I see myself

I get overwhelmed every time I stop and really look in the mirror. Not by my feminine features, no. I have had these boobs and soft hips for so long now that they are no longer a novelty to me. I barely recall what I looked like before puberty set in, before my body transformed. I kept my hair short for most of primary school. So at that age where for some kids, hair is the only gender telltale, I had no distinguishing features. Many are the times I got worked up into a huff because people innocently thought me a boy. Now I can barely summon those images of myself from memory. I only remember myself as I am now.

In the mirror, I see keen scrutiny. I am both the specimen of study and the eagle eye that stares right through as though my soul were an open casket. I am shocked by the scars I thought were long healed, some whose origin I can not place. I see me. And I want to ask questions so I can perhaps comprehend me.

But that scares me. Moments of reflection or conversations with myself make me nervous. I have a pretty well developed ego. The easiest way to inflate it so to live in oblivion. Avoid those weird ‘self examination; moments and just take on life unburdened by conscience.

I find that impossible to do. Perhaps because growing up, I was taught the importance of self evaluation.

The reason I am often overcome by emotion whenever I stop and look at me within is because I see me as I had dreamed. I see both the woman I had wanted to become, and the woman I have turned out to be. On one hand, I see my motivation, a girl whose zeal I am familiar with. I see a woman who doesn’t know self doubt. She is sure of herself. She is living up to the standards and plans I dreamed for me. On the other hand I see both the strain of loss and the shimmer of victory in the lines of her eyes. She has been scarred and carries with her a bitterness I do not know how to erase. And she wears her achievements with both a secure pride and a fragile arrogance. She has made it thus far, worn out and yet fired up and ready to go on.

I see myself.

I am a child. I am an adult.

I am still a girl. I am already a woman.

I am clueless. I know exactly who I am.

I am very fragile. I am extremely strong.

THE PLEASURE OF READING

I cannot remember when I started to enjoy reading. To read for the sheer pleasure of living in that well woven story and beyond. I cannot pinpoint the exact moment when the magic infested my being.

I have fallen in love, hated with unquenchable loathing and felt the bluntness of indifference. I have devoured worldly cuisine and danced in grand ball rooms. I have been to war; I have fought to death, I have lost and I have conquered. I have been to slave dungeons and to thieves dens and to brothels . I have been ruler and I have been an outlaw; a gallant fighter and a pauper. I have been unmoved as I beheld the grandeur present in this world and I been left breathless by the simplest moments in life. All through an authors wizardry.

I have been to places and to times and in thoughts within whose pages I remain a willing prisoner. I have found myself enchanted by the worlds enshrined in these books. I have been carried off into worlds that have no other entrance save for indulgence into the written word. I have lived in worlds that I have long forgotten. Because after I closed the last page, I left and never went back like I ought to have.

It is through the written word that the peculiarity of this world makes sense to me. That I find peace with the queer way in which I see the world, in which it actually is. I've known that the few lucid moments are in fact the world's most insane moments.

Share the magic

I may not recall my first dive, but I remember the times my two younger sisters began to read. Not study for school. To read. Long after I have forgotten about the occurrences, I will remember the feeling of pride that swelled in me the first few days I found them scouring through my small library for a new read. How do I forget the tears I held back when the youngest first asked for a book recommendation? Or when we had our first book review together? I remember when Joy, who is an aspiring chef, stayed up all night to re-read Delicious by Sherry Thomas. I was filled with the excitement of sharing these magical experiences.

Oh the pleasures of letting others in. The divine pleasure of allowing others to share in the joys of reading.

I enjoy sharing with others. Exchanging a book every now and then is a healthy habit. Tough truly, everyone should buy their own books. It is evil to share those PDF's or scanned books we are constantly sending via email. A lot of work and sweat went into the writing and producing of that book. Why swindle the creators? Why not respect copyright?

I love to find and discover new genres of literature and diverse styles of writing. I enjoy breaking out of my comfort zone every now and then. My preferences are fantasy fiction, historical romances, epic novels and books celebrating women. I have a special knack for biographies of revolutionaries. I venture into science fiction and spiritual books every now and then. But I remain hesitant with 'how to' books or is it 'motivational' books? Quite honestly, the one thing that experience consistently teaches is that no one knows it all. So I find it hypocritical and condescending that anyone would purport to have the formula for life. Unless it's a cook book of course. As long as the process culminates with me savoring a delicacy, I will follow instructions to the tee. Regardless, I have received copies of such books from friends and family; and I have had the decency to read them.

What was the point here? Oh, break out often. Variety is the spice of life. So why not discover and follow new paths? Often, that book that I would ordinarily never pick up has turned out to be the doorway to a rabbit hole. I have discovered and found home in a world previously unknown.

Reading enlarges you

Reading informs the mind.

Art speaks to the heart. I like my artistic literature presented in various forms. I love graffiti, especially when it disturbs the comfortable and comforts the disturbed. Poetry is my ecstasy, it makes my knees go weak and my heart mellow jelly. Spoken word awakens the revolutionary in me. When an artiste paints the evils, the exploitation and the struggles of our people, they pop up the Mekatilili in me; and I am incited to pull my weight in making this world the safe place it ought to be.

Never stop reading

Become a bookworm. Pick up the magic. Open up a book every chance you get. Scour the internet for the numerous blogs that abide. Rummage through newspapers. Stare keenly at billboards. Listen to even the pausing breaths in every conversation.

You should never allow yourself to get too busy for the pleasures of the written word. Do not allow the chase for education to limit the scope of your reading. Do not bury yourself so deep in chores and labour that you have no room to read. Choose the unbridled and timeless pleasures of a good read over making merry and wasting your breathe on the fleeting moments this world offers.

When you stop reading, your mind begins to go blind. You find yourself laughing to lame jokes, because you gave up the grinding stone that sharpened your humor. You become prone to cheesy lines now that your heart no longer remembers the mirth of an eloquently embroidered betrothal.

Your arguments become shallow faster than you realize. Then of course you will realize, long after you have made a fool of yourself where you were seeking to seed a lasting impression.  You will know that you have lost the confidence of a smart quip and are now slave to ignorant remarks.

When you stop reading, stupidity sets in to fill the void. So read, read and read some more. Oh, and look up every few centuries to pull in a deep breathe.