Her walls were incredibly fragile a whisper of breeze could blow it down, her roof was built with an authentic material and was too high to reach with a ladder, a chandelier of a thousand twinkling diamonds dangled from above, shining off with her beauty. Her door was smoothly painted in the lightest shade there could ever exist of pure, spotless white.
She had a bell fixed, so every time someone enters her life it rings so extravagantly, echoing through every part of her being, shaking her gently, and nudging her continually until she chooses to reach for the knob and open the door or let it remain unanswered.
She made her own choices, you see, and for every time she does, something in her changes. Like that time the almost dead fireplace that never burned suddenly lit with fire, spreading warmth through her heart. And the other time when the window curtains were drawn back, allowing her light to spill inside, nurturing her soul with its brilliance. And that moment, when one candle suddenly lit up, causing a million ones to light up after it, filling her mind with bright dreamy light.
She was Me.
It was the last thing I would think about, my last option. It took me all this time to realize that I was home to myself, with walls and windows and doors and life. When I did, I turned around, at the whole world, and took the gentle steps, walking back into myself and falling into my own tight embrace.
Home was in there, all along. Wherever I went, whomever I met, whatever I did.
If I rest my head, my hands are there to lift it.
If I opened my mouth to utter a single word, my ear would be the first to hear it.
No expectations or demand or advice that I should meet, I was heavily selfishly mine.
And that is what I call safe, because I can be my own tragedy, my own mess of flaws and talent and thought.
I am my own pillow, my own blanket, and my own night dream and morning alarm.
I am my own appearance, my own escapade.
I respond only to my call.
SHAMSA HASHER AL MAKTOUM
UNITED ARAB EMIRATES
ABEER AL SHAYE