Qualms of a Womb

I never got to know my mother. Nobody ever gave me a tinge of a chance to. A holocaust stole me away from her a holocaust that is very far from any known historical genocidal episodes. But it was a holocaust that also considered its victims subhuman a complete burn up of souls that were thought to be unworthy of existence.

I have been robbed the right to a mother's song, a mother's caressing hand, a mother's love

The closest I ever got to feeling and touching her, was through bitter-cold, suffocating mucous. But I still keep the fondest memories of such times past traces of another life traces of another me. Traces I ought not recall, at such a time and place that I exist within now

But oddly enough, I still do.

I now know that a blow in one's life cannot easily exit his consciousness, no matter what changes he undergoes. Even if we forget, we still remember. Even if we alter our frame of mind, we still remember. Even if we come to embrace nothing but the goodness of life, we still remember

You seeI still remember

One dreadfully inhumane November night, I came to exist.
Secrets of my making have been undisclosed to me, so all I realize is that it was an immense impact that shocked me into existence. A collision of such a grand magnitude it wasone that had finally succeeded in placing my long-awaiting soul on the map of beings. A marriage between two of human being's most treasured bestowals, I called it.

However, my creation was an arranged marriage. A forced one. A marriage that rapes. A union that plunders, ravages, and violates. One that was never bound to or meant to occur. But I did not realize this morbid truth at once. It took my creator some "time" to whisper life into me time that had been benevolent enough to hide and protect me from the fatality of such an encounter. These merciful moments had been truly kind as to blind and deafen me to the atrocious, undesired act that had instigated my origination.

I woke up to loud whimpering noises, seeming to emerge from my very self. I was not powerful enough to emit such weeping sounds, but all the commotion felt so close and so real that I realized I had not been a mere spectator. I was taking part in the whole commotion. No matter how minimal my role was, I was there. Present. Alive. Existing. But on such an awful evening, where the shrill wailing of sirens drilled holes in one's mind, nobody took heed of me. I was to remain a possibility, a probable

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