Women are crazy

I am tired. So tired. Rotten stove. I’m doing something important and I’m happy and suddenly someone, a man or more of them starts acting strange. It disappears. It gets cold. Then he pretends nothing. And when I react they start those strange sentences: “you have misunderstood”, “for me nothing serious happened”, “but you are not exaggerating?” , “come on be quiet”. It’s not that I always say I’m right… in fact I don’t say it! We women are right! We are right when we feel that the other is on a dark and cold planet, without atmosphere and is only pretending to breathe. We are right when we annoy until the exhaustion because something invisible does not fit. But the point is this: it’s invisible! You can’t see with your eyes. It’s not about facts. It’s like when a storm is coming, the sun is still there but you feel the electricity in the air and you know it. You know it will rain. But since it is invisible, the man you have next to starts saying those sentences. Useless, irritating phrases of those who are not a sea wolf and do not understand that you must go immediately to the helm. Those sentences are just the stupid and bourgeois way to pass in your head their real thought: “you’re crazy”. Apparently we women are crazy when we care about something and when we stop caring. We are crazy when we cry and when we get angry, but even if we laugh too much. A nice smile is fine but if you laugh you’re crazy. We are crazy when we have our period and when we go into menopause. We are crazy if we drive too slow or too fast, if we listen to metal or classical music, if we work for a living, if we don’t want children. We are crazy if we lend the uterus to another woman who wants that child but can’t have it. We are crazy if we want to earn as much as our male colleagues, if we pretend not to be raped because we wear skirts. We’re crazy if we come home late at night and we’re crazy if we turn down an invitation because we want to stay home and read. We are crazy if we want to fuck but even if the desire passes us. We are crazy if we pretend to be understood, if we pretend to exist. We are crazy if we refuse to dance to music that we do not like and we are crazy if we dance when the music is not there. That is perhaps the point: we want to dance to a music that exists for us and we expect this music to be heard. You must hear it too. But you don’t hear it and say we’re crazy and that music doesn’t exist. Yet I saw the 10-11 year old boys all dirty and sweaty running laughing in the street and I heard the music. Your music. Then you, man, who are reading, put aside your pride for a second and take the phrase “I am not like this, there are other men he is talking about” out of your mind. Now tell me something: when did you become deaf? Let me hear your music.

Gioia Piazzi