i am tired of all this love thrown at me. i am tired of my affections asked for in places i cannot give in order to assure others they are okay. i am tired of love that will not go anywhere.
and this is what i ask for everyday. and this, i think, is why i love books with worn binding. and this is why i am quiet in groups of strangers. i ask for secrets. i ask for secret love. i ask for love in secret places. in the pages of a book that i read all by myself. me and a story, communing. in my bedroom with my door closed and my windows blocked by embroidered curtains. i have secrets in my book and behind my curtains. simple and waiting to be found.
i am a woman with old veins. i am not old. i have one hundred years to live before i go. i am old. i have lived one hundred years in twenty-three. i will not stop going. there are villages to build and huts to dwell in. there are children to be born. there are frames to fill. i live in a past that i did not create and work for a future i will not see. this is way of eternity. this is time i yearn for life never ending.
independence makes me tired. i much prefer a simple life of submission. bending and bowing to a glory beyond all my pride. i much prefer the life of family and of quilted history. it is all much different than i imagined, no longer hoping for my name to be remembered, but rather hoping for my history to be discovered.
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