Hey guys.

I know it’s been a while. I’ve been meaning to write a sequel to my previous post but as you can see, I didn’t get around to it. I got such overwhelming positive feedback from you guys, it felt like anything after that wouldn’t be good enough. I just stopped trying at some point. But I promise, even if it kills me, I will write that sequel.
Unwillingness to post substandard work isn’t the only reason I haven’t posted. I have also been feeling a bit substandard, generally. Haha, that’s so sad and pathetic. And yes while the first reason counts as growth, I do remember the reason I started this blog wasn’t to amass a following, it was to vent. So today, I’m going to write for that same reason.
So here goes, a review of this past year, in some fashion.

For a year that generally seemed good, it sure did kick my ass; emotionally, mentally, educationally (whaaat?!) I mean, I graduated and I sort of figured out what I want from life and how I want to go about it. And that’s a big deal, I just never got around to celebrating it. Also, I stayed alive.
Anyway, here are the highlights.

At the beginning of the year I set out to read at least one book a week. That didn’t happen, because, I’m broke. But I did read a lot more than the previous years (Thank you Vushya.)
My favourite book this year was Khaled Hosseini’s, “A Thousand Splendid Suns.” As I’m getting older, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to stomach books written by men (especially, straight white men.) They never seem to do the female characters justice. They all portray this stereotypical woman; sexy and girly, smart and boyish, powerful but mean and unmarried. While women are and can be these things, I find it dangerous to box women into stereotypes. Because then it propagates the notion that a woman who isn’t these things, is fundamentally flawed. Women are multi-faceted human beings and I think it is important that they are portrayed as such, because then we can normalize women living to the full extent of their humanity and sexuality, and not have to be labeled weak, sluts, intimidating and not fit for marriage or just bitter hysterical bitches. I like that Khaled Hosseini in this book, in as much as female subjugation is a major theme in this book, doesn’t portray the women as damsels in distress who are finally saved by this man. They fight and they earn their happiness and liberation.
Aboyami Adebayo’s, “Stay With Me” comes a close second. I was a bit underwhelmed because I heard so much about it and I went in with really high expectations. I think it’s one of those books I’ll have to read more, than once to fully appreciate. I came out with this quote, “If the burden is too much and stays too long, even love bends, cracks, comes close to breaking and sometimes does break. But even when it’s in a thousand pieces around your feet, that doesn’t mean it’s no longer love.” I came really close to ending an important relationship because stuff got overwhelming and this quote weirdly put things in perspective.
I think my all-time favourite quote however is in Maya Angelou’s “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.” She was talking about her brother when she said, “Of all the needs (there are none imaginary) a lonely child has, the one that must be satisfied, if there is going to be hope of wholeness, is the unshaking need for an unshakable God. My pretty black brother was my kingdom come.” All the lonely children in me come out to weep every time I read this quote.

Owning my pain.
I had suppressed or just blocked out a lot of painful, traumatic experiences over the years and these last three months, my demons came out to play. They were seated on my chest and dancing on my throat. I was sleeping fifteen hours a day at some point just so I wouldn’t have to listen to my chest heave as soon as I opened my eyes. Sidebar: can we just take a moment to realise how lazy and uncool I am? I could have done heroine, but instead I chose sleep. The beauty (or cruelty) of life however, is that it goes on and as long as you’re alive, you eventually have to get out of bed and catch up. I honestly didn’t think it would be as hard because I’ve been really down before and I dealt with it. You however don’t feel the same kind of pain twice and yeah, my ass got thoroughly kicked. But now that I’m slowly getting out of it (or maybe just not fighting being in it), I’m beginning to appreciate the importance of unpacking your trauma, of laying it out on the table and examining every crevice. Oi had to admit to myself that I wasn’t oaky and consciously take steps towards healing. Some things are a matter of waiting it out and others require standing up for yourself and confronting the people that hurt you. It requires that you stop apologizing for your emotions and keep reiterating, even if it’s just to yourself, that you’re not a bitter, unforgiving person. Sometimes things take time and you can’t rush through your emotions. Sometimes you need to scream and kick and through it all, not forget that you are deserving of a space free of judgement and fear to do that. If somebody wants to be in your life after they hurt you, they have to be willing to let you go through the motions. They have to own up to their shit, and sometimes just sit there and let you speak your truth as uncomfortable as that may be for them. Because really, a relationship that can’t survive brutal honesty and mind-bending introspection isn’t a relationship you want to invest yourself in.

