country, I love Tunisians; they are so sweet. Being Tunisian myself, I love who I am. Tunisia, kind sometimes, bitter sometimes, compassionate but also cruel. Many paradoxes and inconsistencies merge to produce a bravura mosaic. Being part of this aesthetic montage, I feel swollen with pride. Nevertheless, the Tunisian mindset has always been hassling to me. Sometimes, I close my eyes and prefer being Venetian blind, on other occasions, I stare, smell and feel this mentality to end up vomiting in the closest corner. Our repressed and introverted desires and motivations have transformed us into what I would call Salman Rushdie’s beast of Sufia Zinobia. We endure all our subdued desires, shame, sharam haram; we end up blushing and flushing; we burn underneath our garments; we grow into aggressive beasts; we hurt others; we loose common sense; we enter into a kind of a mad trance. Yet, coward as we are, we experience these demoniac transformations in darkness. When we are unseen and undetected, we shred the robe of chastity to liberate the shameful beast hidden underneath. Dear beasts of reticent desires, spare me your sexual trances for I am speaking about love in its difference and diversity, about affection and tolerance though I know that these might be strange to some roaming spirits who have been contaminated by the ugliness of the unmerited world. I am just a childlike homosexual who likes to dream and believe in a Utopia, and an alternative reality. Hence, I am not seeking a partner or looking for a fleeting pleasure for my only delight is to put pen to paper.
For those boys who think I am aggressing their manliness, I say that their claim is but charade. Your masculinity, dear guys, is a fixed reality as my homosexuality is too. I feel neither abhorrence nor love towards you and regardless of the sexual orientation, we are all human beings. I may be different from other girls; the fact that I am unobtainable may be frustrating for some gentlemen, but this does not curtail their manliness, as their presence does not impinge on my homosexuality.
Many people think that being queer is a crime and a misdemeanour that should be punished. I grew up thinking so, though being myself queer. I struggled to hide my true self from reprimanding and admonishing gazes. Until the end, I misled all those who have known me. They have been so dim-witted and stupid as none of them have found out about my conjured guilt. Throughout days and years, the desire to unveil my queerness, and my bizarre self grew stronger and my yearning to tell the people of my far-fetched genius who helped me dupe them all the way became overwhelming. I would say it is like the “imp of the perverse” to use Edgar Allan Poe’s verbal skill. In our gay culture, we term this a “coming-out” which is needed to take away the feeling of guiltiness and pave the path for self-reconciliation. Today, I know I have never been guilty since being what the others despise is no crime. Hence, to tell about my self is not an act of exhibitionism, as many pretend, it is rather an attempt to remove a worn-out disguise and achieve a certain self-recognition. I would like to point, in this context, that I am not militating for Lesbian rights since any revolutionary movement requires a number of essential elements like the determination, the awareness, the commitment and the sacrifice, which our queer community in Tunisia, including me, are short of.
Difference is tough to subsist, but difference makes us come to the foreground. We dislike curious gazes, which cannot circumvent us, and some of us resort to put out of sight. I played the game of the blind-man’s buff, and I found that concealing my true self was like hiding an elephant inside a matchbox. It would be better to rise, stand, look towards the heavens, taste the splendour of the self in its difference, feel like a rose in the midst of a desert, savour the grandeur and the majesty of being nothing like others, arise like a Titan in the midst of a plain, steal power from the gazes that gravitate around, and be like a sun different but fervent in the midst of a galaxy.
-Faithinlove-
Homosexuality they say is an obscene creation of some distressed minds who want to transgress all the pre-established orders and rules. Homosexuality, I elucidate, is not a creation or a fabrication as it is only a different natural reality. Think of those hanged in Iran for the sole crime of Love, and think of those oppressed in Conservative Islamic and Puritan societies. Would a distressed mind endure death and harassment for the simple pleasure of body or obscenity? If I ask those who blame to rip the skin of their faces because they look ugly to my eyes, would they be capable of doing that? This is my face; I may give the impression of being hideous and repulsive, but in the end, I will not be able to hate my countenance and the slightest features of it. I like what I am, because I cannot be but what I am.
As for religion, please dear fellows, religion is a personal and intimate set of beliefs. I have an aversion to tackle this subject openly and hear from humans like me that hell will be my inescapable chastisement in the hereafter. Some people speak like self-designated gods and there are millions of them who allow themselves to speak in the name of divinity so as to aggress others, persecute them and kill them. Leave the love of god inside of your heart, speak and act in your name for only the frail and stupid minds use the divine, out of cowardice and helplessness, to hold arguments and judge others. I do not blame religion-mad people for their practices, which have always been prevailing in a world of injustice, intolerance, and hatred. I tell those who abhor my difference to kill me with a sword, hang me in front of the large public, or put me on a cross. In the end, all what they would like to do would be abortive. How many people have you executed and oppressed in the name of religion, colour, culture, race, ethnicity and gender? How many would you kill and subjugate in the future? You are killing and tyrannizing but yourselves because, in the end, we are all Different and Alien to each other. Leave God aside, and have the guts to speak in your names.
Here comes the turn of the photos, some comments made me chuckle. Some fellow spoke of a festival because of the rainbow colours and the eccentric celebrations that take place each year during gay parades held almost everywhere in the world (Tunisia, unfortunately, is not included). Dear Sir, in a grim planet and a depressing gloomy reality of wars, conflicts, materialism and hatred, don’t you think we need some light and colours to spice up the murky life. I want, in this context, to give the motives that lie behind the selection of these pictures. Here, I refer to the concept the scandalous, as I wanted to reveal that everything, which is different or new, is, at the same time, shocking. Most of the people, including me, find it bizarre to see or experience a same sex kiss because we have been used to see straight couples exchanging affection. Hence, all what is unusual and new to the eye seems, at the first glance, outrageous and offensive. A kiss is a kiss; it is a simple exchange of affection and love, and gesture of approval. Greek scholars used to kiss their students on the lips to show they have transmitted them knowledge and wisdom. Today, the photos on the profile may be shocking for some, though they show no sexual intercourses; tomorrow the eye will get used to the vista.
