Down deep was the memory in her tummy, the wild beat of her heart. It roared in a determined whisper for her to come home to her womb, her body, her voice. But, she was lost in the cities of tall buildings, charity functions and networking groups. After all she had to work to make money since. She was the one who had decided to build her own business from scratch.
She did not know why…but she was enamored by the light shows and movie screens of the entertainment world. She didn’t know as an agent she’d lose her soul to the corporate arrogance of playing god to artists and writers. Her naivety caused her to believe she could stamp out the stench of money deals, watered down romantic comedies and bad suspense stories. Revamp the way producers murdered women to diet until their bodies were perfectly perfect to force audiences to gape in jealousy and appeal to mass inferiority. Thinness had no meaning except to make the actor’s vagina or penis bigger, sexier, when plunked into the face of public viewer. This way they’d compare and wonder if they stood up to Hollywood standards of how their own bodies should look. Then on top of it there was the Hollywood happily ever after endings, or unhappily ever after endings. Most often being that the female would die of, typically, breast cancer. And of course, she die telling everyone not to cry for her...she would be the courageous martyr until the end, never fighting for life…accepting death as a friend to her boring existence.
Dark knots of disappointment and frustration kept her up at night with its howls of hurt. Her pain never ceased. How could she hold this fury? She had bargained her life to the Devil. The one who tripped her and drank her blood whenever she’d follow her urge, her vision to get out of jail and pass go, and get out of a system that kept her a slave to her fear. Her plan didn’t work. She failed. She was caught up again in the glamour allowing her cleavage to pop out during business luncheons while she drank a martini and laughed like she was warding off the ferocious winds of an oncoming storm. She was in the beast of the belly and she had become the beast.
When did she lose her way home? Forget how to be ordinary, sit and remember herself as she drank a warm cup of tea, listening to the beat of her own soul saying, “I am here.”
Why was she so afraid to break the golden mold? When had her strength failed to ignite her passion? To push her own will and bust through the hell she had created? The vampire way she sucked her own blood and then threw away the inner world that sprang from the depth of her despair had become despicable. She could not hold her pain. She would never ask anyone to hold her pain in fear of being called a victim. Even though she was a victim, the world ignored her, blamed her for being raped and beaten left for dead. Why was she walking alone at night down unlit streets? A woman alone is a target. How could she ever stop being a victim when the world kept her enslaved in her victimhood? She couldn’t even walk the night streets by herself. This was a dangerous proposition. There wasn’t a war out there, was there?
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