The sea glitters at 5 'o' clock.
Which is decidedly a rather pointless observation but I
hardly care, because it feels bloody fabulous when the sea glitters. I get all
those half-arsed cliches running through my head about glittering diamonds and
angel tears and other mushy things that'd make
a Hallmark card barf.
There's something wonderful about 5 'o' clocks when the sea
glitters. A vast stretch of greenery, the endless ocean dipping down to meet
the horizon when the sun sets... Barf, yes, I know. I can't help it sometimes,
I do have some oestrogen, thanks.
Really, it's quite pathetic, this whole business of
oestrogen. 'Nuff to drive me up the wall. I have better things to day-dream
about than boys, thanks very much - not that there are any to daydream about. Unfortunately my head does not ever agree with my brain - yes, I know
exactly how much sense that made so here I am, oestrogen-filled and
contemplating the seas.
Something clicks when the sea glitters. With cable lines
cutting across the bright cloudy skies, honest-to-God crows perched on them in neat little lines, the sea breeze blowing
in, - it occasionally stinks like God's been blissfully farting away in heaven
- and me, notes in hand, pretending to study while I idly plot new ways to get
my friends to buy brownies at the canteen the next day - because God help me,
they are the best damn brownies a girl could dream of; honestly who needs boys
when you've got rich, chocolate-chipped brownies? - and John Mayer crooning away about the queen
of California ,
something clicks.
Like some indefinable part of me, that I'd forgotten a long
while ago. A part that wondered abut the country where I was born, that I'd
forgotten, only to find again. And to find it missing something vital.
God knows what that something vital is. Perhaps it's
friendships, found and broken and forged again. Perhaps it's the routine of a
school I'd grown to love and cherish and find home in. Perhaps it's the people,
the Filipinos - sweet and wonderful and ever-helpful - the locals - boisterous
and arrogant, like they owned the bloody country - or the exotic, swoon-worthy
Lebanese dudes (and chicks). God who knows?
Perhaps it's just the shawarmas.
And bike rides on Corniche.
And movies at ADM.
And the Jamaica
at Khalidiyah.
And bowling at Wahda.
Perhaps, home isn't where you're born. Perhaps, home is just
where all your memories were made.
And me? I miss home.