Tunisia, I love this country, I love Tunisians; they are so sweet. Being Tunisian myself, I love who I am. Tunisia, kind sometimes, bitter sometimes, compassionate but also cruel. Many paradoxes and inconsistencies merge to produce a bravura mosaic. Being part of this aesthetic montage, I feel swollen with pride. Nevertheless, the Tunisian mindset has always been hassling to me. Sometimes, I close my eyes and prefer being Venetian blind, on other occasions, I stare, smell and feel this mentality to end up vomiting in the closest corner. Our repressed and introverted desires and motivations have transformed us into what I would call Salman Rushdie’s beast of Sufia Zinobia. We endure all our subdued desires, shame, sharam haram; we end up blushing and flushing; we burn underneath our garments; we grow into aggressive beasts; we hurt others; we loose common sense; we enter into a kind of a mad trance. Yet, coward as we are, we experience these demoniac transformations in darkness. When we are unseen and undetected, we shred the robe of chastity to liberate the shameful beast hidden underneath. Dear beasts of reticent desires, spare me your sexual trances for I am speaking about love in its difference and diversity, about affection and tolerance though I know that these might be strange to some roaming spirits who have been contaminated by the ugliness of the unmerited world. I am just a childlike homosexual who likes to dream and believe in a Utopia, and an alternative reality. Hence, I am not seeking a partner or looking for a fleeting pleasure for my only delight is to put pen to paper.
For those boys who think I am aggressing their manliness, I say that their claim is but charade. Your masculinity, dear guys, is a fixed reality as my homosexuality is too. I feel neither abhorrence nor love towards you and regardless of the sexual orientation, we are all human beings. I may be different from other girls; the fact that I am unobtainable may be frustrating for some gentlemen, but this does not curtail their manliness, as their presence does not impinge on my homosexuality.
Many people think that being queer is a crime and a misdemeanour that should be punished. I grew up thinking so, though being myself queer. I struggled to hide my true self from reprimanding and admonishing gazes. Until the end, I misled all those who have known me. They have been so dim-witted and stupid as none of them have found out about my conjured guilt. Throughout days and years, the desire to unveil my queerness, and my bizarre self grew stronger and my yearning to tell the people of my far-fetched genius who helped me dupe them all the way became overwhelming. I would say it is like the “imp of the perverse” to use Edgar Allan Poe’s verbal skill. In our gay culture, we term this a “coming-out” which is needed to take away the feeling of guiltiness and pave the path for self-reconciliation. Today, I know I have never been guilty since being what the others despise is no crime. Hence, to tell about my self is not an act of exhibitionism, as many pretend, it is rather an attempt to remove a worn-out disguise and achieve a certain self-recognition. I would like to point, in this context, that I am not militating for Lesbian rights since any revolutionary movement requires a number of essential elements like the determination, the awareness, the commitment and the sacrifice, which our queer community in Tunisia, including me, are short of.
Difference is tough to subsist, but difference makes us come to the foreground. We dislike curious gazes, which cannot circumvent us, and some of us resort to put out of sight. I played the game of the blind-man’s buff, and I found that concealing my true self was like hiding an elephant inside a matchbox. It would be better to rise, stand, look towards the heavens, taste the splendour of the self in its difference, feel like a rose in the midst of a desert, savour the grandeur and the majesty of being nothing like others, arise like a Titan in the midst of a plain, steal power from the gazes that gravitate around, and be like a sun different but fervent in the midst of a galaxy.
-Faithinlove-
Mythical in Tunisia
Tequila is the sweetest invention ever. We made a visit to her ranch, a friend of ours, and we were hit by surprise at the immensity of the property, acres and acres of verdure, a swimming pool in the midst covered for it is not yet the season of stripping and plunging, a little stable, then a veranda, a well-arranged table, and our host at the doorstep. I am not a fan of aristocracy and I have always feared the world of the affluent people; in early age, I was a Marxist but Marx, Lenin, Trotsky and the Che betrayed me in an alleged opposing Tunisia that uses politics to earn a living and fill pockets. At an early age, I learned that principles and beliefs are not enough if we cannot trust each other and if we betray each other all the time.
The middle-class from which I originated and to which I belong learned me how to respect bread and how to fight to get others’ respect and never bow before misfortunes. I had a grand-pa who used to work 16 hours per day to feed and educate his 10 children earning hence the respect of his superiors at work and all those who knew him. The second grand-pa has worked as a farmer all his life and when he retired, he opted for moving to the city; whenever I look in his blue-like-sea eyes, I know that he regrets leaving his world of greenery to the world of cement and asphalt. Two families that struggled to survive; two families that paid their lives for a portion of bread. They survived; we survive…
Our host, twenty-seven years old, has made it to the top on her own, a respectable woman who got the chance to pursue her studies in the United States; now, back to Tunisia, she has launched an immense and ground-breaking project in cooperation with foreign partners. The prevailing cliché in our society puts in the picture that LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transsexual) people are failed personas who cannot come up to scratch. In fact, the Tunisian society believes that LGBT community is made up of reserved, traumatised and upset people who suffer their whole life and live in isolation failing to play important roles in society or holding top positions. This belief is utterly fallacious as most of the members of our community I have met are well-educated, intelligent and well-to-do. Most of us, actually, fear to recognise their difference and go through a psychological trauma in the beginning; yet, once they become familiar with their sexual reality and tendency, they begin living a balanced and unruffled life.
