~Just my silly internal monologue whilst reading Virginia Woolf’s essay, “A Room of One’s Own” (1929). Here, have some thoughts, do with them what you will. I hate everything xx

 I sit here and ponder alongside Virginia Woolf, and I wonder about the women of the Shakespearean century. I think of how discouraged those women must have been.  What her life might’ve looked like, indeed. If she were creative. I think about the madness that would have manifested as a result of her confinement. I think about the room I reside in right now. My bed, which I sit upon. The golden light of the afternoon sun warms my rapid fingers as I type and type and backspace. I think about the privileges I have been given. The rights I have lost. I think about how unfair it seems, that now we are allowed to dream, we are still punished for it.

When once, the art of dreaming. The art of thinking, questioning and curiosity were celebrated– held in the highest esteem. How the highest order of education is a doctorate in philosophy. Philosophy. Glorified overthinkers. I think about how unfair it is, that the moment we could write, if even “semi-freely,” it was no longer regarded as brilliance or intelligence. I think of how we are now reprimanded for doing the work of scholars so long ago. I think of how angry they were, when they realized perhaps we could do it better. I think of how angry they still are. How it has burned through centuries. How we have burned because of it.  And perhaps this fear, if a better substitute for anger in this instance, led them to commit such atrocities. They took our names (they took more than our names). They called us hysterical, emotional, incongruous.

Maybe it is our fault that we let them (why do we take false accountability all the time?). It is no wonder women are so good at writing romance and fiction. It is their disposition to be such things. Emotional and without logic or reason, it is surely an unfair advantage they have, and not at all a reflection of [their/men/you can’t group all men like that, Maddie] own inferiority. Masterful magick a looking glass can be. I consider who we laminate as some of the “greats.” I consider that we still continue to regard these men (who some, were mediocre at best) with these labels, and with such certainty. I think about how this will likely never change. And I myself, are angry. Very. fucking angry.

That my confessionals are regarded as nothing more than childish. But Rousseau is regarded with such awe. As though my ‘big thoughts’ can never possibly be as loud as any mans. As though I will forever be an inarticulate wench, incapable of thinking anything worth the slightest test of pause. Of consideration. As if, nothing I can ever say will inspire such a change in thinking. And I am angry, too. I am angry that I am now granted a room. And yet, I have no use for it. I am granted a room. And I am confined to it. I am now granted a room, but the language is dead.

How Woolf would shake with violence at my naivety. How she would tear apart my mediocrity and tell me I have disgraced her name. But I would deserve it. For I have taken for granted the room she has given me. But does she realize that without the pressing need for a room, there is no pressing need for my voice? One will always create a room should she need one. And currently, I do not. At least, not in a way that is as life-altering as others. Everybody needs a room. But not everybody knows how to occupy the space. Not everyone is aware of how to continue to fill the room, without glimpsing somebody else’s, and seeing that theirs is better. Perhaps more stylish.  Modern.

My room is littered with scraps of frivolous anger. No real action. Perhaps they are right, and I am nothing but emotional, hysterical, incongruous. Perhaps I am nothing at all.