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I am holding neither reed nor cotton in my hands.
But instead, a piece of my great-grandmother’s needlework.

I wake up dizzy with the swirling of broken thoughts. Men and women who passed down tainted versions of our her/histories. Mothers and fathers who gave us this severance as a dowry. Ancestors who may or may not have protested when their people mimicked god, for power, for the upper hand at the crossroads of civilization. People who had no choice, people who died for the ability to choose. The false idolatry of divine love. The need to connect inside disconnect.

Are your circular dances a bad knockoff of the patterns that appear before my eyes, in dark skies, in my grandmother’s needlework? Who taught you this dance, this prayer? Is this a miscarriage of divine love?
Մեծմամա Makrouhi, hand me a thread.

Tell me, please, if I am the doomed bride of a poisoned marriage
with god and time!