In Tunisia, two important problems may complicate the situation for both the LGBT community and the rest of the society. The first quandary is that of the legislation as our constitution takes in an article on sodomy that may cost gay and bisexual couples three years of imprisonment. In the case of lesbians and bisexual girls, the legislation remains ambiguous and no cases have been recorded till today. The Tunisian legislation is far from being the principal element hindering the liberation of the LGBT community, as the main problem is that of the mentality. The legislation in Tunisia has actually progressed more than the mentality itself. For instance, the liberation of women has been advocated and boasted by the governments of both presidents, yet, the patriarchal practices are persisting as the society keeps on regarding males as chiefs and heads at all levels. The problem hence is not only a problem of legislation but also a problem of social awareness and activism.
The second quandary is that of the absence of an LGBTT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transsexual Tunisia), an organization or an association meant to guide and instruct the members of the community. An LGBTT can open the path towards the assistance of this community so as to go beyond any problems. For instance, an LGBT member today find it difficult, notably in the beginning, to recognise his/her difference, find answers for his/her questions, know ways to meet other members of the community. The frustration may lead some to clash with straights and the results of such clashes are always bitter for both. A lesbian Tunisian girl, whose name is Sondes (28 years-old) has once told me her bitter story. Being unable to find assistance and to understand her attraction to girls, she forced herself in a marriage hoping that things may change; the marriage ended with divorce. Sondes was unable to stand the presence, the gestures and the acts of her husband; she tells that the worst moments she lived were those when she went to bed with him. To try to overcome the pressure at that time, Sondes says that she used to receive some girls at home during the absence of her husband. After the divorce, Sondes says she feels liberated, as she has regained a kind of an emotional balance; nevertheless, her husband is suffering the separation; he lost his job; and is isolating himself from the rest of the world. Sondes also has two children that she struggles to bring up alone.
As our existence is ignored totally in Tunisia, our community has become mythical attracting more and more curiousness on the part of many straights who look up for us on the net and die to meet one of us. Straights think that their attempts to come within reach of the LGBT may add to their experiences, but the approach is always controversial and may lead to a clash because of misunderstandings and the persistence of clichés.
I absolutely like mixing with members of our community in Tunisia for their gatherings represent an important premise to launch up dialogue and interaction. The moments we spent at the ranch of Miss… were fabulous; our host did the necessary to get us out of the atmosphere of the sometimes bitter situation. Tequilas served at sunset rendered the most emotional moment of the day more and more emotional; the sun was going down but I felt my spirit rising up somewhere in the heavens dreaming of liberty. Liberty may come someday; someday when I will certainly be in a grave; someday when my future sisters and brothers will taste a fruit that I have been deprived of, the sweetest fruit that a human may taste: LIBERTY.
-Faithinlove-
The middle-class from which I originated and to which I belong learned me how to respect bread and how to fight to get others’ respect and never bow before misfortunes. I had a grand-pa who used to work 16 hours per day to feed and educate his 10 children earning hence the respect of his superiors at work and all those who knew him. The second grand-pa has worked as a farmer all his life and when he retired, he opted for moving to the city; whenever I look in his blue-like-sea eyes, I know that he regrets leaving his world of greenery to the world of cement and asphalt. Two families that struggled to survive; two families that paid their lives for a portion of bread. They survived; we survive…
Our host, twenty-seven years old, has made it to the top on her own, a respectable woman who got the chance to pursue her studies in the United States; now, back to Tunisia, she has launched an immense and ground-breaking project in cooperation with foreign partners. The prevailing cliché in our society puts in the picture that LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transsexual) people are failed personas who cannot come up to scratch. In fact, the Tunisian society believes that LGBT community is made up of reserved, traumatised and upset people who suffer their whole life and live in isolation failing to play important roles in society or holding top positions. This belief is utterly fallacious as most of the members of our community I have met are well-educated, intelligent and well-to-do. Most of us, actually, fear to recognise their difference and go through a psychological trauma in the beginning; yet, once they become familiar with their sexual reality and tendency, they begin living a balanced and unruffled life.
In Tunisia, two important problems may complicate the situation for both the LGBT community and the rest of the society. The first quandary is that of the legislation as our constitution takes in an article on sodomy that may cost gay and bisexual couples three years of imprisonment. In the case of lesbians and bisexual girls, the legislation remains ambiguous and no cases have been recorded till today. The Tunisian legislation is far from being the principal element hindering the liberation of the LGBT community, as the main problem is that of the mentality. The legislation in Tunisia has actually progressed more than the mentality itself. For instance, the liberation of women has been advocated and boasted by the governments of both presidents, yet, the patriarchal practices are persisting as the society keeps on regarding males as chiefs and heads at all levels. The problem hence is not only a problem of legislation but also a problem of social awareness and activism.
The second quandary is that of the absence of an LGBTT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transsexual Tunisia), an organization or an association meant to guide and instruct the members of the community. An LGBTT can open the path towards the assistance of this community so as to go beyond any problems. For instance, an LGBT member today find it difficult, notably in the beginning, to recognise his/her difference, find answers for his/her questions, know ways to meet other members of the community. The frustration may lead some to clash with straights and the results of such clashes are always bitter for both. A lesbian Tunisian girl, whose name is Sondes (28 years-old) has once told me her bitter story. Being unable to find assistance and to understand her attraction to girls, she forced herself in a marriage hoping that things may change; the marriage ended with divorce. Sondes was unable to stand the presence, the gestures and the acts of her husband; she tells that the worst moments she lived were those when she went to bed with him. To try to overcome the pressure at that time, Sondes says that she used to receive some girls at home during the absence of her husband. After the divorce, Sondes says she feels liberated, as she has regained a kind of an emotional balance; nevertheless, her husband is suffering the separation; he lost his job; and is isolating himself from the rest of the world. Sondes also has two children that she struggles to bring up alone.
