A Thursday's Child.

I was born on a rainy Thursday afternoon to a woman with a sorrow-filled heart and a man with empty pockets. Which is to say, I was born as a consequence of an obligatory marriage and not love. 

I was a kid with a sharp tongue but a meldable spirit and my mother the sculptor. Every time she chipped a piece out of me, my resentment grew for her. You reap what you sow; your intentions soak through the water and infiltrate the seed. 

Blooming into adulthood, my intense fear of abandonment fuelled on by the constant threats of motherhood loomed over me. I had been assigned as an adult too soon. Incompetent mother who harmed me the worst and most whilst claiming to protect me and an absent father who will swear up and down that he did not run away. But, it seems that I can count our memories together in my hands.

A large extended family guarantees support, but not for the child. There’s an aunt who cries to you, your father was just 7 years old when I got married into the household. There’s an uncle, your mother is sick, take care of her. Even the sister you adopted away from blood will bleed for your mother. She doesn’t have anyone else. 

As much as I don’t want to resent these people, they are of a different tongue; they were born out of love, how could they even interpret hatred? It doesn’t make things any easier. When you want to be acknowledged for the wounds in your soul, people around you will never see it, because you don’t bleed openly. That is your sin, that is your fatal flaw. You say you are hurt, but you don’t bleed. Where is your blood? They will ask you. The only red you show is the paint on your lips and the polish on your fingers. 

You are doing just fine, so you have to take care of your mother. 

Grit your teeth and wipe off your eyebrows. She will apologise but when has a sorry stuck back a broken ceramic plate? Pray tell me, how does an apology grow back a chopped-off tree?

I have already burned the ceramic and polished the wood into a door and hung the sign.

You are not welcome here. 

I was born in early November and I cannot remember a single birthday when it didn’t rain; the earliest age I remember is when I was 3 and crying in the corridor on the first day at school. Rain. The sky weeping with guilt at where we are heading towards. The way I see it, empires have never not fallen and our kingdom will fall as well. The kingdom of humanity.

But, I am self-centred and which is to say, the sky weeps for my fate. A story that was doomed from the beginning. Though, not all news is bad.

My last session in therapy served as a checkpoint, I don’t seek validation for my trauma as much as I used to do in the past. I’m healing. Slowly and steadily. I don’t identify with my suffering strongly. But, I still resent people who try to separate me from it. Wooden horses have burned my city, I shall not let you make them the ambitious heroes. You can't rewrite my story, not when I am still alive.

I was born on a Thursday right before the clock chimed eleven times. An English teacher read my palm in 10th grade and the kids laughed because I did not have a lifeline. Does that mean my life ends short? Was that indeed a celebratory news? But, he shook his head. You will marry a Science boy who will love you a lot. I took his word back then. A decade later, I no longer believe in Astrology and my Science boy was the one with the short life. Another Mandala puzzle that didn't fit in yet.

I think what I mean to say is that just because you know a story does not mean you understand it. Just because the wound has healed doesn’t mean it never existed. Just because the skeletons are decomposed doesn’t mean it left the closet. 

Grief is as unique as a fingerprint and my life has been smudged multiple times with blood and sins and anger. I have cleaned up myself but if I take a deeper breath, I can still smell its scent. 

I have forgiven, but the pain is stuck under my claws. Pride under my toenails, I have walked away from places and people without looking back. A Thursday's child has far to go. Whatever that interpretation means to you, I don’t know. But, I already know I have come quite far and I still don’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. 

It is about the journey, it is about the destination, it is about the company. I have crawled up the mountains and drowned in the seas. I have built my shelter with the weeds. I may not identify with my suffering, but I sure as hell won’t let you have a say about it. Battles I won, the wars I lost, both are wisps of the past. You can't revisit my scars and comment on them like they are paintings on a museum wall, not when I am still alive.

I am a Thursday’s child and Love is my religion. But light cannot exist without darkness. There are dead bodies under this temple. My god was once a Lucifer. The bricks of this altar were once forged in fires of hatred. Don’t tame the goddess when you haven’t seen her in the middle of a war field. 

I was born on the 1st Thursday of a faraway November and was carried home during a storm, my city weeping for me. Did my mother give birth to a daughter or a hurricane? How far does the Thursday's child have to go?

Sorgavaasal, Aerohub. 3rd December 2024.