My friend sent this to me, and I immediately said that this is her. She replied that it is me. And maybe she is right. Some day’s, I am magic. And so are you. ❤

In the blink of an eye

Awoken by the sound of an eyelash shed from its safe home;
Floating to the pillow that which is loaded with secret dreams and memories
A puff of sleepy breath prolongs its descend into oblivion,
Hiding it from the world; making it disappear – as if it didn’t mean anything at all.

818 days

I always though that freedom would make me happy. But I wasn’t happy. I was taken from myself, and even though I was released, I was not there.

I was held in captivity for eight hundred and eighteen days. Two years and almost three months. The prospect of coming home and hugging my friends and family kept me going, day after day. I expected to be happy and healthy and coming back to my old life and picking up where I had left before my abduction.

I came home, and everyone was there — politicians, family, friends, journalists, reports, photographers. Everyone was happy to see me. Everyone cried tears of regret and relief. Everyone had too many questions, and I had no voice to answer them. But then the novelty of me being home wore off. Dark had become light, but the light was slowly turning into dark again. And my family showed how angry and hurt they were. They accused me of being to blame for being abducted. I had chosen to travel to Tunisia on vacation. I hadn’t fought for myself. They hated me because they had to wait for me, and yet their lives had to go on without me. They forgot that I was the victim and that I was struggling too.

After a while, I wished that I had never come back alive. I felt as isolated as I had in captivity. When I had been in chains, and without food, I had had the will to live and to survive. Freedom had broken that will. I was broken. They had taken me, and I had never come back to myself.

I sat in a luxurious apartment that I had bought from the compensation I had received from the government. For every day I had suffered, I received a hefty sum of money; as if the money would make me forget the torture and the ordeal. I had doors and windows – electrical light. Warm water, running water – at will. I was allowed to come and go whenever I wanted. And I fell in love with doors. Opening and closing them, walking through them and closing them from the other side – even locking them. Although locked doors made me nervous, I had food in my fridge, fresh fruits, and vegetables. I was allowed to move and be free, and yet, I was still a hostage. I was a hostage of my mind – I couldn’t escape the memories, and somehow, I didn’t want to. I had spent two years living another life – being in civilization was too different from what had been my reality for eight hundred and eighteen days. The light, the sound, the hectic of modern life, electricity, a bed, fresh linen, clean clothes, a shower – I had lived without these things for such a long time.

Looking into the mirror, I didn’t recognize myself anymore. Everything was different and everything was the same. My hair was longer; my eyes were emptier. My skin was pale, my lips parched. And thin, I was thinner than I had ever been. I chose not to count the scars on my torso. I chose to ignore what my body had endured during my time away. I was not feeling myself anymore. I had become a stranger to myself.

I needed to find a way to console my old life and the new one – I was not the same person anymore. I knew that I should be happy because I was free. Instead, I was overwhelmed with life. I led a life in invisible chains. I needed to find myself. But where? No one had any answers, and at the same time, I held them all inside of me – but they were not ready to be voiced and join me in freedom yet.


(Inspired by a French documentary “Otages” (hostages) that I saw and that moved me a lot. I want to write about this fictional character that popped up in my mind. Maybe I’ll get there.)

A song…

Hello, it’s me
I’ve thought about us for a long, long time
Maybe I think too much but something’s wrong
There’s something here that doesn’t last too long
Maybe I shouldn’t think of you as mine

Seeing you, or seeing anything as much as I do you
I take for granted that you’re always there
I take for granted that you just don’t care
Sometimes I can’t help seeing all the way through

It’s important to me
That you know you are free
‘Cause I never want to make you change for me

Think of me
You know that I’d be with you if I could
I’ll come around to see you once in a while
Or if I ever need a reason to smile
And spend the night if you think I should

It’s important to me
That you know you are free
‘Cause I never want to make you change for me

Think of me
You know that I’d be with you if I could
I’ll come around to see you once in a while
Or if I ever need a reason to smile
And spend the night if you think I should

A song and a memory and lyrics… Todd Rundgren. Hello, it’s me. (1972)

Do you remember?

Do you remember the days when all we were was enough?

Do you remember the bliss, the joy, the laughter, and the scorching heat?

Where did we go?

When did we leave us behind?

Do you remember how I sound and what I taste like?

Do you remember that I promised forever?

When did we lose our selves?

Where did we go?

Do you remember?


10yr old girl 1 had many mosquito bites and put ointment on them… Two days later, 8yr old girl 2 has been bitten too. She asks girl 1 for the ointment. Girl 1 refuses; instead, she wants to put it on girl 2’s bites. Girl 2 refuses. (the cream was stored in the bathroom)

Girl 2: I am not a baby anymore. I can do this on my own.

Girl 1: be reasonable. I can do it and I will.

Girl 2: You will not touch me unless I allow it. Now, hand me the cream.

Girl 1: you will take too much and waste it.

Girl 2: I told you, I am not a baby, I know what I am doing, and I am an independent woman. Now stop pestering, hand me the cream, and leave me alone.

Girl 1: no. You are too young.

Girl 2: I will be 9 in a week. Leave me alone.

Girl 2 takes the cream and stalks to her room. She applies the right amount of cream, much to her sister’s dismay.


My daughters are very close in age. I am scared of their behaviour once they hit adolescence and puberty. 😱

Hello, I have…

Saw this on IG and I nodded and nodded…

By now, you know me. I moan and groan… I question my entire existence. But I am more than all of that. And less. I am the sum of many layers… And you are the same. We are made of thoughts and eccentricities, of hopes and fears, of oddities and trivial behaviour, and of a lot more. We are unique. And the thing is, I might write this or that without giving it much thought. Because, in my head, I am alone here. Truth or not – that’s not up for discussion. I am impulsive and judgmental, and everything you read was written in a moment – impulsively. I write and forget, and sometimes, I forgot what I wrote after only ten minutes. That’s just me. A part of me.

As much as I would love to know what is going on in your mind, I will never truly know. I may read your words and hear them too. But only you know how you feel, and I can only assume how I would feel if I was in your shoes, based on the experiences I made on my own.

We are invisible. Until we chose to be visible. Sharing and writing about myself is not (only) about having your attention or validation – it is about showing people that they are not alone. Even if they never know how good or bad I feel. Maybe I am a wreck and seem calm and collected. Maybe I am serene and write like a melancholy suicidal person… It is all lost in translation.

We are all broken and damaged. No one is normal anymore. And that is good and alright. Who is to say how I am supposed to feel?!

Love yourself. I love you. No matter how much my words hurt you – I still love you.