Take a leap of faith.
So I decided to pursue writing professionally and dear God I’m scared. But really, it’s the only thing I feel good about in my life right now. I’m prepared to make a few mistakes but all in all, I feel I’ll live a more fulfilling life this way than if I chose a different career path.
That said, my friend and I are working on a project that we’re super excited and proud of. We’ll be done in the next couple weeks or so. I’ll probably do a blog post to inform you of the details and availability of this project once it’s complete. So please spread the word and say tuned? (Does that phrase apply to blog posts?)
Also, I’ll be a lot more consistent in posting next year. I’ll be doing a post every week. I’m excited about that too.


I cannot thank you guys enough for believing in me and taking time out of your days to read my somewhat censored and scanty ramblings. Thank you guys so much. I promise to be a better host next year, and do everything in my power to make visiting this space a worthwhile experience.

I started this blog to just get stuff off my chest. And now it’s blossomed into a career and I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated that before this moment. I went from being the girl that went for walks at one am in the morning because I was too sad too sleep to being someone that thinks, “hey you’re awesome. Hey you’re beautiful” when I look in the mirror and actually believe it. It’s all because of this blog. So thank you guys. I hope in my own sad, angry and intense way, I made somebody’s life a little better.

Happy holidays:)

I’m​ not quite sure.

When I was about nineteen years old I had a crush on this plain, tall and seemingly arrogant boy I knew from back in high school.

Actually, knew of is a more accurate way to put it. I saw him about five times when I was in form three (sixteen years old) because my school had this program we called Socials where students, who were male I might add, from the neighboring school would come to my school (or we’d go to theirs, depending on the term and what house you were in) once a term for snacks, music, conversation and a movie in the afternoon. Ha! Snacks and conversation makes it sound so fancy. And maybe in some respects it was. Because to date, these girls and boys remain some of the most intelligent people I have ever met. I would like to think our conversations had some semblance of this. At the same time however it was a gathering of horny teenagers, so maybe not so fancy.  As you’ve guessed, this kind of mingling required some form of preparation. I happened to be part of a group of ten or so people that was responsible for ensuring Socials was a success. And this is how I met, came across really, Paul. Let’s call him Paul. He also was a member of his school’s committee. Apart from the obligatory meeting at the beginning of our meetings, Paul and I never talked. I doubt he even knew my name. He only talked to this insanely beautiful schoolmate that clearly didn’t fancy him. I think she only paid him attention to humor him and because all the other boys were too intimidated to approach her. There was something about her beauty that seemed (to me at least) transparent. She made me think of glass and air; delicate yet risky, like she could either crumble down or slash your wrists, save or choke you.

I spent most of these meetings snacking away, stealing glances and sometimes full on stares, at Paul and his date and very rarely brooding that no one seemed particularly interested in me. I choked the latter up to the fact that I was ugly; with my shaved head, loose skirts, preoccupied mind, hostile expression and docile esteem. And before you start feeling bad for me I’ll have you know that I was okay with it. Maybe not fully okay, but I didn’t go about my days wishing I was prettier. Even back then, I had this feeling that a pretty face wasn’t going to be what makes me stand out. Granted, I didn’t know what my defining factor was and God knows I didn’t have much in the way of evidence that I even had one. Now that I’m a bit older, I realise that everyone has a unique factor, like a marking on their soul that makes them irreplaceable and so stunningly, genuinely beautiful, it would be pointless to go through life wishing that your mark is a bit like somebody else’s.

