Every day is women’s day

Social media reminded me as soon as I opened my eyes that it was international women’s day, and I cannot help but compare it to all other hypocritical celebratory days like Valentine’s or even Independence. Let’s drink to women everywhere so tomorrow we can go back to throwing the empty bottles at their faces for daring to be just that: women.

It took me several years to appreciate the fact that I was a woman, to celebrate my double x chromosomes and proudly wear the label. As a child, all I could distinguish of the female gender was the “fragile” stamp we seemed to all receive at birth, one we couldn’t wash off or replace in a society too stubborn to acknowledge our strength, our power and our deserving all the same rights and opportunities as our male counterparts. Then I woke up, and how glad I was to finally brandish my lipstick and fire away all the sparks my womanhood had bestowed upon me.

However I can’t shake the feeling that giving women a day to celebrate them somewhat diminishes their value, just like Valentine’s or mother’s and father’s day diminish all the fireworks our loved ones deserves every single day. It also feels filled with hypocrisy, the way everyone picks up pink pens and paper on this one day, writes a post on Facebook quoting whichever prominent feminist the internet provides in the search results, and then goes back to not caring or worse, going against what feminism stands for the day after. Your neighbour is a human you should respect, not catcall when she picks up her newspaper in her bathrobe. Your waitress is serving you to pay her bills, not to worship all the nonsense you think you are entitled to utter as a paying customer. That girl didn’t wear a skirt for you, she wore it because she feels good in it. That lady is feeding her child so he is well nourished and can grow to become someone who will stand up for the mothers you deny the right to breastfeed in public spaces because it makes you queasy. Every woman is a being to be respected just like any other being on Earth, with beautiful superpowers like those of procreation and overflowing emotion and empathy. To all those who still doubt it, our hormones are one of our sources of magic.

Ultimately, everyday should be women’s day and mother’s day and an occasion for all those beautiful celebrations to remind us that we should love each other with no boundaries, no misogyny or sexism or antiquated patriarchal ideas on the place of women in society. A woman’s place is wherever she deems fit, wherever she feels comfortable, wherever she feels useful and hopefully, wherever that is, she can feel safe and strong.

Bile smile

There are billions of souls walking the Earth today; billions smiling, laughing, living. Well I’ve got a sectet for you: it’s all make-believe.

Maybe nobody thought of it, maybe no one wanted to, but if someone created some sort of thermometer that measured how much of us is truly alive, the percentage would astound us. They say our heartbeat determines if we’re still here, enjoying each day as we breathe in life’s elixir, but my biology teachers would’ve probably failed psychology class. We walk, footsteps and pulse in synch, breathing automatically, slowly dying inside, minute after minute, skipping seconds, waiting for it all to end and relieve us. We paint smiles on our faces every morning, fooling the neighbours and our mirrors, lying to get through another day of pretending to be alive and well, a mask for our loved ones, a mask for ourselves. I woke up to this world crying, and I haven’t stopped since. I detest the idea of a place where money, scheming, cheating, killing – and any other horrid concept humans have sickened their souls with – come before love, integrity or self-fulfillment. I abhor watching initially good people slowly become rotten because they found no other way to get through the day. I hate that I cannot hate but only wallow and sigh as rain pours down from a fake sunny sky, and that I am doomed to watch everything happen helpless. I don’t like it here, I never have; I’ve been smiling and laughing and singing life’s beauty while all I’ve seen in my wake and in my dreams, is its putrefaction; the empty satisfaction one gets from a useless career, the shallow joy caused by vacant conversations… there is no depth in our lives, no truth in our lies, no real reason for our smiles; they just got stuck on our faces after patiently, repetitively, hypocritically painting them on one time too many.

You could say this is the most obscure post I’ve ever published, it may even seem too grim compared to the rest, but our hearts sometimes beat more slowly, wishing they didn’t beat at all, and our souls grow much too old to hope for eternity. Let us cry tonight, for tomorrow we smile again.