Fear of ending up being an average middle-class woman who tries to reveal her true self by painting her nails red. Shocking red. It is 6 am and I cannot stop thinking about this. Yesterday we were reading poetry in class for the first time, and the lecturer wanted us to explain a poem by Carole Satyamurti called I Shall Paint my Nails Red. At first the theme seemed to be trivial or funny but, after reading it carefully, I found it a sad poem for sure. Maybe I was projecting my biggest fear in that poem and I understood it wrongly; nevertheless, that concept is stuck in my mind now. Between those lines I found that brand of subtle sadness that we can get used to living with. A manageable daily dissapointment with ourselves. Red nail polish as the last remaining drops of any passionate personality. "I shall be that kind of person" grey desire. Then I recalled the day when I discovered an old notebook that belonged to my mother, where she wrote down her intention of never having children and staying single and free. A mixture of respect and sorry overwhelmed me... I wonder if she kept that notebook and read those pages experiencing bitterness or regret. I wonder if her dreams were so famished that they were not able to make her feel furious or frustrated anymore. Getting used to sadness is sadder than sadness itself.
However, as long as this dread keeps me awake, I know there are still flames inside me, which is a good sign, isn't it?
Will my daughter read these lines in thirty years from now?
Fear of becoming helpless glowing coal.
