“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.” ~ Oscar Wilde

On an ordinary day, I am defined by the comfortingly homely term “Mama.”

Why?

Well, it answers all the questions in one word doesn’t it? I could’ve said “writer” but that wouldn’t tell you that I’m a female with children who places importance upon silly old-fashioned things like family. Actually, considering that this is a writing site, “writer” would’ve told you absolutely nothing at all. In any case, “Mama” is the normal everyday me; a cheerfully bromidic housewife with four children who enjoys playing around with words in spare time. Nothing dire about it...

Yet, if I were feeling dramatic (as I often am while writing) I might further disclose another meager truth:

I am a projector.

One of those big clunky things which two teacher’s pets must begrudgingly carry into the spare classroom for an elderly guest speaker. Turn me on, and I project ideals; fuzzy, poorly-exposed, beautiful. Usually these fantasies hit blank screens. Then you come along. Wandering, unbeknownst to reality, into the path of my frenzied projections.

You, who are more than a screen.

In the age-yellowed glow of my flickering bulb,

You are a king.

A devine and powerful thinker.

A god.

But more importantly,

You are a man.

And I,

No longer an obsolete piece of junk,

But a woman.

A woman to hear your tales,

To laugh with you in folly,

To comfort you in woe,

To kiss your trembling lips in lust;

Feel your soul meld to my very core in moments wrought with ardor...

Worlds of possibilities are born to us.

Then suddenly

You are gone.

You, who were more than a screen.

The warmth of electricity slowly ebbs away and I am carried off

-by arms who loathe my impracticality-

Carried off and closeted.

Perhaps for the final time.

~~~

I like to think that I am...

Kind

Caring

Loving

Loyal

Smart

Creative

An amazing friend

<3

I am

broken

with

pieces

missing.

I leave

my

body

regularly.

I am a phoenix rising.

I am

a woman

hell

bent

on

surviving.

Am I what you make of me? I am often defined using labels. My relationships, my vocation, my hobbies, my language, caste, creed, colour, race. Some of these were given to me the moment I came into the world. Some were later bestowed upon me. Some were given without consent. Others merely pasted for convenience to make it easier to categorize me. Strip me of all of these, does nothing remain behind? Who decides what defines me? My experiences shape my perception, my actions give me my character. I am defined by my choices. I am defined by my potential. I am defined by my energy and strength. I am boundless in everything, yet I define my own boundaries. I am but a drop in the ocean but I am the ocean itself, for without the drop the ocean is nothing. I redefine my being all the time. It is this quality that makes me the person I am and always aspire to be.

It's simple

I get bored easily. I just always want things to keep changing, always craving excitement, getting tired of repeated things. Even people. I even find myself occasionally wondering how the hell I'm going to date someone for a year, not to talk of being married for longer than that. I mean, people get boring, things get boring. Or maybe it's just the kinds of people and things I've related with.

Still, I get bored. I can't say I move on easily. There are still things I've been incapable of moving on from. But I do like when things keep changing. As long as I keep moving, adapting, doing new things, there is no chance that I'd be idle enough to like doing nothing for a while and then inevitably start falling down the black hole in my head.

I like excitement, I crave it and when I don't get it, well, everything happening now is proof how terrible it is when I don't. Every other way to define me stems from this.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I can feel the seconds slip into minutes, the threat of another hour wasted looming over me like an ever swinging noose.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Suddenly, I can’t take the silence anymore. I need to get up. I need to get out and do something.... anything. But, as fast I jump up, I sink back down onto the hard cushion of a solidary chair. My mind floods with a memory. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the images, but it’s like they are burned into my consciousness.

I bury my face in my hands and take a moment to rub my eyes. How long has it been since I sat down here alone? I can’t even remember the actual movement my body made when I got up from the side of the hospital bed to make my way out to the silent, lonely waiting room. I shake my head again and try with every ounce of concentration to think of something else, anything else, but I can’t. I am trapped in this nightmare... this unforgiving, unfair nightmare.

A violent wave of emotion suddenly washes over me, churning in the pit of my stomach. I want to scream and cry and shout at the people I see walking past me. Why did this have to happen? Why us? Why my sister?

I can’t breathe. The longing that transcends every part of my being has slithered around my heart and is squeezing it to death.

Why couldn’t it have been me who died? Why did it have to be her?

Tears flow silently down my cheeks. They are the only evidence that something is wrong with me. I am staring straight ahead, not seeing what is directly in front of me. Not seeing anything except that horrible white sheet laying over a once joyful child.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I am defined by this moment. I am defined by the seconds, minutes, and hours I share with those I love. I am defined by second chances.

i am unique

at times, unable to speak

i am strange

the mind, a brutal exchange

i am creative

a kentucky native

i am sweet

but often swindle in defeat

i am weak

though others say i'm just unique.

I am the result of every insult, every bruise, every chemical imbalance, every cut, every bad thing I've ever witnessed.

But mostly,

I am who I am because I choose to live and have a good heart despite it all.