As our existence is ignored totally in Tunisia, our community has become mythical attracting more and more curiousness on the part of many straights who look up for us on the net and die to meet one of us. Straights think that their attempts to come within reach of the LGBT may add to their experiences, but the approach is always controversial and may lead to a clash because of misunderstandings and the persistence of clichés.
I absolutely like mixing with members of our community in Tunisia for their gatherings represent an important premise to launch up dialogue and interaction. The moments we spent at the ranch of Miss… were fabulous; our host did the necessary to get us out of the atmosphere of the sometimes bitter situation. Tequilas served at sunset rendered the most emotional moment of the day more and more emotional; the sun was going down but I felt my spirit rising up somewhere in the heavens dreaming of liberty. Liberty may come someday; someday when I will certainly be in a grave; someday when my future sisters and brothers will taste a fruit that I have been deprived of, the sweetest fruit that a human may taste: LIBERTY.
-Faithinlove-
The Secret of the Torbouch
Uncle Abdullah and His Torbouch
Important Note: I advise sensitive souls to avoid this note, which can be qualified as absolutely Lesbian. For those who suffer the symptoms of despotism, fanaticism, narrow-mindedness, and homophobia, this note may be infuriating and lethal. Uncle Abdullah stands for the Tunisian mentality, which I qualify as conservative and conformist despite the legislative progress and reforms the country has witnessed ever since its independence.
A Cup of Tea with Uncle Abdullah
Everyday, we meet each other, Uncle Abdullah and Me; we meet in different places, at home, in the street, in the cafés, in my office, in the restaurant; and, sometimes, it seems to me that Uncle Abdullah is everywhere watching and guarding the outstanding cultural creation of his own. I like sitting with Uncle Abdullah to sip of a cup of minted tea and annoy him with my exasperating presence, which he denies and conceals.
Ah, Uncle Abdullah, tell them what you are hiding under you torbouch; tell them how you parade in the streets, at airports, hotels, and on TV screens to speak of equality, tolerance and openness, tell of peace and coexistence, and describe yourself as a reformist and liberator. Tell them of me, lying in the darkness, denied liberty, and discriminated; tell them this, if you dare, as you offer jasmine bouquets to your visitors. Tell them how you have always preached my persecution; tell them how you (tolerate) hatred towards my fellow-sisters and me, and (put up with) our negation and discrimination; tell them (open and tolerant as you are), and do not ashamed.
Ah, Uncle Abdullah, tell them that there is no feminine version of your name; I have never heard of Aunty Amatullah; such a name is out of use in your world as you refer to all the members of the society as Abdullahs. I think you are absolutely aware that you are negating the feminine in your discourse as in your doings. Terrible Uncle Abdullah! Tell them the reason why you are so afraid of recognising the presence of the feminine and the lesbian; tell them for that will not hurt you as much as it is hurting me; tell them for that will not cut down your long moustaches or steal your phallus; so tell them.
Uncle Abdullah in the Kutab and Hammam
Ah Uncle Abdullah, you remember how you took me to the Kutab (Koranic Madrassa) when I was three; you advised me to learn by heart all the Surahs and never ask questions; I was the most brilliant student, even better than boys, and that ignited in you an incomparable frustration. You were all the time blaming the whole new generation and the progress; you were blaming reforms for they allowed a girl like me to come out of home and attend the courses, and consequently show to be better than boys. I remember Uncle Abdullah the day you told me, to belittle the three years old girl, that whether I learned by heart or not, I would never be allowed to recite publicly like boys. Poor Uncle Abdullah, I have always been stubborn; I ended up memorising the holy book and questioning its teachings.
I left the Kutab when I was five to your relief my Uncle; I left to go to school and I have always been brilliant; I left and had been adopted by Uncle Sam; he taught his language and introduced to me his civilisation. I am a hybrid in a way; I speak three languages; I have absorbed what they call the global culture; I sway between the East and the West. I do not approve all your thoughts and deeds, Uncle Abdullah, like I do not approve all the thoughts and deeds of Uncle Sam; I have reservations; both of you have been so cruel to me. I respect Islam, not that of suicide bombers and extremists; I respect Christianity, not that of Bushism and missiles; I respect Judaism, not that of Zionists and lobbyists; and, despite my respect, none has shown me respect in return. To respect a religion means, in no way, embracing it.
To be a hybrid, Uncle Abdullah, to be a woman and to be a lesbian are three curses, according to your logic, which cannot be tolerated. I am all these and I am here bearing your insults and hiding in the cold and darkness of the empty streets to steal a kiss from the lips of my sweetheart. Believe me, Uncle Abdullah, I do not want to turn your world into a Lesbian World; all I want is freedom and respect; all I want is your understanding; it is a question of love for me, nothing more, nothing less.
My first encounter with the bitter reality took place at the Hammam; so few people know that you, Uncle Abdullah, go with women to the Hammam as you have always preached the separation between sexes in intimate places. You are everywhere, in our brains and in our intimacies; you slip everywhere and in every place. I remember how a woman approached me in the Hammam and told me: “You are no better than my boy, little girl, even though you have better marks than him; he is a man; you are a girl doomed to serve a man”. I remember that day, a day that hurts, words that hurt; I remember the face of the woman; today, I know that her boy is the caretaker of the neighbourhood who is washing my car twice a week.
Uncle Abdullah and the Secret of the Torbouch
Tell them Uncle Abdullah that I am a rebel girl; tell them I am the different roaming in the streets of our country and hiding from gazes to steal a moment of delight with my girlfriend. Tell them that legislations are legislations, and that we are the people of no legislations; we write on papers, we sign conventions, we preach reforms and we forget. Tell them of your logic which tells that a woman is a woman and that a man is a man, and that a woman has no role but that of serving her husband; tell them that I risk imprisonment for the sole crime of love; tell them; do not be ashamed.
