Love Letters to Myself
I turned 31 years old today. And I found myself in conversations with 10, 19, 23, 28 years old versions of myself. A new tradition that I will be keeping for the rest of my life. Unsurprisingly, the nineteen years old came first, barging in as if she owned the place (which, in essence, she technically did). She was a brave one. She had guts, tenacity, and intensity that matched none, bar her twenty-three years old counterpart. She was donning graphic fandom t-shirt (that I sorely miss) and a pair of well-worn jeans, with disheveled lightly highlighted hair and tinted Burt’s Bees lipbalm & haphazardly drawn eyebrows as makeup. I greeted, "happy birthday." She nodded, her eyes sparkling with questions of which I was pretty sure it was not about my hijab. Without preamble, she asked, “Will we survive coincidences & fate? How are we faring with The Cold Distant Origin?”. I laughed, gesturing her to drink her iced ocha because she looked so lost yet so eager to move. I re...