I guess more than anything, especially at these meetings, I was just too busy trying to figure out Paul. How he absent-mindedly touched his brow when he was trying to make a point or tell a joke, how he seemed unaware of how strikingly plain he was. I often felt frantic on his behalf, watching him head over to where she was standing pretending not to notice him and acting surprised when she said hi. Girl please! Everyone knew that she was fully aware of the spell she had him under. I worried that Paul didn’t seem to notice that standing next to her only drew sharper contrast to their features, more so, how generic he was. I guess since we were both so plain, I has assumed his sense of worth would also be on crutches like mine. So when it was finally time for them to go, I’d watch him standing there, mouth twitching, hands shaking, wanting but trying not to hug her (it was against school rules) and it would dawn on me that he wasn’t like me. That he was confident. That he was brave and curious and care-free enough to want to touch glass, willing even to be cut by it. To take a leap of faith, plunge into air and fall face flat on emptiness.

This, I think, is what attracted me to him three years later. I had hardly seen him after high school but not a day went by that I didn’t think about his attraction to the glass lady. I wasn’t particularly jealous of her, if anything I was envious of him. Because by the time I was nineteen, my mind had become this dark, bottomless pit that I kept falling farther down into. Everything felt overwhelming and not enough at the same time and I had this incessant, sickening feeling that I was rushing to my death. I went through my days actively trying to slow my brain down. My brain wouldn’t let up the first few days but then slowly it would grind to a halt, a disorienting silence.

I enjoyed the inactivity only for a few hours. The silence eventually did drive me nuts and more often than not, I would find myself in a desolate park bench at one am in the morning begging my brain to work, to panic, to tear itself into pieces. Pain as I came to find out, was a lot better than nothingness. I was self-destructing and I knew it, the morbid parts of my soul maybe even enjoyed it. This isn’t to say I didn’t feel guilty. My stomach was in knots half the time and I almost always felt physically sick, constantly suppressing the urge to throw up. And so on some days I would go out of my way to have a good day; to enjoy a friend’s company. But as soon as I sat down to watch a comedy or have a conversation with someone, my mind would drift to my impending and seemingly inevitable death. And so I would force myself to take in the moments, to absorb the life around me; the laughter and the noise. Somehow I had convinced myself if I had enough supply of life, death would be afraid to get me, that maybe the darkness wouldn’t seem so suffocating if my mind trapped enough light. And then without so much as a warning, it would all seem so overwhelming, I would spend nights begging whatever agents of death to come take me for I had seen enough life.

On my more upbeat days, I realised the vicious cycle my life had become; how I was losing grip of reality, how dead I felt. And so on these days, I fixated on Paul. He had ultimately become my epitome of life. Which is to say I equated being alive to being willing to get hurt. And yes, the irony isn’t lost on me. I was hurting all right, only I was doing it because my mind was broken. Paul on the other hand, was willing to risk it for happiness, and dare I say, love. I often wondered what it would be like to have a conversion with a mind so whole (as far as I knew). Would his sentences come out in colour, rearranging the air around him, so that when he breathed it back in, it nourished him? As far, as my nineteen year old self knew, that constituted a sexual attraction.  May I just say, to date, years after I realised what I felt for Paul was a bit too hazy, that it didn’t fit into a particular box, I’m still really proud of myself for thinking that curiosity about what goes on in someone’s mind was what I considered basis for a romantic entanglement. I have grown in some places and shrank in others, but the one thing that my nineteen year old self and I still agree on, is that good conversation which in a lot of ways is the hall mark of intelligence, is the ultimate aphrodisiac. I am forever grateful to my nineteen year old self, as battered, lost and green in all matters relationships and love, for clearing the path that enabled that realization. So on the days I’d fall, hands clutching at my chest, howling into my pillow, I’d whisper into the universe, sending my words out, hoping they reach him and come back tucked into the syllables, the secret to happiness.

