It is through this virile aura of hardiness that I have come to assume, that I inadvertently find myself distanced from the supposed essence of femininity. Shrouded by compulsions to invest in self-presentation to a greater degree than does your typical male adolescent, it is as if my perception of strength were at stake. It is an impulse, nothing short of a spur, the readiness with which I put on this front so sturdy, ever-resistant to decay.
To this pair of unschooled eyes, standing firmly among the profound manifestations of fragility is the discerned hassle of wearing traditional clothing. With every bit of fabric draped defiantly around my shoulders, the unconscious struggles not to attribute the nuisance of this prolonged procedure to womanly stereotypes of perhaps being thorough to an unreasonable extent, past the barriers of permissibility.
How could an individual, who since time immemorial, has been a critical bystander, accustom her being to embrace this divine ambience of muliebrity?
The stringent intricacies of tradition have frugally accommodated the blunders of an apprentice. In synonymity, the inability I presently harbour to execute womanhood to lexiconal flawlessness, continues to socially single me out in avenues unexplored.
BINABASA MO ANG
The frivolity on my mind
Non-FictionEmploying an occasional sarcastic tone, here is an attempt at capturing emotions (in the form of letters, addressed to or about (in)tangible entities)) that have so often been the subject of my ponderances, because nothing weighing me down should be...
