Shameful as it is, I am forced to ask you how you like your apology done. Rare, medium or well-done? Because, where do I start to explain my prolonged absence? Do I begin with an apology or do I ask you if you still love me and wait while your silence breaks my heart? Maybe I should just clink my arrogant heels down this lane assumingly like there never was a moment of eclipse on this blog for the past few months.
On second thought, let me catch you up a little.
I turned 23 last year. But at one point, I used to be 21 and at that wonderful age, I was sure of a lot of things. To begin with, I had convinced myself that I already knew everything there was to know about myself. I mean, how much mystery can one girl contain? In my books, I had no more surprises to pull on myself. I had even established a type in everything that could possibly have one, be it men, clothes, sleep, sneeze…just go on a ride and name it.
More importantly, at that age, I knew for sure that my matrimony with coffee and high-heeled shoes was built on the Rock of Ages and together we were ready to weather stormy days. In simpler words, I pictured myself sitting under God’s enormous wings, cup brimming with coffee in my hand and with really tall shoes on my feet. As to whether I was dressed or not, I cannot tell you that.
Finally, at 21, I also wanted to go back to school, and I did in the next. Thank God because during 22, school turned out to be the only thing that was making sense. Most of 22 was like watching my life play on through a screen. Patched with bits of classwork here and there, a wave of depression, winter, summer, a few scattered phone calls back home, a potful of homesickness and of course, foreign food that tasted nothing like home. Weirdly, I grew to love these foods a whole lot over time. There also were those prolonged moments during which I hated writing more intensely than when I first loved it.
Here let me explain it to you. It was difficult for me to write about life when I hardly had one in between school, winter weather and all the change. I just couldn’t. And it wasn’t writer’s block, it was … it was a just what it was, a blurry bad time where I found myself unable to merge the person, I had become to the person I used to be on this blog. My sarcastic arm was still flexing but the happy funny one was dead as dodo. So, tell me, how was I supposed to deal with a me that could not make even me laugh? So, we hung the drenched writing boots for a while.
Then 23 arrived. I treated like a stranger, with disrespect even., demanding that it shouldn’t come in unless it promised to leave all the mud by the doormat. Eventually, 23 convinced me that it comes bearing good tidings and stories that come wearing their clothes inside out. 23 promised to fatten with generosity. 23 said it could not promise consistency, but it could do resilience, it said. 23 promised real and raw. 23 pitched a good one. So, hop in to this ride with me, will you?