Uncle Abdullah; I have no right to disobey your thoughts; Tahar Haddad did a lot but a lot remains to be done; you need to change, Uncle Abdullah, like the legislation has changed, like the legislation will change to spare me the imprisonment for the crime of love. You need to keep pace with the world, which is moving around you, and aware of your backwardness; the masquerade is over and you need to choose between tolerance and authoritarianism. Uncle Abdullah, the only difference between a man and woman is the difference between a penis and a vagina; nonsense, claptrap, baloney… You think a man is superior to a woman because he has that organ? Foolishness, idiocy…
Uncle Abdullah, you have tortured me a lot; despite that, I will never give up my rebellion; I am a rebel and will always be, for me, for my sweetheart, and for my sisters. You have always been torturing me as you have always been slipping in the brains of everybody; my dad and mom wanted a son; my grand-pa wanted a grandson; my aunties wanted a nephew; I have never wanted to be a man. I am proud of my femininity and my lesbianism; I am proud of being who I am; I am proud of being here and speaking out.
So, tell them Uncle Abdullah and do not be ashamed; tell them what you are hiding under your torbouch; they know that you are no magician and that you are hiding no dove to surprise the audience. Tell them the truths you are hiding under your torbouch; tell them about the lesbian Tunisian girl you are concealing under your torbouch; tell them I am not that bad and naughty; tell them of all the wrong you caused; it is never late to confess your mistakes Uncle Abdullah. I am not ready to stay eternally under your torbouch; your hair is foul-smelling; you need to have a shower and release the little girl, the little girls, and the truth.
-Faithinlove-
Important Note: I advise sensitive souls to avoid this note, which can be qualified as absolutely Lesbian. For those who suffer the symptoms of despotism, fanaticism, narrow-mindedness, and homophobia, this note may be infuriating and lethal. Uncle Abdullah stands for the Tunisian mentality, which I qualify as conservative and conformist despite the legislative progress and reforms the country has witnessed ever since its independence.
A Cup of Tea with Uncle Abdullah
Everyday, we meet each other, Uncle Abdullah and Me; we meet in different places, at home, in the street, in the cafés, in my office, in the restaurant; and, sometimes, it seems to me that Uncle Abdullah is everywhere watching and guarding the outstanding cultural creation of his own. I like sitting with Uncle Abdullah to sip of a cup of minted tea and annoy him with my exasperating presence, which he denies and conceals.
Ah, Uncle Abdullah, tell them what you are hiding under you torbouch; tell them how you parade in the streets, at airports, hotels, and on TV screens to speak of equality, tolerance and openness, tell of peace and coexistence, and describe yourself as a reformist and liberator. Tell them of me, lying in the darkness, denied liberty, and discriminated; tell them this, if you dare, as you offer jasmine bouquets to your visitors. Tell them how you have always preached my persecution; tell them how you (tolerate) hatred towards my fellow-sisters and me, and (put up with) our negation and discrimination; tell them (open and tolerant as you are), and do not ashamed.
Ah, Uncle Abdullah, tell them that there is no feminine version of your name; I have never heard of Aunty Amatullah; such a name is out of use in your world as you refer to all the members of the society as Abdullahs. I think you are absolutely aware that you are negating the feminine in your discourse as in your doings. Terrible Uncle Abdullah! Tell them the reason why you are so afraid of recognising the presence of the feminine and the lesbian; tell them for that will not hurt you as much as it is hurting me; tell them for that will not cut down your long moustaches or steal your phallus; so tell them.
Uncle Abdullah in the Kutab and Hammam
Ah Uncle Abdullah, you remember how you took me to the Kutab (Koranic Madrassa) when I was three; you advised me to learn by heart all the Surahs and never ask questions; I was the most brilliant student, even better than boys, and that ignited in you an incomparable frustration. You were all the time blaming the whole new generation and the progress; you were blaming reforms for they allowed a girl like me to come out of home and attend the courses, and consequently show to be better than boys. I remember Uncle Abdullah the day you told me, to belittle the three years old girl, that whether I learned by heart or not, I would never be allowed to recite publicly like boys. Poor Uncle Abdullah, I have always been stubborn; I ended up memorising the holy book and questioning its teachings.
I left the Kutab when I was five to your relief my Uncle; I left to go to school and I have always been brilliant; I left and had been adopted by Uncle Sam; he taught his language and introduced to me his civilisation. I am a hybrid in a way; I speak three languages; I have absorbed what they call the global culture; I sway between the East and the West. I do not approve all your thoughts and deeds, Uncle Abdullah, like I do not approve all the thoughts and deeds of Uncle Sam; I have reservations; both of you have been so cruel to me. I respect Islam, not that of suicide bombers and extremists; I respect Christianity, not that of Bushism and missiles; I respect Judaism, not that of Zionists and lobbyists; and, despite my respect, none has shown me respect in return. To respect a religion means, in no way, embracing it.
To be a hybrid, Uncle Abdullah, to be a woman and to be a lesbian are three curses, according to your logic, which cannot be tolerated. I am all these and I am here bearing your insults and hiding in the cold and darkness of the empty streets to steal a kiss from the lips of my sweetheart. Believe me, Uncle Abdullah, I do not want to turn your world into a Lesbian World; all I want is freedom and respect; all I want is your understanding; it is a question of love for me, nothing more, nothing less.
