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Maryam knew how to read people.
She could tell by looking at them — the preferences their hearts found comfort in. It wasn't mind-reading, perhaps it was like an inkling, like the sixth / seventh sense she possessed and couldn't control. Someone told her it was because she reads a lot of books, that her analysis goes beyond normal boundaries because of the depth of the words she loved in stories. Was it true? She didn't know.
Sitting on a chair in her balcony, the morning light illuminating the garden around her, she realised she had read other people — but never her.
No matter how many years passed, hers was a soul she found difficulty recognising.
It was exhausting, just when Maryam thought she'd figured out who she was — something would happen, she'd react in ways she never thought she could and everything was undone again.
Maybe it was the eternal grief she carried in her heart that stopped her from untangling her own soul from her thoughts. She wanted to run away from it — the heart that sometimes escaped her notice. She wanted to let go of a part of her where the waters were never at rest, where the waves rose too high and memories took too much time to dissolve. She didn't know how much longer she could handle the instability her heart gave her.
If Maryam was given a short holiday from everything around her — maybe she'd figure out who she was without external forces setting boundaries for her. She'd sit down, ask herself what she wanted to do — or become, she'd write down things she knew about herself one by one. Breathe in peace, breathe out anxiety. Maybe even decide to change her following on social media, keep better check on the things that tired her mind.
She wanted to be one of those who were always at peace. But was it possible in a world filled with such chaos? With the sudden urge to hold onto yesterday, a treasure full of memories and the fear of the unknown — it sounded almost impossible. But this world was a language she was never fluent in, yet knew how to read.
She'd always attempt to read herself, perhaps one day — she'd find a person she's proud of. Perhaps her tiny changes could do others no benefit — yet... what was it that they said? Ah... "the flap of a butterfly's wing can bring about a hurricane."
