At 16, she was just a girl who was trapped in a stranger’s body, more often than not that body seemed possessed by alien forces like menstrual blood, cramps, stretch marks, acne, shameful desires and regretful deeds. Neither did she want that body nor that person.
At 19, the seed was bursting and an artist was trying to sprout from it, did it make it? Did it not? That seed might have not made it and many others after that didn’t either but one seed eventually did, the price and the pain both were unbearable.
At 23, when she looked into the mirror she was faced with a bundle of contradictions, she contradicted herself but she didn’t lie not even to herself. Her honesty was endearing and for the first time I liked her.
At 27, I’d fallen madly and deeply in love with the mountainwoman who speaks with clouds and butterflies.
I can’t wait to grow old and meet her when her eyes will sparkle with wisdom and her voice will quiver with kindness and here another thought hits me, how much more time do I have with her?
Time is slipping from my hands just like sand does and I know one lifetime won’t be enough for us.
Can I close my eyes and breath this beautiful spring day in and let it flow through my blood and make it a part of me? Can I stay in this moment for a little longer before 27 deserts me like a lost love affair and before 28 conquers me like a conquest.