“I find the arts know our silences are full of screaming, our calmness is a desire to stop feeling and thinking, our ability to survive is grow from deep fury and remembering all our prostituted friends who never reach an exit.
In the arts, there is more space than research or what is called facts.”
How do we make prostitution real to the non-prostituted?
How do words fit our hell, our exhaustion, our everyday terrors, our pain in all our bodies?
How do you say or write with a clear mind and speak true to that void?
I feel I write this blog exploring that, and always feeling always the essence of what it is to be prostituted is out of reach.
Words mean nothing when speaking to the heart of torture, heart of isolation, heart of knowing what it is to made sub-human.
I know I write and speak out – I know I have to repeat over and over and over words that may touch that heart of darkness.
I also know the more words I use, the more distance I make between my memories of hell and my role as an exited woman now.
I want to find some language that fits those memories…
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