I wrote this for my writing class in Freshman year.
I was born in the summer of ‘96 in the capital of the United Arab Emirates, Abu Dhabi. Being a quirky, cheeky, and deceptive child, I was adored by adults, who brushed off my friends’ complains about my devilish ways. I had many visions for my future; I dreamt about being a teacher, a lawyer, and I dreamt about owning a cozy cafe somewhere where it felt like home. I had bigger dreams of ruling the world and obtaining supernatural powers. I still do. Today, I’m a 19-year-old woman. Fortunately, I did not grow up. I still have my unrealistic daydreams, I still talk to trees, and I still believe that it’s disrespectful when someone is taller than I am.
Like every spoiled child, I had the luxury to buy various things that are now a part of my many collections. My collections ranged from marbles and stuffed animals to used and useless paper. Some people claim that I was a hoarder… let’s agree to disagree. I grew up but I did not grow out of my habit, however, I moved on to collecting other things, including candles I never light, journals I don’t dare to touch, and mugs I’m too afraid to use.
When I’m not obsessing over the material things that I have grown to love more than my friends, I like to practice my very boring hobbies. My favorite thing to do is fantasize about things that are impossible to achieve, such as: becoming healthy, letting a day pass by without yelling at the sun or raging at an inanimate object. Otherwise, I’d be watching anime, reading, writing, or taking a walk under the streetlights. On days when I need to feel better about myself, I watch university courses online (that I only pretend to understand) or point out people’s hypocrisies and judge them for it. If not, I’ll spend my time writing or pretending to be rich, powerful and a part of the mafia.
Writing has always been a part of my life. I grew up reading my grandfather’s poetry and listening to my family and their friends critique each other. Yet, my interest in writing was not sparked until I read poems written in Standard Arabic. The repetitiveness of the Arabic language lured me in. The complexity of the language sounded simple to my ears. It was a spiritual experience; the poets were gods and I worshipped their words. However, I began leaning towards English in high school
mostly because the ministry has a horrible curriculum for teaching Arabs Arabic when we began studying the works of Seamus Heaney. This resulted in my decision to study English Language and Literature, which did not last because I later switched to Journalism and then took up International Relations when it made me miserable. Unfortunately, my writing consists of jumbled thoughts, grammatical mistakes, and an excessive misuse of semicolons.
I am a typical person with unusual ways. My many sides along with myself tend to live outside the real world. Our youngest is a child that does not know how to frown, and our eldest is a grumpy old man with a stick. Our differences aside, we always enjoy our time together. We waste our money on material things we do not benefit from. We watch the same shows and we walk the same road. Hopefully, together we will make a reality out of our dreams.