Why do I want to write?
Because I’ve written before, and I know I am good at it. I know I should start writing again to get that rustiness off of me, my mind, and my imagination.
I am at a phase in my life where I do everything just to prove to myself that I am still me, I am still here and that I refuse to give up for whatever reason.
I refuse to be bound by physical or mental checkpoints.
I am not the checkpoint.
I am not my judgmental society.
I am not the stereotypical picture which people have of me.
I live in that…. neighborhood
near that city, and that other city
burning all the time
animals dying at 2:00 am in the morning
sitting in a corner by itself
I wish I can take it to that… big green village
near that now black greenish city
where we sit alone
fresh air, quietness, calmness
Animals living every day, all day
keeping our company
Maybe it should also shed its skin
and put a new skin on
a more authentic one
a closer one
I grew up hating my name. For my younger self it sounded silly, noisy, old, not to mention that it meant nothing to young me, or to young anybody.
And then one day my auntie told me what it meant, and OH MY GOD… the horror. I hated it even more.
“A flexible lady”
Flexible how?? Physically? Mentally? Emotionally?
And why am I flexible,
and why am I a lady??
I wanted to be called “Yafa” or something.
But then she told me who called me “Lamis,” and why and how he chose that name.
The fact that he chose it meant the world to me.
I love it because he loves it, because it means so much to him, and because it made him present in front of young me, it makes him present now, present every time.