Status Updates From Raise Your Soul: A Personal...

‘—hearing his father screaming—Y rushed into the living room, ‘Stop harassing my mum,’ he said in a steady voice—Many professed indifference,—Incredibly,—sympathetic to—fascists. A’s admiration of M. Curie—rubbed off on Y—a woman doing things women were not supposed to,—it was time to connect with his Greek side,—Everything made him feel guilty—knowing that he could afford to buy as much bread as he needed—aspirin,—’

‘Every other man she had met, married or unmarried, younger or older, eschewed any deviation from patriarchal norms. Were such men to find out what swirled around in her head, they would run a mile. It’s why she willed herself to—him—someone with whom she could share her concealed world—1924,—despite knowing that it would create a minor scandal, gave—heart—a full moon ascended over Cairo’s night sky—closest comrade—’

‘—when E smelled—flowering jasmine,—a surge of anger—unwilling to accept Nature recycling life so soon after the loss of so many—Everything they had was shared. In return, visitors shared stories—wolfing down—‘hunger recipes’,—glad to swap—food for tales—stories redolent of Federico García Lorca—Catalunya,—1936—‘So, I kept her name etched in my thoughts,’—words struck a chord—motivated—to do difficult things gladly—’

‘‘Keep your soul up high—above the filth.’ When axioms sustaining our worldview dissolve in the harsh light of brutality—our true character comes to the fore. The timid recoil. The wise—humbled. The cunning seek scapegoats—She stormed—where—men—throw tantrums every time she challenged their entitlement or questioned their status. Squeezing pleasure out of misery—a skill hardwired—As kids—when their football frayed,—’

‘—2024, an unrelenting personal slump—darkness didn’t just loom—it consumed. It stretched endlessly across—a deeper,—insidious gloom—seeped into the very fabric of existence—in the air—a sour, metallic taste that clung—making me feel like a doomed character in some twisted simulation. And then came the violence,—expressions of pained helplessness—For the first time—I felt my age,—ready for yet another cruel harvest.’