From my younger years

Tale no. 3

As a teenage girl, I used to find solace in writing. Most of what I wrote never saw the light of day, it was self-dismissed as “not good enough” or “just a rambling”. But, as I stand here and now, almost 30 years of age, I realize all I was and all I am are merging together more and more and taking shape of self-acceptance.

Based on this, I have decided to publish the works I find relevant to the online medium and I also hope there is learning and enjoyment out of it, not just by myself, but by others as well.

So here it goes. A series of tales, from my younger years.

(written at 16 years old)

My one true love: the lonesome rise of the sun, in the morning, or the sad falling of it, in the evening; the rustling of trees, a drop of water in an old dug fountain, echoing. A road stone, as I hit it with my foot. A grass stalk while I break it and chew it. The shadow and the coolness of a green forest. The dim darkness of 5 am, on a July morning and the painted stars in the middle of the night, as I look up.

A falling star, as I watch it and embrace my hands into a prayer or a wish: to become an Angel of the Divine, to disappear from my human shape, to escape the curse and pain of being human; to rise up and live in my Heaven.

The smell of green, wet grass, upon waking hour; the fog of November days, pierced by the shy and amber sun rays. The ever-falling sensation of crashing on a bed of leaves. The wind that untangles my hair locks while I watch the summer field before me. That is my love.

Written on October 2006