One day, Bee Gees decided to tell us she is more than a woman.
Well, I find it vaguely unnecessary to affirm that. There’s enough said in calling her a mere woman. There’s no need to further complicate it.
Women, within, hold a depth that is, in itself, stunningly troubling to our short male understanding.
We, men, work to hide our vast complexity, we are the hard ones, and so we build our unbent character, raised to resist it all, unrelentingly.
I personally find men as capable of feeling with an intensity foreign to women. She, carrying her thoughtful femininity, that’s already a weight heavy enough for such a subtle spine, and so we prefer to not ask that of her, avoiding showing our doomed frailty.
We do not love, they say, and yet we hurt so heavily, in ways they could never even try to withstand. Something severely smashing to their sensitive sense of living, a spite born to solely love, never ache. A presence we affectionately regard, sparing them, as best as we can, from what we fearfully consider damaging. We are exquisitely selfless, for them.
We expect to resolve things on our own when all we needed was a trembling finger of hers, a gentle touch to put it all back in place and shed some reason over our disquieting manner.
We alienate ourselves from what should be a shared matter. If we confess, we regret it, if we don’t, we’re killing ourselves.
To expose our supposedly embarrasing selves speaking our heart, or to dodge the truth’s contaminating softness and call it strength?
Are we really as manly as we aimed to be, when all we truly want is to be as serenely enlightned as they are, as simple as they can be, a mere woman?