#lifenarratives

It was after a long day at school that I lied down on my bed and placed a cup of green tea and mint on the table next to me. I shifted in bed to find the most comfortable position that would help me detach myself from my surroundings and wander off to another surreal world where nothing is impossible. As soon as I picked up the book and flipped through the pages, I could feel myself departing from this world’s dimensions to another world that had no dimensions. I could see Mary, Tanya and Zoe sitting on the couch in the living room chatting and laughing in Danielle Steel’s world, “The Ranch”. I was there with all my senses; I could smell the three girls’ coffees and taste the sourly sweet blueberry topping on the cheesecake on Tanya’s plate. It was as if I was there in the same living room, sitting across the coach and sharing the moment with the three of them, yet they could not see me or feel my presence.

I can still remember this moment when I flipped the page to find out that the novel came to an end. I remember feeling as empty and torn as if I was saying my goodbyes to the three girls since I was going back to my world. I could feel my heart tightening at the bitter truth of coming back to my own reality; I wanted to live in that world and never leave, enjoying the mix of emotions that would end up with happiness thereafter.  It was that precise moment and that split of a second, when I felt like I lost a piece of myself to that novel. Even though I went back to real life again, I was sure that a small tiny part of me stayed with the three girls and enjoyed the morning coffees with them every day.

From that moment onwards, I felt desperate about losing myself to novels. I could not stop myself from reading more even though I hated losing parts of myself to them. It was an addiction that clawed my heart tightly; the pleasure wrestling the wrenching pain to win over. This battle got the best of me one day, so I grabbed a piece of paper and started scratching furiously to let off the steam building within me after finishing “Stolen” by Lesley Pearse. I could feel that the blood was boiling through my body as I felt another piece of me was “stolen” away. Suddenly, I found myself scribbling down how I felt, and so, I went on writing for more than an hour about how frustrated I was and how much I craved to live in every novel I used to read. I remember feeling relieved after I wrote all that down.

From that moment onwards, I started regaining every piece of myself that I lost before through writing about other worlds I believed existed. 

The worst days of her life are those days she wakes up 5 minutes later than what she intends. Despite the fact that her lecture starts at 8:30 AM and it only takes her 15 minutes to arrive on campus, she sets her alarm at 7:00 AM every morning. It takes her at least 5 minutes to actually wake up and turn off her alarm, maybe a few more minutes wasted on her search for her slippers so that she can wash up before heading to college. It is not until 7:30 that she opens her wardrobe and stares at her clothes. Her mind is in turmoil, she always finds herself lost when it comes to choosing what to wear; should she wear the pink top and black scarf or maybe the black top and pink scarf? Then she realizes after looking in the mirror that both won’t work for her today. After about 7 minutes, she settles to wear the navy blue cardigan and the brown skirt alongside the flowery scarf that goes well with her complexion. Forcing the door open, her mother bursts into the room with panicky eyes and raises her eyebrows as she practically shouts the words:

“Soumaia! You’re still undressed?! It’s 8:10 already!”

Soumaia’s eyes widen as she tosses the scarf over her head and wraps it into a mess. She stumbles her way through the room searching for her shoes, watch, bag and accessories, as her mother watches her with her arms crossed.

“You will never change. You were 10 years old and it would take you more than an hour to get ready for school.”

As she drives her way to college, her mind travels somewhere beyond the streets she speeds through. 

It was in 2003 when a small version of herself was standing in front of a mirror with a brush in one hand and tiny little hairclips in the other hand. Her eyes shining as she arranged the hairclips in her favorite order, starting with the pink ones and ending with the green ones. Collecting her hair into her tiny hand, she brushed every strand of hair carefully to make sure that the hair-ends would be curled elegantly. Afterwards, she started dividing her hair into different strands, where every strand was fixed in its angle using its specific hair-clip according to color order. She would look at herself in the mirror from different angles and assess her work. Shaking her head in disapproval, she untied her hair-clips and brushed her hair again to try a different style; she tried on two braids but untied them, then one braid then untied it and then she tried leaving it loose but it was too messy in her eyes. And the cycle went on and on until it was interrupted by her mother bursting the door open and making Soumaia jump off her feet.

“Soumaia. The bus arrived downstairs! What the hell are you doing?”

Soumaia’s hair was a mess at that moment after all those trials. “Tie your hair in a ponytail”, her mum yelled as she dragged Soumaia’s backpack and tossed the lunchbox inside. Soumaia took a last glimpse at her messy hair in the mirror then groaned in frustration as she tied her hair back into a boring ponytail.