Somewhere Out There

The concept of ordinary is exemplified a thousand times over across the globe. It's interesting to think what may seem ordinary to me and you may be extraordinary to another. Take for instance your daily routine, or the activities you partake in, the food you eat, the way you communicate, commute, or express yourself. Compare them to someone 4,000 miles westward as the crow flies over the big blue. Would they even me comparable? Any similiarities? Any at all?

My initial response is, "Absolutely not!" There is no way I have a distant twin who mirrors my life. Though, my rigid response softened upon further pondering. Rather than a mirror, a reflection of me is somewhere out there. A reflection is more adequate, as it relays images in a slightly different way than the original. Take, for example, water. The reflection of your face is less than identical, slightly altered, in a puddle of water. This allows room for differences, sometimes contortions of beauty, others of ugliness, a mangled up mess.

Placing this concept into context, my life is unique. Now one else has a reflection of my life they can all their own. I wake up at 4:30 to swim. My virtual twin may get up before the roaster crows, but to do chores or travel hours to a school far from their village. I attend a public school, with 7 Americanized classes. My virtual twin may attend a one room school, with only a few classes spoken in an unfamiliar tongue. I get out of school at 2:45. My virtual twin may get out at 5. I leave school only to swim again for a couple hours. My virtual twin may have a family to attend to, care, protect, or help to survive the challenges of life. I go home to a house on a spacious plot of land in the country. My virtual twin may not have a place to call home. I eat a dinner characterized by calories, sugar, and fat in the presence of my family. My virtual twin may eat alone, a subsistent meal bearing no savor. I do homework. She does house work. I snuggle into my nice warm bed after the clock strikes 11. She sweats in the heat of the night, on a mat beneath the stars after dark (in her possession is the sun, not a clock, as a measure of time).

Beyond the monotony of daily life, what else is there? What does she do in her free time? What are her hobbies, her passions? Who are her friends? Does she have a boyfriend? What kind of music does she listen to? Or what books does she read? Does she watch television? Exercise? Play sports? If only I could meet my twin. Until then, I will never know. Her existence, I know, is certain; her life, I do not know. Someday I will meet her. I owe my thanks in advance to culture collision. Until then, I can only dream of my twin, and what it must be like to walk in her shoes, shoes that tread ground half a globe around, shoes that as I go to bed, are being put on to her feet to start tomorrow.

I am an only child, but soon, no longer.