Femme Fatale

5|of Arc.

♀

They say Joan was a stubborn, stupid and reckless woman fighting in a war full of men. And yet, we remember none of the names of those who had died. Except Joan. Her devotion and sight for freedom was often questioned by the English who had invaded Paris. The capital of her country. Despite fighting for the honor of France she was dubbed with "symptoms" female hysteria and eventually witchcraft.

Though, before that all happened Joan was devoted, passionate and independent. During her times, a woman fighting was uncommon but more so as a woman icon. The English knew that killing Joan would spark outrage and create a martyr. And despite being in the hands of the enemy she didn't surrender. But she fought for what she believed in. The voices made it seem like she was a little mad, but that was her drive. It was what made her who she was.

Joan of Arc is and was an admirable character. Though, she is often cast aside into a history that spotlighted and credited men. As a woman she was often underestimated and belittled in the art of war. Though, once known, was capable of anything.

The woman before me, was no doubt possessed with the same passion, devotion and independence. Though not in the art of war, but art itself. She was discussing the differences between brush strokes and textures. The taste of colors on a blank canvas. The pop of expression in every shade. I couldn't help but feel intrigued. Even the way her hands moves was beautiful.

I love art, though not exactly my forte.
The truth is, I couldn't draw a decent stickman much less paint. Once, I had sat down and decided to try making something. Perhaps a little cute bird perched on a branch. You know those basic paintings any toddler or child could do. And tell you what, I somehow managed to make that little cute bird look like a massive brown blob with no sense of direction or meaning. It was a sad looking blob and sad day for attempting to try the arts.

Though, what I do love the most of art is appreciating it. The beauty of it, the pain and the emotion. They speak an unpoken story behind every brush stroke, dab of paint and transition of color. If I could, I would take a chance to go to local museums and artistics cafés.

To feel inspired, above everything is the greatest feeling of them all.

But after everything that had happened- the assault in the alley and playing hooky with Taryn. I doubt that mom would let me go on my own. She found out yesterday, when Milo had sold me out. He was still upset when I had make him commute on his own when I had ridden with Taryn.

It was a stupid move, and very inconsiderate of me. I couldn't simply tell him that I was supposed to ask him but it slipped my mind or that I never thought about it at all. Or at least, till I got home when I realized guiltily that I had ditched him.

And worse, he had a habit of holding grudges. We were a bit cool, I guess, we don't talk about it. But there's a tim layer of iciness there that doesn't want to be touched. Maybe in the end, he'll still forgive me? Or at least I hope he would sooner.

He loves me after all. But I shouldn't push my luck with making up with Milo. It isn't easy at it sounds. He takes commuting with me very seriously. Milo, I think would prefer my company over others. He's clingy like that.

And now that Milo tattled on me, going out seemed tighter and stricter than ever. The rules were clear. A call was required for every hour, to update who I was with and what was I was doing. I was only allowed to go to places as long as mom had driven and picked me up, or at someone she knew did. And that I was required home at 6 PM. I felt like I was being held back at all times. That bothered me a lot. I wouldn't be able to hang out as usual. I am already anticipating my mother keeping me close and on a short leash nowadays. I understood the concern but still, I wish Milo didn't get so petty.