nothing else but my heart's desire [COLLECTION] | FINISHED

In honour of all the lost female writers - ORIGINAL PROSE

A woman could never be herself, she only existed in the eyes of others, of men, of the world as a thing, a role to fulfill: friend, sister, daughter, mother. A woman could never wish to do, to achieve, to succeed outside her four walls, the same space she had been allocated to rule, only in the limited sense of the word, as her domain. But what if she wanted more? A woman who writes, she journals to her heart's content, a woman who dreams and exists as something else, an other inside her own head, as she can only truly live when others are not looking at her, where others cannot observe her, to force her back into the roles permitted for other women, for herself. A woman who had acted as editor, publisher, source material for and in service of her husband's dreams, goals, the works he wrote; some women hide their femaleness behind names not like their own, a mask to hide their perceived incompetence. It proved a success for some, while others lived and died, never knowing what the world could offer them outside their home. And now I write these words, with the freedom to do so, in any way I see fit, I weep for these past versions of myself, as I push back against the odds stacked against me, which have been always stacked against woman, each and every woman, whether she knows it or not. And I push back still, in honour of my foremothers, for, as they had done so many times over, in hopes to find peace in their secret scribbles and solace in what seemed like a hopeless feat, as my pen remains as mighty as any sword.