Eight years ago these days, in my late teenage years, I was in New York. My eyes were hypnotized by the flashing billboards; I was utterly mesmerized by the gravity of the non-sleeping city and its world-famous motto of liberty. The buildings were as high as my expectations and I felt so little against its undeniable dominance on my soul.
Now after eight years, in my late twenties, in Southern Portugal, on the other side of the ocean, I am standing against the waves of the North Atlantic, the waves may be coming from New York, the waves maybe I had a glimpse eight years ago and wished something that only 19-year-old can remember.
Compared to that young princess girl to whom the world was offered by her family, now I am standing as a young woman, far stronger, and maybe not having a luxury for any vulnerability or a cover.
That 19-year-old didn’t know much about life; though she was writing a lot about it. For it is always easier to talk about something you barely know. Now those eight years taught me so many things, and yet I am getting hesitant to write on them.
All I can do now is to surrender; to the waves which have taken from me, and not given back. I reluctantly accept that the waves are bigger than me, and considering that they have been shaken for more than eight years unlike me; they must be wiser than me.