The Girl

The girl was a girl no more. At twenty-seven, she could be a woman, full-fledged. But still she was a girl because that's how girls are referred to.

The girl shared an apartment with her two friends. She has her own bedroom which she had adorned with fairy lights, mirrors, house plants and stuffed toys. However the insides of her head were disheveled. She was dragging herself from one day to the next. And barely

She had just broken up. It had been a steady relationship of what now seemed to be her entire life. But they had lived in a different cities for a while and the distance had wrecked havoc.

The girl got lonely a lot. Tried new things with her hair. Clothes. Shoes. She read poetry, racy novellas even, just to stay put. But nothing worked. Her ex dumped her. Both of them were distraught. But they had to let go when they still could. 

Although picking up the pieces of her life was blindingly difficult, there was no other way to go. Nowhere else to be. 

The girl could not manage to get out from the bed in the morning. She decided she would quit her job and live off her parents for a bit. Immediately she took up a hobby she had always yearned to nurture. Pottery.

She made vases. Ugly and ordinary. But the feel of clay in her hands made her accept that most things are malleable. After months, she could make a half decent vase. The girl put them up on Instagram. 

Then she wanted to cook. She wanted to cook so much that there was no end to it. She still hadn't managed to tell her mom and dad exactly how unemployed she was. She used the last of her savings to buy the dishes and groceries. 

She started a kitchen and hand delivered meals to single people who lived nearby. She didn't get to rise with her head above water for months, but getting out of bed was no longer the biggest obstacle in her day. 

She cooked and packed lunches and dinners like it was nobody's business. She dressed in ordinary clothes and walked to deliver the meals. She was unrecognizable when compared with her previous self. But she had begun. To heal.

The girl. A Girl. 

I write because I too seek to heal. Because I seem to somehow know that I am too damaged to create anything beautiful. I would so rather I wasn't this way