​There’s a certain finality to a feeling or a fact when you arrange them into words in your head or utter them with your lips… that make them harder to take back and harder to suppress. 

It’s when the reality of things seem like a distant galaxy and now a meteor shower has come unnotified. Flustered, you duck for cover but still in view of a nocked arrow.

​A woman’s purpose is not limited to serve and be at her husband’s beck and call, it is also not to carry his child or to do the housework all on her own. 

A woman’s purpose is to herself and herself alone, if she finds it to her pleasure to be the typical wife then she is fulfilling the purpose of her choice. However, if she finds pleasure in politics, sciences, philosophy, adventure, never say that she is a wasted womb or something less or denying nature what she was designed to be. 

She is not created for society, nor for her husband. She is not some property to be dictated, dominated or owned. 

She is a wonder, an art, a liquid that languidly deforms and reforms to her wishes.