I just didn’t feel it. Birthday came, birthday went. No bang, boom, blast in my heart. This is a first. Back in school, two days before my birthday it was difficult for my teacher to keep me still in my seat, for my mother to retain my attention during homework time and for me to focus on games. Closer than that, even last year, I felt it.
This year I am numb. Numbed by age? Numbed by the fact that my life has so recently undergone a massive change? Numbed by the lack of feeling within, a proud outcome of broken bonds? I search but I’m not getting lucky. “What’s up?” I ask myself. My mum understood exactly what I meant when I confided in her, careful to not let her feel that she is to blame. She instantly went on this guilt trip, “I know beta, maybe I haven’t done enough to make it fun for you.” No ma!! Nobody is responsible for this feeling that has hopped beside me for 23 years before and during my big day. It’s something very internal and involuntary. And she knew. Wow!
Am I becoming into one of those cynical, prosaic, moaning grown ups who crib about birthdays and feel no joy in celebrating one more year of life gone by? No! No! No! Not that! I won’t be able to take the dulling of my character. I’ll hate myself then. What happened to the defender of childlike, instinctive, happy, lollipop/ice cream- loving behaviour? Where’s that child who was wont to hop about excitedly when her birthday approached and couldn’t stop grinning the whole day? Where’s the fun? Where will I find it again?
I feel like my life is grey. Reasons, I don’t want to think about. Just a huge blob of grey paint plopped on my canvas and rubbed, smeared, stroked, spread in all directions. It’s not even pretty like an exciting and hopeful overcast sky. It’s an industrial grey, like in Charles Dickens’s Hard Times. Maybe I’m a character from it, born in the future to represent that dullness never ends.
There was a cake, friends, presents, phone calls, fabulous food, love, wishes and prayers. But something was absent. Perhaps it was me.