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The Sketchbook

Every sketchbook should desire to be finished. For the human mind’s complexity to be splattered onto them. The beauty of art is that it doesn’t require a filter, but intuition. The ability to let go and let the soul paint what words cannot. I was different. Why do sketchbooks wish all their pages were filled? For closure, if there ever was such a thing? Closure of what? Closure of a chapter? Closure of images that once lived, free and wild? I sometimes wonder if the birth of an image on my surface meant the death of it, too. Once it’s out of the artist’s mind, the art wasn’t alive anymore. My pages were overfilled. Masood had stuffed me with different pages because he couldn’t fit his drawings on mine. He came home every day to relax, painting out his worries and fears, enjoyment and love onto me. It felt like whiplash. On one page, his soul painted iridescence. On the other, he drew entrapment. I enjoyed being his passion. His haven. I enjoyed his sons’ awe at how he decorated me, lea...
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The problem with "Labour" by paris paloma

"

One, two, three

Why are you hanging on so tightTo the rope that I'm hanging from?Off this island, this was an escape plan (this was an escape plan)Carefully timed it, so let me goAnd dive into the waves below
Who tends the orchards? Who fixes up the gables?Emotional torture from the head of your high tableWho fetches the water from the rocky mountain spring?And walk back down again to feel your wordsAnd their sharp stingAnd I'm getting fucking tired
The capillaries in my eyes are burstingIf our love died, would that be the worst thing?For somebody I thought was my saviourYou sure make me do a whole lot of labour
The calloused skin on my hands is crackingIf our love ends, would that be a bad thing?And the silence haunts our bed chamberYou make me do too much labourYou make me do too much labour
Apologies from my tongue, and never yoursBusy lapping from flowing cup and stabbing with your forkI know you're a smart man (I know you're a smart man)And weaponiseThe false incompetence, it's dominance under a guise
If we had a daughter, I'd watch and could not save herThe emotional torture from the head of your high tableShe'd do what you taught herShe'd meet the same cruel fateSo now I've gotta run, so I can undo this mistakeAt least I've gotta try
The capillaries in my eyes are burstingIf our love died, would that be the worst thing?For somebody I thought was my saviourYou sure make me do a whole lot of labour
The calloused skin on my hands is crackingIf our love ends, would that be a bad thing?And the silence haunts our bed chamberYou make me do too much labour
All day, every day, therapist, mother, maidNymph, then a virgin, nurse, then a servantJust an appendage, live to attend himSo that he never lifts a finger24/7 baby machineSo he can live out his picket-fence dreamsIt's not an act of love if you make herYou make me do too much labour
All day, every day, therapist, mother, maidNymph, then virgin, nurse, then a servantJust an appendage, live to attend himSo that he never lifts a finger24/7 baby machineSo he can live out his picket-fence dreamsIt's not an act of love if you make herYou make me do too much labour
The capillaries in my eyes (all day, every day)Are bursting (therapist, mother, maid)If our love died (nymph, then virgin)Would that be the worst thing? (Nurse, then a servant)For somebody (just an appendage)I thought was my saviour (live to attend him)You sure make me do (so that)A whole lot of labour (he never lifts a finger)
The calloused skin on my hands (24/7)Is cracking (baby machine)If our love ends (so he can live out)Would that be a bad thing? (His picket-fence dreams)And the silence (it's not an act of love)Haunts our bed chamber (if you make her)You make me do too much labour

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These are the lyrics of ''Labour' by Paris Paloma, and while many use it as a musical symbol of feminism and speaking up for women's rights, they fail to realize it contradicts their very message - that women are as strong as men, as capable as men.

Why? Think about it, the song talks about how a woman is oppressed by her husband, forced to do 'too much labor' while her husband doesn't 'lift a finger'. But who allowed her to do that? If she's so strong, then how come is she letting her husband have that much control over her? And if women are supposed to be as strong as men, then how come doing labor is suddenly considered oppression?

I'm not saying that labor should be forced on anyone, but the question arises: who let them force you?

I don't know about you, but I believe you're only force to do something if you let yourself get forced. You are only oppressed if you let yourself get oppressed, and complaining about it instead of actually doing something is not the way to go.

One counterpoint could be that oppression isn’t always a matter of “allowing” it. Systems of power, social expectations, and economic dependence can make it difficult for someone to just walk away. The song critiques those structures rather than implying women are inherently weak—it’s about how societal norms have placed a heavier burden on women for centuries. The idea isn’t that women can’t do labor, but rather that they are expected to do more, often without choice, appreciation, or reciprocity.

However, to that, I say that others' expectations shouldn't have an ironclad grip over how you want to live your own life. You always have a choice. Life, or fate, or whatever you may believe in, will throw curveballs at you that you'll never expect. Some might be inevitable, but what matters is how you react, what your character is like when those curveballs come at you with the speed of that one student when pizza's available in the cafeteria.

Yes, calling out the oppression women have endured for centuries is important, but what’s even more important is ensuring we don’t allow it to continue in our own lives. Systems should absolutely be challenged, but as the Urdu proverb says, 'Qatra qatra darya banta hai'—a river is formed drop by drop. Change happens the same way. While we fight to dismantle harmful structures, we also have to focus on what we can control: ourselves. The easiest drop we can contribute to make a river.

Oppression is real, but so is the power to resist it. The question isn’t just 'who forced you?' but 'how do you break free?' True strength isn’t in waiting for systems to change—it’s in taking back control, drop by drop, until a new, more beautiful river flows.







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