Taking after my father, I grew up as a reclusive kid. Grandpa would often say, "Give Shershada a book and you wouldn't even know you're sharing the room with her." Tracing back, I think seeking solace in solitude started after a rockstar was born into my house. Just another version of my mother- a child whose charisma I could never match up to. She was everywhere, and all over the place- Her exhilaration for conversations with even strangers was ubiquitous. As if the onus was on me to balance this out, I was dangerously shy. I hid myself in empty rooms and read like the worlds I was being transported into were my own. I had found a hobby, that would change the way I saw the world in my teenage and early twenties.
At age 7, I started writing. Just the way I stopped having milk in my tea at 6 because I wanted to be as cool as my father, at 7 I wanted to know why he loved taking to pens and diaries. Having been raised a "dubai kid" I still do not comprehend why any of my poems had to do with butterflies and sunsets and why I painted mountains, all very amateaurly, all before I could really appreciate such beauty. A constant in my writing back then was a longing for places. Its surprising how the dots connect so smoothly even having involved into a completely different person at 25.
This love affair saw timultous times. At college, I took to writing only when I was unhappy, which I most often was. In year three, I spoke to my close friends about quitting everything, giving up on everyone and taking to the mountains to just write.
As time passed, I lost the discipline and will to write. Is it my chaotic, untamable mind? I have sat with books innumerable times, having to end the downpour of words, because the words don't make sense anymore. My thoughts are truly too tumultuous even for an expansive vocabulary. It fears me to think that if I could be stripped off of the very core of my being, the only one thing I have ever lived for, how inhibiting the demons in my mind should be.
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