Sometimes, she lost herself.
In the world, and it’s noise. In opinions and perceptions. In work. In the internet and its distractions. In Nigeria and its problems. In gossip. In gist. In caring about things that you’re supposed to care about, or at least act like you do. Because everyone else does. Because some people do. Because it’s the right thing to do: to care about those things. Like I care.
Sometimes, she found herself.
In books. In art. In laughter, real laughter with friends not mere LOLs. In quiet. In silence. In a dark movie theatre with her head on his shoulder. In prayer. In falling asleep cheek-to-cheek with her sister. In arguing dress patterns with her aunts. In research. In writing. In rain. In fear, fear like she’d never felt before, fear that reminded her she was alive.
And then she lost herself.
In pain, love and loss. Behind smiles that threatened to split her face. In zeroes. In the knowledge that this, all of this, is vanity and still…we press on, afraid to face the truth. This doesn’t mean anything. This means everything. This is everything. This is what this is. This is what it is. This. And a promise of something more means nothing if you have no faith.
And she found herself.
Outside herself. And her thoughts. And her selfishness. And her pride. Outside her ego, and her opinions. And her fears, and her wants. She found herself in her Christ. She found her strength. She found the peace.