theories of the universe ;

My Story

There was this scholarship competition going on on Wattpad that urged writers to tell their stories. I found out about it a little late but the topic intrigued me and caught my attention, which got me thinking, what was my story?

I sat for hours, wrecking my brain, attempting to find something to write about; an incident to tell but I have not been through quite a lot and not a single moment seemed fragile enough to define the person I am today; my story. I've grown up quite blessed, with a perfect family, good health and education but life is never perfect. 

Depression struck me when I was too young to understand it and I simply dismissed it as a hormonal stage in my life. But it kept coming back, stronger and impulsive. Sometimes, it brought me places I didn't want to go and ruined people I loved. Depression got the better of me and wrecked me beyond pieces I thought was capable of putting back together. Many of my days were spent wishing my mother never gave birth to me in the first place whilst others were spent hoping each hospital visit would lead me to an incurable disease. And I should have been grateful that it didn't, I should have been grateful that my life was ordinary, but people like me didn't understand gratitude until it was presented in front of them. 

Depression started to lose itself when gratitude came in the weirdest of form, a boy. As cliche as it was, he was my first love. Many people don't get to love, much less be loved back but I did and I am forever grateful. Gratitude was presented to me when he walked in homeroom with his unstylish hair and decided to take a seat in front of me. At that time, he was the new boy but a year later, he would be the boy who ripped my heart in two. The painful experience ended with my new found love for poetry. A heartbreak and six books of hand written poetry later, this is who I am. And my story could be poetry but the plot was overused when my mother took away my passion by making me a poet. 

But depression was not my story, neither was the first boy who loved me, nor my long lost love for poetry. It isn't the story I want to tell. That is not who I want to be defined as. 

My story is yet to be told. What does a sixteen year old girl know about life? What does a sixteen year old girl have to say about life when she hasn't even lived half of it yet. 

My story is still lingering between the smell of chopped onions grilling on the pan, aspiring to make someone cry but everybody knows people only cry when they actually chop the onion, not when they grill it. 

My story is waiting for me at the bus stop every morning when I go to school, wishing that each day would be filled with happiness and no regrets. But my story  does not know that I walk to school every morning because there were many things that could only be experienced by living itself.

My story is drifting between heartbreaks and poetry, hoping that whenever my first love pointed a gun at me, I would be strong enough to pull the trigger because what would life be if my first love killed me.

My story is roaming on lengthy highways I have yet driven on and countries I have never visited, hoping that each stamp on my passport would lead me closer to where I want to be, not where I am now. 

My story is fleeting amongst the birds, who could walk but preferred to drift with the wind, allowing their choices to be made by nature itself, even if it meant the tornadoes and hurricanes. 

My story was mine to tell but which moment do I want to tell? At which particular moment of my life was defined as my story?

There isn't a whole story to tell simply because I was still living it. I don't want my story to be defined from the things I have done. Instead, I want my story to be defined from the things I have yet to do.