Reruns
The mirror inside my parent's room always made me look thinner. For a while I enjoyed it. Then I couldn't keep myself from being curious-if not troubled- by the discrepancies. With the enjoyment now came guilt. The overactive conscience of my thoughts and motives. Lies.
I wondered if what I saw was only a product of what I wanted from a set of parents; what I imagined a daughter should feel. A pride or unadulterated beauty that my parents ought to behold.
Is it love I wanted? I mean sure from friends, acquaintances, boys, it's always been love that I wanted. but from my parents...I don't know. I think they're the ones that I've always assumed either loved me or loved me too much. So it wouldn't make sense for me to feel like an unloved child.
Misunderstood? Sure. Undermined? no doubt. But unloved? I don't think so.
In any case, I continued liking what I saw in that mirror, liking the chances I got to see that pleasing reflection regardless of the fact that what I saw there, I wouldn't see anywhere else. That way, it was easy for me to see my parent's room as the happy, safe place that it symbolized back when I was younger. In Cameroon. in our old house.
Yeah when my parent's room wasn't the place to dread, it was the place to dream about. In Cameroon, for some reason, the AC just worked a lot better in there. I think back and remember that cool sweet air, never failing to refresh. So sweet I get dizzy thinking about it. It could send my flying; and it did. The bed was so fluffy and bouncy, I would almost always be bouncing up and down. jumping. flying. Before I had to fix it up again, and on special nights, we would adorn the bed with their special silky blue sheets and pillowcases; afterwards, I wouldn't even dare touch it.
I still have dreams or rather nightmares that push me back to that room. Half of the time, they're not so different from what I imagine or think I remember dreaming about back in Africa. Something terrible taking over the house or it's inhabitants. Something chasing me, someone out to kill me, spirits or demons wanting to possess or rape or disfigure me. You know, the usual. And that room is always where I need to get. The only destination that assures I will be spared.
Of course, there's been a couple of time when I've reached there too late, or didn't close the door fast enough and the evil thing/person/spirit slipped in or even my parents themselves were already zombified/evil/etc.
But I still miss that room I think. I still miss it.
I wondered if what I saw was only a product of what I wanted from a set of parents; what I imagined a daughter should feel. A pride or unadulterated beauty that my parents ought to behold.
Is it love I wanted? I mean sure from friends, acquaintances, boys, it's always been love that I wanted. but from my parents...I don't know. I think they're the ones that I've always assumed either loved me or loved me too much. So it wouldn't make sense for me to feel like an unloved child.
Misunderstood? Sure. Undermined? no doubt. But unloved? I don't think so.
In any case, I continued liking what I saw in that mirror, liking the chances I got to see that pleasing reflection regardless of the fact that what I saw there, I wouldn't see anywhere else. That way, it was easy for me to see my parent's room as the happy, safe place that it symbolized back when I was younger. In Cameroon. in our old house.
Yeah when my parent's room wasn't the place to dread, it was the place to dream about. In Cameroon, for some reason, the AC just worked a lot better in there. I think back and remember that cool sweet air, never failing to refresh. So sweet I get dizzy thinking about it. It could send my flying; and it did. The bed was so fluffy and bouncy, I would almost always be bouncing up and down. jumping. flying. Before I had to fix it up again, and on special nights, we would adorn the bed with their special silky blue sheets and pillowcases; afterwards, I wouldn't even dare touch it.
I still have dreams or rather nightmares that push me back to that room. Half of the time, they're not so different from what I imagine or think I remember dreaming about back in Africa. Something terrible taking over the house or it's inhabitants. Something chasing me, someone out to kill me, spirits or demons wanting to possess or rape or disfigure me. You know, the usual. And that room is always where I need to get. The only destination that assures I will be spared.
Of course, there's been a couple of time when I've reached there too late, or didn't close the door fast enough and the evil thing/person/spirit slipped in or even my parents themselves were already zombified/evil/etc.
But I still miss that room I think. I still miss it.
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