This Bad Indian Wife struggles with many things.
Some days, it is too much bother to even make coffee.
Many days, indolent wife is not even feeling unwell, she is just lost in her meandering, visual and felt world, oblivious to his small and reasonable needs.
It can either be a very beautiful expansive day or it can be a brooding on nothing much day.
Either way, she will write till it both releases and remains.
Trusting, exploring, curious, and re-connecting with my dear pen persona, a rough but now, dear and trusted not so fierce inner beast. She urges me to put my feet up on the table, to forget about brushing my hair, and to eat simple vegetables straight out of the bowl. She insists that stories must be written, words must speak of my quest through triumph and foolish mistakes.
She simply was never in a relationship, and clearly she has never known the why, when and how to make any sacrifice for another.
She only knows to speak, walk, engage, question, explore, and finally to write.
Love, gentle, simple, unpolished, walking to the kitchen, making a little food kind of love-myself, makes it oh so much easier to get through the day than raw, pure, out of control Fire and it’s nagging accomplice, utter distrust.
Bad Wife has no way to do it any other way than this. She trampled on the handbook that her mother too trampled on, and her mother too.
These are the slippery, obscure, almost like marbles that we tread hopelessly towards respectful love.
This is my passage towards a happier life.
Whether it makes me scream out my angst or surrender to having him comb my hair, I am thankful that it feels so damn real.