I find it weird how I came by writing. I just wrote lol! No intriguing back story. I was a loner by default meaning it was not intentional. I did not necessarily chase people away but rather I did not know how to approach people and people also did not approach me. At least that is my version of the story. Most people describe me as a person who lives in my own world…while we are on this topic what criteria do people use to say things like, “you look like that school” or “that company” or “like a pet person?” Not ranting. Honest question because I do not know how to categorize people including myself. Most of the time when asked such a question, I would reply, “I don’t know they just look like themselves.”
Anyway so I wrote because I was not able to make friends – it is a mystery how. Sort of like the looking like you are in your own world thing. I did have friends – sounds paradoxical since I just said I did not know how to make friends. Again it is a mystery – but I seemed so different from the people around me and I thought that people would not understand me so I wrote. For some reason I process things at 1000 emotional decibels while those around me are at around 300 emotional decibels so the extra 700 had to go somewhere right?
Whoops! There is a back story after all?
Ehem! So here is a piece I did a while back for a particular forum and the events before, during and after doing the piece are random and affirmed me about writing.
Over mama’s shoulder
There she goes. Rocking her shoulders back and forth as her child strapped to her back sweetly creeps in and out of babyhood dreams.
“What could the mother be doing?” She wonders as the rhythm of the weavers loom, and the hum of an unknown song seek to push the question out of the toddlers mind. Soothed by the constant sway of her mother’s shoulders, the young one soon obliges to the tender waves of sleep too strong to keep away.
Slightly stirred she lifts her drowsy head to find the bright sun peek through the sheet covered gently over her head. There is the up and down movement that she is familiar with. “Where are we going?” The question pops in her mind. The strain of trying to know what is around her coupled with the beat of her mother’s steps causes her slip into slumber.
She wakes up and realizes she is alone in the cradle as her mother bends over the bubbling stew in the cooking pot.
The sway, the beat and the bubbling, an assurance that when she is old enough to look over mama’s shoulders she too can create such rhythm.