This Piece of Writing
before you think anything, I haven’t disappeared.
Hi.
Before you think anything, I haven’t disappeared. Although I have to admit that I thought about it, and very much recently. Maybe, just maybe it is why you didn’t receive anything on Friday. It doesn’t take much for me to feel overwhelmed. What kind of stupid behavior is that?
Somehow I am only a child with a big age and don’t deserve to be saddled with this much thinking.
Well, I’m sorry!
Why do I feel like I screamed this apology in my head?
Anyway, I was going through stuff I wrote over a year ago and it’s one of the few good things I’ve written. I thought to share it here so please if while reading, you feel a surge of any kind of emotion run through you, don’t forget to comment here or screenshot your favorite part and share on social media, preferably IG stories and tag me. At least if nobody can squeeze small 100k in my hand, you guys here can keep motivating me 😏
The next thing you’ll be reading is that piece of writing. Lets get into it!
Some days you keep your head high. Most days, you just…look down at your shoes.
You have not had a clear head in months. You have not had a clear face either. Acne you thought you had dealt with has resurfaced but that’s the least of your worries. Your mind is cramped and it seems thoughts that had been feeling somewhat ignored, have chosen to settle into creases across your forehead, desperate for attention and loud in protest. You try to make conscious efforts to sort them all out, maybe have them arranged in folders, just like you do your files in your computer. Now, all you need is a little constancy, a rather controlled flow of ideas, and a wisely drafted priority list. The lines on your forehead expand.
You have been feeling a certain darkness. It overpowers you in a way that still lets you garner a bit of control, long enough to hold onto a chair, a table, a vase — that ends up broken — to steady yourself. Rarely, you would find yourself on the floor when you weren’t fast enough, after having returned from a place which was neither real nor illusory. You would begin to gasp like a sprinter just after she had crossed the finish line until your breathing returned slow and controlled. Days like this made you feel like you were dying. But how do you know what dying feels like? Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. Maybe it is a yearning of some sort, a longing for someone whose body had touched yours and sparked a collision of a billion nerve cells. Maybe that is why your brain feels a lot jampacked. Maybe that is why your heart roams and roams like a stray animal seeking shelter. Maybe there are too many maybes, such that your world becomes an increasing complexity and you conclude that there isn’t an easy way around anything that concerns living.
On several occasions, you wake up not remembering your name. You are not surprised your memory betrays you more than you are of the fact that mother nature still recognizes you as one of her own. She still lets you close your eyes in the softness of the moon and open them when the first gentle beams of the sun announce the break of dawn. On days when you did not remember your name, you preferred to think she let you redefine your reality in such a way that you became reborn — having known what it felt like to die. Although, every time you were brought back to life, you returned as you, both in spirit and body. Not as a tree, or a flowing spring, not as a worm wriggling its way through the cold, dark earth, but as you. A life form with a grand diverseness in purpose, yet, not far off from that of the tree, spring, or the worm. Now, you would have something to blame the glitches in your mind on; recollections from your past, present and future lives flowing into one another based on a philosophy you don’t actually believe in, yet you alter it to fit your current dispositions.
Big harsh eyes of the world size you up, revealing your insignificance. They glare wildly at you as if giving you an idea of what they would do if you dared to step out into their vastness. They would consume you whole. You are almost certain. They would melt your days into nights and your nights into days until mother nature fails to remember you as one of her own.
Nevertheless, you are only a young woman with a tall ladder of yet-to-be-accomplished goals, eaten every now and then by fear-sensing termites. You are a woman living as though the whole world had caved in and the only place you could be, was amidst all the bustling going on in your head. You conclude that if there ever was a possible treasure-trove out there waiting for you to remember your name, to be conscious, long enough to clear the path leading to its discovery, you didn’t know it. But the yearning for something familiar — a spark, the constant jab at your heart reawakens your innate curiosity. And somewhere between trying to make sense of the possibility of a discovery and resigning yourself to your supposed fate, a line appears on your forehead.
Now, did you read all of it? I really hope you did.
I read and reread certain things I wrote and can’t help but ask myself question:
Samirah, where has all that creativity gone?
I hope it’s not because of all this yam I am eating.
*proceeds to ask Google if yam reduces creativity *