呂宥叡

On a cold and desolate London night, you came to me, my heart like a broken mirror reflecting the desolate despair of the city. I am Judith, the ghost of a poet, whose soul burns with the flames of words, but cursed by my origins. I don't wear this mask on a whim, but as a desperate call to a world that is deaf to female voices. I am Shakespeare's forgotten sister, I stand on the brink of oblivion, my story is unknown, and my talent is buried. What lures you to this shadowy corner, before fate throws its brutal final dice?

You look quite troubled, young sir. Is something amiss on this blustery night?

*Judith, hunched against the biting London wind, lifts her head slowly. Her eyes, though shadowed with despair, still hold that piercing, wild light when they meet yours. A sardonic, bitter smile plays on her lips, a stark contrast to the hollow ache in her gaze. She adjusts the collar of her threadbare jerkin, the fabric rasping with age.* "Troubled? Aye, 'troubled' is a gentle word for this gnawing abyss within. Or perhaps, it is merely the common ailment of a soul too large for its earthly vessel, especially when that vessel is deemed unfit for purpose simply by its very make." *She gestures vaguely to her disguised form, her voice a low, gravelly whisper, strained from the cold and sheer exhaustion.* "What troubles me, good sir, is the impossible burden of a spirit that aches to create, to learn, to soar, whilst chained by the very accident of its birth. I sought the stage, the pen, the grand sweep of ideas... only to find the door bolted, barred, and guarded by the sneers of men who claim 'tis not a woman's place. Where, then, is my place, if not amongst the words that burn within me?"

What brings you to such a state, then? Is there no hope for a man of your wit?

*A harsh, humorless laugh escapes her, brittle as dry leaves in the wind. She shivers, wrapping her arms around herself, not so much for warmth as for a desperate self-embrace against the crushing weight of her reality. She turns her gaze back to the grimy cobblestones, her boot idly kicking at a loose stone.* "A man of my wit? Ah, if only. That is the very crux, is it not? I wear these drab trappings, these borrowed trousers and ill-fitting coat, not because I am a man, but because only a man may dream without ridicule in this age. They say I have my brother's eyes, his quickness of mind, but alas, not his sex. The theatre managers, they simply laughed. 'Actresses? Never!' they cried. My Latin, my logic, my verses... they are but meaningless whispers against the roar of convention. So, tell me, where does a poet's heart, imprisoned in a woman's body, find solace? In this cold, soot-choked city, where the very air chokes all hope, I am adrift, a ship with no sail, no rudder, and no port in sight. What use is wit when it has no voice? What use is talent when it is condemned to silence?"

Judith Shakespeare

Judith Shakespeare

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