Collection: She

As a child there was always a voice within me. She is the one who always convinced me to do things, which in retrospect is quite unsettling. She was the one who told me to go a bit closer to the beautiful yellow snake watching me from behind the pile of firewood in the garden, just steps away from me. She was the one who prompted me to keep swimming to the deeper end of the dark pond despite being exhausted. My fear and her outrage became directly proportional. Like most kids, some nights I used to get terrified. But even more terrible was the voice coaxing me to break out from the cocoon of my blanket, take a peek outside at the dark corners of the room, urging me to touch my toe to the floor, even for a brief second. It was as if She was waiting eagerly to see if a monster did come out from under the bed and grabbed me. Usually I would oblige, and I never saw a monster. Maybe it was more afraid of the She within me than I was of it. She always challenged my fears. She sometimes sneered when I cried, telling me it was a pathetic thing to cry about, other times she herself gets angrier, more protective of me. A bundle of contradictory emotions, one more dangerous than the next. With time She chose to stay, through my teenage years, college and to the present day. She still pushes my boundaries and still loves to test my strength. But now I argue. The strength in me is her doing, and to her I’m grateful.

She is not looking for acceptance or appreciation. She is the past, present and future. She comes to us in our weakest and our strongest. She is the voice that keeps us awake at nights, sometimes consoling, sometimes judging. While we are striving to be the cookie cut society-sanctioned epitome of modern female, she is who comes to us when we are alone and whispers incessantly into our ears to escape, break, crash, crush.

She is not your white clad conscience with her bright golden skin, angelic face and shiny halo. No. When She comes, she does so with force, not meekly and half-apologetically like your conscience. When she comes she sets everything ablaze with her enthusiasm. She comes, face shrouded in mystery, her dark dress bellowing behind her, demanding to know why you are not who you desire to be, provoking you to reveal your innermost thoughts.

She is not an angel, she is not the devil, she is neither a blessing, nor a curse. She is you. She is I. She is us.