Mahi says my inner child is dead. She says I can’t enjoy the silliness of life, the meaningless movies, the insignificant books that are not supposed to be educating. Perhaps I have involved myself with too many realities. Perhaps I have forgotten to watch a film that would simply make me laugh without any further reaction. Perhaps I have let literature consume me with all its metaphors, symbolisms, similes, oxymorons. I don’t tell Mahi that my only way of survival is my imagination. I don’t tell her that I have created a simpler, prettier world, a metaphor for happiness, a fiction that I can’t stop living in. I laugh and she amuses herself, jokingly saying that my heart is dead. I let her assume that my inner child is nonexistent. Perhaps she is right.
The first thing I think about when I wake up is coffee. I love the smell, but I mostly love the comfort it provides. It makes me forget what is happening in the outside world. It makes me feel okay. It reminds me that I am alive and that I have a lot to be thankful for. During the day, I edit web content. At night and on weekends, I sing and jam with a guitarist. And somewhere in between the day, I write. I write about my immigration to the States as a child. I write about my father growing older and my fear of losing him. I write about the common loss immigrants share. What I would like to achieve mostly is to become a better person. I like to help make the world a better place. I am bothered by poverty and homelessness. I am bothered by inequality. As a woman growing up in the Middle East, I naturally became a feminist. I care about women's rights, their ability to voice their thoughts, to sing freely. I love connecting to people. I love hearing their stories. If you have an idea for something I could write or something I can do to help, or if you need music for a small gathering, please message me. View all posts by Elle