The Good Girl

I find myself smiling, somehow entertained by the human condition, enjoying the company of those entering my orbit, and waving bye-bye to those choosing to exit.

It tickles me, our busyness.

 How self-important have we become with our love of labels: "First World" this, "Third World" that! "Exceptionalism" this, "Shitholes" that! Taking all this nonsense as matter of fact and allowing exploitation and corruption to thrive as a result.

 How can Reality be one thing: fixed? It is quite contrary to every principle governing our universe. We are such good little boys and girls, socialised to be so, obedience ingrained and internalized to such an extent that we follow rules and laws on automatic, failing to question accepted ideas and isms.

My spirit cries out to be unburdened by the banality of bureaucracy. My soul is longing to be in conversation about the stars, love, creativity…desire. I want to explore all of these daily and in depth, for they are the very essence of our being.

Somehow sameness is the curse of our century; society prefers us well-behaved and docile. Whilst creativity requires chaos and chance; ruin and excavation; and unbridled emotions and gentle silences; systems require strict administration and  management; procedures and compliance.

How can our souls speak if the heart is muted and the brain is in control, forever loud with foreign ideas installed in us by the systems governing our lives and keeping us trapped in tiny cells without bars.

Don’t you see it, the 4 walls boxing us in?

Don’t you feel it, the suffocating air within the tiny spaces.

Don’t you hear it, the cries from deep within: “Create!”, “Move!”, “Pray!”, “Love!”

These thoughts have been tugging at me the whole damn day demanding attention when I should be focusing in on yet another spreadsheet, on a different survey, on keeping multiple tabs open...

My heart sighs, weighed down and  stifled by the mundane.

 I quash them down, these disturbing thoughts, down deep and somehow they resurface popping right back up.

“Here, Nariman!”

I shake my head to tilt it loose and send it on its way.

“Here, Nariman!”

“Dammit!”

She is a distant voice long since silenced, “Come!”

My intuition is reaching out, she is so different from me, liberated, joyous, light, dancing amongst the stars, her delicious laugh enticing me from my desk weighed down by 1000 things demanding my attention.

“Come,” she whispers, “let’s be creative.”

I shush her, silly girl!

“It doesn’t pay,” I throw back at her, and continue to send off emails and pleasantries like a good girl.

He pops into my head, the one that writes at me, barks orders and makes demands.

She should be more like him, forceful, demanding, unwavering…

She is still there, silenced now and suffering from boredom. I am aware of her, patient but bored as hell.

“Say the words, and you will become.”

What is she on about now?

“Say it!” almost petulant and impatient now, “I am a…”

Who has time for this mumbo jumbo. Who has time for dreams of creative spaces and sipping on kombucha tea at 10am in a space overflowing with books, art and photographs of craggy, smiling faces. Or sitting in think tanks with intellectuals, philosophers and poets, and plotting a new reality where we get to create and feel and be. Spaces where there are no macbooks...only physical books with delectable words dancing on pages bound between works of art, where  MS-Office and Teams have been muted along with emails and spreadsheets… where only  blank canvasses and white pages are available and ready to welcome ideas marking them like tattoos... Places for nimble fingers and starry eyes, and bold dreams, and warm laughter, and sharp minds, and soft hugs, and hard desires…

A bill lands in my inbox, and I am rudely awakened from dreaming.
And I remember that it needs to be paid by the month end.
That the Machine needs to be serviced.
And books hold us to account, rarely pleasure.
And that the taxman needs his money…So the hamster wheel can keep on turning,  keeping us indebted to the wrong things…

 She flickers and fades…

And I make a solemn oath to her that I’ll be ready soon, and when I am, I will move amongst the night skies, at one with the stars. And I vow to be in service of humanity, to pay my debt to a new society, to take my rewards in kind, in kisses, in emotional currency…

And the longing for self- expression sits deep alongside the need for community and connection. So I reach out, stroke his hands, not keyboards; spread joy, not sheets...

And without realizing it, my intuition has slowly started pouring into my heart till it is fuller and richer than my bank balance.