My first encounter with the bitter reality took place at the Hammam; so few people know that you, Uncle Abdullah, go with women to the Hammam as you have always preached the separation between sexes in intimate places. You are everywhere, in our brains and in our intimacies; you slip everywhere and in every place. I remember how a woman approached me in the Hammam and told me: “You are no better than my boy, little girl, even though you have better marks than him; he is a man; you are a girl doomed to serve a man”. I remember that day, a day that hurts, words that hurt; I remember the face of the woman; today, I know that her boy is the caretaker of the neighbourhood who is washing my car twice a week.
Uncle Abdullah and the Secret of the Torbouch
Tell them Uncle Abdullah that I am a rebel girl; tell them I am the different roaming in the streets of our country and hiding from gazes to steal a moment of delight with my girlfriend. Tell them that legislations are legislations, and that we are the people of no legislations; we write on papers, we sign conventions, we preach reforms and we forget. Tell them of your logic which tells that a woman is a woman and that a man is a man, and that a woman has no role but that of serving her husband; tell them that I risk imprisonment for the sole crime of love; tell them; do not be ashamed.
Uncle Abdullah; I have no right to disobey your thoughts; Tahar Haddad did a lot but a lot remains to be done; you need to change, Uncle Abdullah, like the legislation has changed, like the legislation will change to spare me the imprisonment for the crime of love. You need to keep pace with the world, which is moving around you, and aware of your backwardness; the masquerade is over and you need to choose between tolerance and authoritarianism. Uncle Abdullah, the only difference between a man and woman is the difference between a penis and a vagina; nonsense, claptrap, baloney… You think a man is superior to a woman because he has that organ? Foolishness, idiocy…
Uncle Abdullah, you have tortured me a lot; despite that, I will never give up my rebellion; I am a rebel and will always be, for me, for my sweetheart, and for my sisters. You have always been torturing me as you have always been slipping in the brains of everybody; my dad and mom wanted a son; my grand-pa wanted a grandson; my aunties wanted a nephew; I have never wanted to be a man. I am proud of my femininity and my lesbianism; I am proud of being who I am; I am proud of being here and speaking out.
So, tell them Uncle Abdullah and do not be ashamed; tell them what you are hiding under your torbouch; they know that you are no magician and that you are hiding no dove to surprise the audience. Tell them the truths you are hiding under your torbouch; tell them about the lesbian Tunisian girl you are concealing under your torbouch; tell them I am not that bad and naughty; tell them of all the wrong you caused; it is never late to confess your mistakes Uncle Abdullah. I am not ready to stay eternally under your torbouch; your hair is foul-smelling; you need to have a shower and release the little girl, the little girls, and the truth.
-Faithinlove-
Aroma of Passion
A Butterfly Straying in My Soul
We sit together, my baby and I, on the bed of peace and pleasure; I look at the wedding ring around my finger, the same as hers; we are married in a way; marriage after all is not a ceremony with insidious guests; marriage is engagement; marriage is a choice and a responsibility. My heart is engaged to her heart; my heart has chosen her; my heart has the responsibility to keep those dear feelings safe deep inside, and I love her. She moves smoothly, then she leans on the bed; she asks me to close the window; I stare at her and hear what she could not hear; my heart was speaking to me, only to me and she could not hear:
“Do not close the window; let it open for the one you love; let it open for her; let her slip with the cool air inside of you. Stay open to her; never shut the window for the winds of passion are blowing and blowing and coming towards you; everyday, you love her more; she might not know that everyday your fires are glowing more and more. Never tell her of your passion and always keep the window open, open for her secrets to come in, open for her woes, open for her lies, open for her pain, open for her mistakes, open for her smiles, open for her bliss, open for her madness, open for her desires, open for her innocence, open for her jealousy. Just keep the window open; keep yourself open and absorb the whole of her.
“Do not close the window; never fear the passion she is stirring in you; the more you love her, and the more you suffer, the more you feel alive; let her roam inside your soul, blend with your thoughts and merge with your feelings. Let her fly in the heavens of your imagination like a butterfly; let her have a rest in the best roses inside you; show her the gardens of love and affection; make her smell the sweet tempting aroma of your desires. Let her in and keep the window open; keep your heart open for her fires and blazes, sweet fires, sweet blazes that never burn, that never hurt in the frostiness of this world; let her in, with her best and with her worst; her best makes up her beauty; her worst makes up her charm. Just keep the window open; keep yourself open and absorb the whole of her.
Do not shut yourself; I know that you hate shadows and darkness and your lady is light, so let her in; let her rise in you like an everlasting sun that never sets and never fades; let her be the daylight in your morns and in your nights. Love never kills; love heals; love slays hollowness and solitude; love never dies; it keeps on living inside and resurrecting in us what life murdered a long time ago. Do not close the window; she is breeze sweeping the dust in the forgotten corners of your soul; she is breeze kissing the whole cosmos of your essence, tender kisses of affection that neither time nor life can expunge. Let her in; open up your heart for her; love her more for you will never know the meaning of to love without her; open your soul; let her walk in with all her weapons and armies; weapons of love, armies of desire. Just keep the window open; keep yourself open and absorb the whole of her.
Do not close yourself; stay open and let her in; she is seas, mountains, deserts and plains; she is the world and all what you can see, feel and smell; she is the universe and you are bulky enough to host her in. Today, she is a guest, so greet her with the best; maybe tomorrow she will opt for staying in you; maybe tomorrow she will become a resident, a sweet resident of your heart. Let her in; never listen to what they say for nothing can hinder true love, a love that hurts to heal and heals to hurt; nothing can take her away, if true she remains and true you stay. Let her in, do not drown with her in the oceans of nostalgia and agony; bliss is at no cost, if true she remains and true you stay. Just keep the window open; keep yourself open and absorb the whole of her.
