A solitary girl, worn and slightly tattered wandered in the vast universe of books and other artistic diversions. She came from a world too loud, too bright. A world where her existence did not feel right. She dared to imagine a life beyond the confines of her own reality and amid fantasy-filled pages started a debate with the unknown. Imagining worlds beyond the confines of her reality, dear words, leading her through shadows, offering light. In every line, in every word, her essence intertwined. To the world she held so dear, the true self she did not dare show, since she was full of fear, and only found relief in silent prose, in a world where she was simply a story untold.
In books, I found a sense of belonging, a reason to overcome whatever darkness threatened to consume me, a thirst for something beyond mere survival, and a deeper understanding of what it means to be human. When I started feeling lost, I knew that reading and writing had shaped me once before, it was the only path I could think of that might take me back to myself.
Why do I read? Why do I write? She wonders, she sits by the window and stares at the world outside. A world she fears, a world from which she hides. She has found sanctuary inside, but she wonders… Would I read and write without the tragic experiences that I went through? Were these pursuits born out of the tragedies that I endured, or were they inherent parts of my being? Was I born to go into worlds of words made real with the aid of imagination or was I forced into those worlds because this one rejected me? Perhaps the answers are inconsequential. I read. I write. I think. I dream. I am. I exist. I exist outside the world, in lines that I make up, but in every line, there’s a whisper of my true being, in every silence, a loud echo of my dreams.
Every book that has crossed my path has left a part of itself with me—a fragment of peace, a sense of belonging, adventures that stir something within my soul, and thoughts that have grown roots within my psyche developing me in ways that when I see myself, I see something real, something I like. They have nurtured a ceaseless thirst for a deeper understanding of humanity, my own and others.
This journey has lifted the constraints of my reality, allowing me to delve deeply into considerations of identity, belonging, and a sense of otherness, thus broadening my understanding of humanity, society, ethics, and the future.
There was always a dissonance within me. ‘There is something wrong with me.’ ‘There is something wrong with the world.’ These thoughts just haunted me as if life was locked behind the understanding of the essence of those ideas. Through philosophical musings and science fiction escapades, she seeks clarity in a world brimming with uncertainty. She wants to see, she wants to understand, she wants to be free.
Books, especially philosophical science fiction novels became the path that could lead me to understand my own thoughts, and those of others, the self-imposed shackles we put on ourselves and on the world that surrounds us, clarity amidst uncertainty. My swirling thoughts did not unsettle me as much; they didn’t disconnect me from the world but rather woven me into it, these thoughts felt more like a shared human experience instead of my own personal nightmares.
My racing mind became something I appreciated instead of something I feared. These literary journeys were not distractions from reality; they were essential elements of my existence, the very essence of who I am. They defined me, shaped me, and gave me a sense of purpose and direction.
This is the essence of who I am, the parts of me that I yearn to leave behind in the world, the facets of my being that I wish to endure beyond my physical presence. This is the story that defines me.
And as she wanders through untold tales, trying to remain unfettered by the mundane, writing a story that feels already written, she dreams her dreams.