My favourite pastime was to daydream. It still is. It’s how I pass the time in the car, stuck in Cairo’s endless traffuck. It’s how I lull myself to sleep (and sometimes end up keeping myself up much later than I would have liked). It doesn’t help that I don’t feel like an adult; I still feel - and look - like a child at 24. It doesn’t matter that I graduated from university 4 years ago and have been working since. But that isn’t the point here. Let’s return to the title: when I was young.
I wanted to be a nun when I was in the third grade. I blame that on the Sound of Music. I wanted to fly. I liked to pretend I was an astronaut, or an explorer, discovering untouched jungles and lost worlds. I wanted to be the youngest ever Oscar winner on my first try. I was a very imaginative child.
I loved to read. I lost myself in all my worlds for hours, sitting to one side with my book instead of playing with all the other kids. I read voraciously. My mother always described me as devouring my books rather than reading them. I was (and still am) a somewhat awkward person around people I didn’t know well. My books helped me hide my discomfort by taking me as far away as I liked. And when I was finished, the stories and characters lived on in my daydreams, including me in the plot and showcasing my ever evolving talents: jumping in front of others to take bullets, flying Superman-style, having magic powers. You name it, I could do it.
I’m still dying for a pet elephant that is genetically modified to forever be the size of a calf.
I still like to get lost in my own head. It might be part of the reason why I feel younger than I am; I indulge the child within far more than I try to grow up. But what’s the hurry?
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