There are times when my soul simply cannot be contained within my own body;
it stretches and spills, and bursts from its seams.
Words, laughter, flowers, art – these things flow from me like waterfalls.
And then, of course, there are days when things are still, and maybe I don’t want them to be disrupted. No, I am not tired; I am just healing.
I often struggle to put the stillness into words, and I struggle to move gracefully. On those days, my focus is diverted from the incessant noise of the outside world to the profound enigma of the one
between my ears. This is the core of my existence, the place I retreat to when I am broken. This is where I pick up my own pieces.
On those days, I wish I had a script to read from- to instruct me how to walk and talk properly- to fit in, to conform, to be accepted and appreciated.
I wish I could be as fascinating as a movie character;
each of my actions would be meaningful, deliberate. But my life is not a Hollywood blockbuster, and I find that I usually say the wrong things at the wrong times,
and make awkward situations sprout from the most prosaic of circumstances.
This is my superpower- my lack of script. It makes me chew up convention and spit it out like bones.
Thoughts and experiences are unique, crossing into each other like ley lines on vast tapestries. Personalities are far too complex to be contained in strings of words, and movie characters might have been enviable
if they shared our gift of being real.
Sadia Ahmed, 2017
