Trapped

Sometime over the past few weeks I have started discovering the child in me. The one who laughs out loud. The one who is not embarrassed by juvenile jokes. The one who loved to be the first to arrive at school because she treasured the one on one conversations and fragile friendships that formed without the harsh glare of peers.

Somewhere in the hurry to grow up, I left pieces of myself behind. The part of me that was the first to initiate conversation in a group. The part of me that loved to elicit laughter from friends. The part of me that reveled in sharing without reserve. The part of me that probed friends and acquaintances on what makes them tick.

As work slows down to a trickle at the end of the year, my time is now occupied by friends from my long forgotten past. I used the word friends lightly for I know not how to define this new-found old friendships. These are people who have seen me through teenage gawkiness  Before I learned to hide my insecurities behind polished words and silence. Before life happened.

Starting a new thread albeit in good humor about memories, I felt myself laughing out loud and being touched by the stories that were shared. There seems to be no hesitation. No half-truths here. No veils behind which we hide. We either share or stay silent. Honesty that is rare and refreshing. No loaded conversations. No attempts to impress.

When I type, it feels like a school girl is trapped in my aging matronly persona. I want to let go and laugh like I did years back. Head thrown back, the back of my hand covering my mouth, a guttural sound emanating from the depths of my belly. Free and unfettered.

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