I used to hate the smell of flowers.
My nose was sensitive, and their enchanting yet strong scent overwhelmed me whenever I went near them.
Just a few years ago, I hated pink; for many girls, it’s a rite of passage to despise the color in an attempt to stand out. That way, I could later realize that I never truly hated it at all.
Now I lie in bed, writing this on my pink comforter, in a pink sweatshirt, with my nails painted bright pink.
The other day I brought a coat on a field trip. But I wasn’t that cold, so I gave it to my friend Evelyn for the day. I love giving. I love sharing my food at lunch and in sixth hour. I always have extra hair ties in my volleyball bag. Most of the time, there are extra pencils in my pencil case. I love making people happy.
I never make time to do my hair in the morning, but today, I braided it in the car. It’s finally long enough to braid after I got it cut the day before school started. I also wore my favorite sweater, which used to be my sister’s. I stopped reminding myself how exhausted I was and how horrible I felt and how much I hated everything. Consequently, I had an exceptional day.
I feel like myself when I give people compliments. I’m not perfect, and I’m not always the kindest, but I wish I was. When I give compliments, I feel like who I am in the kind part of my mind. The part that I crave to eternally emulate instead of only feeling its generosity on occasion.
I feel whole when I write. When I give a piece of myself, when I let myself reflect on everything I think when I let catharsis overtake me. I pour my soul out and then inhale it back in, refreshed and anew.
When I look up at the sky at night and see the stars, I remember to breathe. I’m simply a person, among many others, going about this routine that we’ve established. That’s all; no need to analyze further.
I hated the smell of flowers, and now I’m writing about them. Time, my forever fixation embodied in my words once again.
I even have a favorite flower: hyacinth. I don’t have a reason though; all that comes to mind is the simple fact that they’re beautiful.
At my darkest, I rely on my favorites to remind me I’m alive. I watch my favorite movies to distract myself from life, I read my favorite books when I want to feel like I’m seven again, and I FaceTime my favorite people when I’m so exhausted I can’t think or when I want to laugh.
And now, I’ll read what I’ve written about my favorite flower when I can’t remember who I am. When I forget what I used to hate, or when I forget what I love, or when I forget, it gets better.