And if you want to satisfy her request; close the window; let down the curtains; switch off the lights and open your body for her; make her melt in you. Let the ice warm up alongside your burning flesh; hold her tight as if you want to drag her in; kiss her lips; taste her; deep, taste her soul; she is so delicious, tasteful and fine. Close the window; switch off the lights; search for her eyes in the darkness; stare at her and whisper the sweetest words to her ears; touch her skin, soft as silk; fool around like a child; lick her neck and suck her breasts. Let your hands go deeper and deeper; let your body blend with her desires; switch off the lights and switch on the passion; burn with her, loose breath till volcanoes erupt, and satisfaction comes. Just keep the window closed; keep the curtains down and absorb the whole of her.
-Faithinlove-
We sit together, my baby and I, on the bed of peace and pleasure; I look at the wedding ring around my finger, the same as hers; we are married in a way; marriage after all is not a ceremony with insidious guests; marriage is engagement; marriage is a choice and a responsibility. My heart is engaged to her heart; my heart has chosen her; my heart has the responsibility to keep those dear feelings safe deep inside, and I love her. She moves smoothly, then she leans on the bed; she asks me to close the window; I stare at her and hear what she could not hear; my heart was speaking to me, only to me and she could not hear:
“Do not close the window; let it open for the one you love; let it open for her; let her slip with the cool air inside of you. Stay open to her; never shut the window for the winds of passion are blowing and blowing and coming towards you; everyday, you love her more; she might not know that everyday your fires are glowing more and more. Never tell her of your passion and always keep the window open, open for her secrets to come in, open for her woes, open for her lies, open for her pain, open for her mistakes, open for her smiles, open for her bliss, open for her madness, open for her desires, open for her innocence, open for her jealousy. Just keep the window open; keep yourself open and absorb the whole of her.
“Do not close the window; never fear the passion she is stirring in you; the more you love her, and the more you suffer, the more you feel alive; let her roam inside your soul, blend with your thoughts and merge with your feelings. Let her fly in the heavens of your imagination like a butterfly; let her have a rest in the best roses inside you; show her the gardens of love and affection; make her smell the sweet tempting aroma of your desires. Let her in and keep the window open; keep your heart open for her fires and blazes, sweet fires, sweet blazes that never burn, that never hurt in the frostiness of this world; let her in, with her best and with her worst; her best makes up her beauty; her worst makes up her charm. Just keep the window open; keep yourself open and absorb the whole of her.
Do not shut yourself; I know that you hate shadows and darkness and your lady is light, so let her in; let her rise in you like an everlasting sun that never sets and never fades; let her be the daylight in your morns and in your nights. Love never kills; love heals; love slays hollowness and solitude; love never dies; it keeps on living inside and resurrecting in us what life murdered a long time ago. Do not close the window; she is breeze sweeping the dust in the forgotten corners of your soul; she is breeze kissing the whole cosmos of your essence, tender kisses of affection that neither time nor life can expunge. Let her in; open up your heart for her; love her more for you will never know the meaning of to love without her; open your soul; let her walk in with all her weapons and armies; weapons of love, armies of desire. Just keep the window open; keep yourself open and absorb the whole of her.
Do not close yourself; stay open and let her in; she is seas, mountains, deserts and plains; she is the world and all what you can see, feel and smell; she is the universe and you are bulky enough to host her in. Today, she is a guest, so greet her with the best; maybe tomorrow she will opt for staying in you; maybe tomorrow she will become a resident, a sweet resident of your heart. Let her in; never listen to what they say for nothing can hinder true love, a love that hurts to heal and heals to hurt; nothing can take her away, if true she remains and true you stay. Let her in, do not drown with her in the oceans of nostalgia and agony; bliss is at no cost, if true she remains and true you stay. Just keep the window open; keep yourself open and absorb the whole of her.
And if you want to satisfy her request; close the window; let down the curtains; switch off the lights and open your body for her; make her melt in you. Let the ice warm up alongside your burning flesh; hold her tight as if you want to drag her in; kiss her lips; taste her; deep, taste her soul; she is so delicious, tasteful and fine. Close the window; switch off the lights; search for her eyes in the darkness; stare at her and whisper the sweetest words to her ears; touch her skin, soft as silk; fool around like a child; lick her neck and suck her breasts. Let your hands go deeper and deeper; let your body blend with her desires; switch off the lights and switch on the passion; burn with her, loose breath till volcanoes erupt, and satisfaction comes. Just keep the window closed; keep the curtains down and absorb the whole of her.
-Faithinlove-
Smoking Causes No Cancer
Yet Smoking Kills
A painter draws the lines
The brush captivates her outlines
The features of her face
In the midst of an empty space
Two eyes and a fine gaze
A little mouth and a kiss I chase
Rosy cheeks soft as silk
Smooth skin as fair as milk
The portrait of my sweet
Tells of majesty from top to feet
Her beauty has no peer
As she ignites an eternal flare
-Faithinlove-
I am a heavy smoker; I have become an addicted; I cannot resist the call of the dreams, which I puff, inhale, breathe in and release as smoke rising in the air, taking different shapes, floating and escaping from me. I take my lighter; I put a dream to fire; dreams taste so sweet; they survive in smoke and die to turn into ashes. I am a heavy smoker of visions and reveries; I am addicted to them; I live in their smoke and like their taste; when dreams burn, I feel them coming in and going out, crossing the whole of my soul and leaving to seek others. I am obsessed with dreams; they haunt me in loneliness and in companionship; I put them to fire; I consume them as they consume me, then I put them to rest in the ashtray, ashes as they are; the wind blows, and they are no more, gone with the wind.
