𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒩𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔𝒶𝓁𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝒶 𝓃𝑒𝓌 𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝒶𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒶𝓌𝓈 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒢𝒶𝓇𝒹𝑒𝓃𝓈. 𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝓃𝑒𝓌 𝒷𝒾𝓇𝒹𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓂𝒶𝓁𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒻𝑜𝓇, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝓃𝑒𝑒𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒶𝓀 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂.
The Master and the Lady of the garden seemed interested in me, curious about what and who I was before I left Haso. They did not know that I could sing, or dance...they did not understand the life of a Geisha. They did not know that we are not free, but neither are we owned.
We entertain. We comfort. Few of us bed our patrons. We are living works of art. The beauty that breathes life into the world around us.
𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒩𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔𝒶𝓁𝑒 𝑒𝓍𝓅𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑔𝒶𝓇𝒹𝑒𝓃 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂, 𝓁𝒶𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝓇𝒶𝒹𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓁𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝒽𝑒𝓇. 𝒩𝑜 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝓀𝓃𝑒𝓌 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝓇 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒹𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝑜𝓃 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒸𝒽 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝒾𝓈𝒽𝑒𝓇𝓂𝑒𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓃𝑜𝒷𝓁𝑒𝓈 𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒.
I admit I am at a loss. This place is coarse, like salt on my skin. I feel torn at times when I watch the descendants of Haso walking the streets. They are as dolls, painted but not understanding why. Here, our culture is an aesthetic with no meaning. It is a shallow existence with no life, a mockery of the rich world we came from.
I know my sister and I must grow. I know we must walk the fields of salt before we can come to the valley of this new life. All I can do is pray to the ancestors that our path will not wind as the serpents back along the way.
I do not want to get lost in this new place.
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