I have trouble understanding the feminine.
I’m a writer, I have a story in my head, but my feminine character eludes me. Why does she behaves that way? What makes her tick, and what scares her? She is there, I see her, but she doesn’t tell me anything about her, she’s got a sarcastic smile on her lips and in her heavily made-up eys. In the end, I had to admit that even with my female friends, and girlfriends, and mothers and sisters, I was walking on an unknown planet. The truth, I told myself, is that I don’t understand you.
When I realized that, my first instinct was to go in the streets, stop random women and tell them “Wait. Where are you going? What is your darkest side, your biggest fear? With what mixed feelings you look at your mother? How does it feel to dance in a club with eyes that search through your clothes? When you started to realize we boy existed, were you as terrified of us as we were of you? No wait don’t run, it’s ok, I’m a writer.”
And I then thought that maybe it was better to do it here. And that maybe someone of you wants to talk about herself, get out of the shell without having to fear judgement, or the eyes of the one who knows us, but that shouldn’t know us more. Do you want to tell me who you are? Send an email to donnadimmi@email.it (ultra-guaranteed anonymity), I’ll treasure your story, and I’ll publish it here, so that the world may know you, so that someone may know the real you, even if he will never know you.
Tell me. I’m listening.
