Fiction

The old, the young, and me.

By: Burbuqe Raufi

Lately I feel like I have been possessed by an old lady. She had entered my body, my mind and my soul. She is now the pilot of my aircraft, of me.

Never invited such an occurrence; or neither participated in any kind of a witchcraft ritual, she came naturally and stays naturally. And how do I feel?

  • Annoying.

The old lady is here, in me, all the time, she had taken the control. Plus I live by her rules now.

First time I noticed her presence, in me, it was when she wouldn’t let me sleep, no matter how much I tried, she would use her powers and open my eyes. It was useless to persist, as she taught me what stubborn really is. Damn, she is way to bloody-minded, even though she wakes me up early she makes me enjoy it, silly right?

She puts her eyes into mine and makes me look things I have never seen, and those are beautiful, like the sunrise, or the drops of the rain. She makes me stare around and be aware of the occurrences while having a herb tea, yeah, a tea.

Since she is here, in me, she won’t let me drink coffee, she had convinced me that coffee is not healthy; it has to do with the high blood pressure and digestion, or some other theories of her. And I struggle between what is good and what is right. Both needed,

On the other hand, somewhere deep in me there is also a young girl living in me. She needs to sleep, she needs her coffee and she needs that mirror and her time. She needs to look good, she needs hours to put her make up and do her hair, and moisture her body with scents and powders. She needs to be seen. But the old lady would grab me and push me toward the kitchen.

She is already hungry.

Hmm, now she makes me eat every three hours, and yet I have no strengths, that food makes me lie down, or take a ten minutes nap and when I wake up I figure it out how much I missed from the day, the young girl jumps up to meet her friends and observe every little detail of them, their hair, their shoes, their clothes, their bag, their way of speaking the sentences in order to copy and be IN.

At the same time as the old lady will scold me and grab me to the grocery store, all she cares is food, especially the fruit and vegetable section, and after she is done she makes me spent an hour at the park, forcing me to glance the sky, and feed the birds, give compliments to children and avoid the rest.

Every time I am sick and tired of her ways of spending time, I get angry and call the young one, for help. And we make plans together, watching a movie, or attend our friend’s birthday party, or just hanging on a bar with a martini. But, when I am just about to get out, the old lady will create a terrible pain of my bones, my shoulders, my abdomen…sometimes I am breathless and I need to lie down and take a pain killer. And that is how my plans end up.

Being aware of my organs and their disabled function.

These two women are in constant battle and I am there in the middle, they both use me as a rope stretching it toward themselves.

Stop. It’s enough. I am not fond of none of you. Too tired to be young, too proud to be old.

However, who am I? Am I the present battling the past and the future. The nonexistent me’s.

One thing I am sure, I don’t like the young one, she is so naïve, she would do everything is told, and I don’t like the old one either, she is so stubborn, her words, her rules. But, the truth is they are both ghosts, one is telling me what I no longer want to be, the other is warning me what I could be.

Do I have a choice? Where I was, is gone, where I am headed sounds terrible, but it feels right. The older I get, more aware I am.

Advertisements

Categories: Fiction

1 reply »

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.