Growing up I was fascinated by “strong” women,
The wild ones,
They were my guilty pleasure,
Watching them with their wild hair, smeared make-up,
Slurred voices, short dresses, and a cigarette between their teeth.
I imagined they smelled of smoke,
Of mystery and the wild side of life,
To me,
They represented freedom,
The educated woman,
The other,
Intellectual talks mixed with gossip,
Shared over a vodka shot,
In a dark club.
To me,
They represented freedom,
And beauty,
This was my guilty aesthetic,
One that was looked down upon in my home,
And one that I secretly loved,
An aesthetic I wanted to be part of,
Standing against the door of my hostel,
A lit cigarette between my teeth,
And as I revelled in the sheer freedom I imagined,
As the smoke clung to my clothes,
I realized,
This wasn’t the only educated woman,
Dying slowly of inhalation,
And somewhere even as I yearned for this aesthetic,
Part of me hated it,
Sought to hide it,
Years of conditioning,
Emotions against logic,
And yet I loved it,
Because I was asked not to,
And yet secretly invited to.
I lived my aesthetic,
And never looked at it,
It remained a guilty pleasure,
That I knew better than to indulge,
But why?
Why couldn’t I capture life in that snapshot?
Why was I willing to sacrifice for myself?
Why was this my aesthetic,
Along with a shy nerd,
In a turtle neck,
Nose buried in a book,
O the dancer with smoke soaring with her,
The singer with punk make-up?
And why is one more acceptable?
More comfortable?
And how many aesthetics did I have hidden within me?