I am a heavy smoker; I have become an addicted; I cannot resist the call of the passions, which I puff, inhale, breathe in and release as smoke rising in the air, taking different shapes, floating and escaping from me. A lighter in my hand, I put my passions to fire; I smoke them; they get in me, then out of me. I stare at them burning like they have been burning inside of me; I stare at them expiring and turning into ashes; from ashes they will rise for passions resurrect; they never die; their burning is purification, a ritual that disinfects the putrid corners of my heart. I have so many passions; I keep them with me to fight the bitter loneliness; passions fill the vacant spaces, heal the agonizing wounds, and cleanse the troubled soul. I put passions to fire; I consume them as they consume me, then I put them to rest in the ashtray, ashes as they are; the wind blows, and they are no more, gone with the wind.
I am a heavy smoker; I have become an addicted; I cannot resist the call of the love, which I puff, inhale, breathe in and release as smoke rising in the air, taking different shapes, floating and escaping from me. Love burns the whole of me whenever I look in your eyes; I put love to fire in return; I burn love that burns me; love and me end up consuming each other, holding each other in an eternal blaze; we turn into ashes; we are no more as we hope you will remember. I am a heavy smoker of love; love causes no cancer, but sometimes I feel out of breath; I put my hand on my chest; I feel my heart throbbing at high-speed; I try to breathe with little hope and I know love will kill me someday, but I cannot give it up; I am addicted to love. I put love to fire; I consume it as it consumes me, then I put it to rest in the ashtray, ashes as it is; the wind blows, and it is no more, gone with the wind.
I am a heavy smoker; I have become an addicted; I cannot resist the call of the lady, which I puff, inhale, breathe in and release as smoke rising in the air, taking different shapes, floating and escaping from me. My lady is so fine; I smoke her with my dreams, passions and love; I smoke her with desires; she tastes so fine when she burns alongside my lips; I feel her in and release her out from time to time so that she can miss me more, as I miss her more and more. I am a heavy smoker of my lady; I am addicted to her; she is my companion in the times of inspirations; she is my inspiration; her smiles and her gazes penetrate the deepest of my soul and revive in me pleasures I cannot describe. She is the fire and she is the smoke; she is the blaze as her flesh burns my flesh when desires invade; I am but ashes. I put myself to fire; I consume myself as my lady consumes me, then I put myself to rest in the ashtray, ashes as I am; the wind blows, and I am no more, gone with my passion for her.
-Faithinlove-
A painter draws the lines
The brush captivates her outlines
The features of her face
In the midst of an empty space
Two eyes and a fine gaze
A little mouth and a kiss I chase
Rosy cheeks soft as silk
Smooth skin as fair as milk
The portrait of my sweet
Tells of majesty from top to feet
Her beauty has no peer
As she ignites an eternal flare
-Faithinlove-
I am a heavy smoker; I have become an addicted; I cannot resist the call of the dreams, which I puff, inhale, breathe in and release as smoke rising in the air, taking different shapes, floating and escaping from me. I take my lighter; I put a dream to fire; dreams taste so sweet; they survive in smoke and die to turn into ashes. I am a heavy smoker of visions and reveries; I am addicted to them; I live in their smoke and like their taste; when dreams burn, I feel them coming in and going out, crossing the whole of my soul and leaving to seek others. I am obsessed with dreams; they haunt me in loneliness and in companionship; I put them to fire; I consume them as they consume me, then I put them to rest in the ashtray, ashes as they are; the wind blows, and they are no more, gone with the wind.
I am a heavy smoker; I have become an addicted; I cannot resist the call of the passions, which I puff, inhale, breathe in and release as smoke rising in the air, taking different shapes, floating and escaping from me. A lighter in my hand, I put my passions to fire; I smoke them; they get in me, then out of me. I stare at them burning like they have been burning inside of me; I stare at them expiring and turning into ashes; from ashes they will rise for passions resurrect; they never die; their burning is purification, a ritual that disinfects the putrid corners of my heart. I have so many passions; I keep them with me to fight the bitter loneliness; passions fill the vacant spaces, heal the agonizing wounds, and cleanse the troubled soul. I put passions to fire; I consume them as they consume me, then I put them to rest in the ashtray, ashes as they are; the wind blows, and they are no more, gone with the wind.
I am a heavy smoker; I have become an addicted; I cannot resist the call of the love, which I puff, inhale, breathe in and release as smoke rising in the air, taking different shapes, floating and escaping from me. Love burns the whole of me whenever I look in your eyes; I put love to fire in return; I burn love that burns me; love and me end up consuming each other, holding each other in an eternal blaze; we turn into ashes; we are no more as we hope you will remember. I am a heavy smoker of love; love causes no cancer, but sometimes I feel out of breath; I put my hand on my chest; I feel my heart throbbing at high-speed; I try to breathe with little hope and I know love will kill me someday, but I cannot give it up; I am addicted to love. I put love to fire; I consume it as it consumes me, then I put it to rest in the ashtray, ashes as it is; the wind blows, and it is no more, gone with the wind.
I am a heavy smoker; I have become an addicted; I cannot resist the call of the lady, which I puff, inhale, breathe in and release as smoke rising in the air, taking different shapes, floating and escaping from me. My lady is so fine; I smoke her with my dreams, passions and love; I smoke her with desires; she tastes so fine when she burns alongside my lips; I feel her in and release her out from time to time so that she can miss me more, as I miss her more and more. I am a heavy smoker of my lady; I am addicted to her; she is my companion in the times of inspirations; she is my inspiration; her smiles and her gazes penetrate the deepest of my soul and revive in me pleasures I cannot describe. She is the fire and she is the smoke; she is the blaze as her flesh burns my flesh when desires invade; I am but ashes. I put myself to fire; I consume myself as my lady consumes me, then I put myself to rest in the ashtray, ashes as I am; the wind blows, and I am no more, gone with my passion for her.
-Faithinlove-
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