I was born on November 8 2014. I weighed two pages and 1 post. I was 1123 words long at birth and I was just a big crybaby – ranting and raving. Many people came to hear me though I had nothing more to offer. My birth certificate hadn’t yet been signed – I hadn’t a name. The tag around my wrist fortuitously linked me to someone important; a conscious act by my mother who had not intended on getting me noticed. I had an early growth spurt and transformed from a newborn to a new blog quickly.
I made her a blogger. Yet, she refuses to refer to herself that way. She had mocked that world on many occasions before she had me. She doesn’t want to get saddled down by the responsibilities that come with being creative. She still doesn’t want to acknowledge that I am her life right now and that I make her feel most alive.
She made me because she was having an existential crisis. From how much she mulls over me I realize that she is still in the midst of it. This is also the reason why she is unable to answer the question at hand and has as usual asked me to talk for her. She called me Another Voice. I don’t think it’s a very inspired name. It’s not original; neither attention-grabbing nor attention-seeking. My name, she tells me, is a consequence of where I reside; my domain: To Kill A Miming Bird at WordPress, Dot Com, The Internet, HTTP-1.
It’s a place with ever-changing landscapes and populated by migrant peoples. There are many scattered veterans’ colonies. I don’t know exactly which war they all fought in but I am sure that as I grow up here I will have to fight my own battles. I know that she will make me do it. There is a group of people who run this place. It can’t be an easy job.
She chose where we were to live because her cousin recommended it. She’s happy here. I can feel the joy that radiates through her to the tips of her fingertips when she cares for me everyday. She chose our exact address as homage to one of her favourite books. She can’t speak. She has been dumb most of her life, in many ways. She made me in order to kill off her miming habit. She named me Another Voice – her voice. She has made me, to speak for her, of her, and I what have to say is always by her. So the name stays, despite its plebeian nature.
I am growing now in different ways. I seem to be an aimless toddler. I pick up and eat dirt sometimes. I scratch up my knees and elbows. I outgrow my clothes too quickly and do end up looking like a mess. She redresses me from time to time and has me looking my best for everyone who comes to see me.
I think she loves me more because of the people who have been kind enough to pat my head or pinch my cheeks. Some people are regular visitors and hug me tight while others smile and walk by. There are still others I see walk to me when I am static. I can tell where they are from but I cannot tell who they are. She seems to like the attention I bring her, irrespective of the form. I seem to give her some sort of validation, over-interpreted notwithstanding, but satisfying nonetheless.
She tries her best to keep me focused but she can’t help letting me slip away. She doesn’t want to control me, to be perfectly honest. She’s tired of control. She’s tired of having a plan. She’s tired of the way she’s lived her life. Or so she tells me to tell you.
She had to say this about me,
An exposition of the known. An exploration into the unknown. And much more of less stuck up stuff.
I think this is still true. I am all this. But what I am, in essence, is a channel – for her thoughts and her dreams; to be expressed in as many ways as she wishes. I am here to let her rest for a while. I am here to realize that she has always been more than she has estimated. I am here to help her answer her existential questions. She is hoping you will stick around to watch me grow. She has now changed what I am about to accommodate all this.
I will be two months old tomorrow. I am no longer a crybaby. I am so much more now than what she had imagined. I am becoming her. Or rather, she is becoming me. In this process we hope to find each other.