So anyway, I was nineteen, in college, struggling to override this unwarranted guilt I felt whenever I ate more than two meals a day. See, in my head, I didn’t think I had done anything worthwhile with my life to deserve regular meals. As it so happens, I was standing outside my building, counting all the reasons, trying to convince myself that I deserved to grab a bite; I had gotten out of bed, showered, gone to class, not cried(heaven knows I wanted to) and even talked to a classmate or two. Surely, with how heavy my head constantly felt, doing all of these things was nothing short of an achievement. But then again, I was a student. To say I deserved a prize for honouring my obligations would be like saying living things deserved a trophy for breathing. This second train of thought made a lot more sense and I had just about turned, on my way to punishing myself, with a movie with stupid, mind numbing conversation. I hoped it would lull me to sleep before I got too angry at the poorly written script (but really at myself) and broke down wailing. And then I saw him, coming towards me. Maybe not me, I don’t think he saw me. Clearly, he had taken to working out and had grown some facial hair. Compensating for his plainness? I couldn’t say. What I can say however, is that standing there, staring at my feet, acting shifty and suddenly feeling so fretful, like a toddler in a supermarket who’s just been informed/ threatened by her mother that she won’t be getting her favourite doll, I  wouldn’t look at him. Not even in stolen glances as I had done those many years ago. I couldn’t look at him. I didn’t trust myself to do it, not without getting pregnant.


Hey guys:)

So, I’m trying to venture into new, scary, uncomfortable territory with my writing. I’m trying to tell stories more and maybe get out of my head a little bit(nuts I know. Reality is pretty warped.) So I thought I’d do a mini series. I’m not entirely sure what it’s going to morph into. What I do know is that I want it to highlight (at the very least) mental illnesses and sexual freedom (especially for women)

So here is an intro(partly fiction but mostly true) I couldn’t just jump into the deep end of fiction. Clinging to my truth I guess, is my way of staying afloat. 

I’m hoping you guys can keep me in check, keep me writing. So please, feel free to shoot me an “hey pal. What’s with the rest of that story?” kinda email. God knows I get so wrapped up in the going ons of my head, I forget to write it down. Or it all becomes blasé, not worth writing about. 

Please, do let me know what you think on the comment section or via my email: cgor921@gmail.com.

Title suggestions are desperately welcome.

Happy reading.

Conversational Anxiety.

Hey guys. I realise that’s it’s been a long while since I posted here. 

I am trying to grow up so I won’t use writer’s block as a scapegoat.  I do have ideas I’d like to write about. Truth, I just don’t have the energy. So I went through my drafts and I found something that rings true today as it did a few months back.

Here goes..

I find that I’m unable to have a proper conversation with anyone of late. Without thinking about it, this needn’t worry me, or anyone else for that matter. I have never been much of a conversationalist. Normally when I’m in a setting that requires conversation, I zone out. The only times I get out of my head long enough to have a conversation, though I wouldn’t call it a conversation; it’s more of giving  somewhat sasatisfactory replies to posed questions, is when I’m in the company of someone I care about enough to make the effort. 

Is this a good thing? I hardly think so. It is however, justifiable. 

I hate, nay, loathe small talk. I firmly believe the only time someone should ask what I’m doing is if they intend to take up my time. Asking for the sake of having something to say annoys me in varying degrees. Sometimes it’s just an incomprehension (if I really like you), but more often than not, it’s gut wrenching anger(why in the fuck do you have my number in the first place? What lapse of judgement in my part could have possibly allowed that?)

I believe that the best conversations are held in silence. There is something about never needing to say anything, knowing that whatever you have to say is already known that sort of gets me going (sexuallly I might add.) People don’t appreciate the intimacy that comes with silence. They feel this need to fill the silence with small talk or emotional assessment (are you sad? Are you angry? )That exasperates me.

I do like conversation. Start a conversation about something that interests me and it’s unlikely that I’ll stop talking. Well, until recently.

Of late however, I’m unable to master the will to even participate in a conveconversation I would enjoy. My head could be full of ideas, but I’ll still keep my mouth shut. I feel as if I’m subjecting my opinions to the judgement of others. And that makes me anxious. It makes me feel as though an unhygienic fat man is sitting on my chest. Previously, airing my opinion has never been a problem. It had to be one of my favourite things (I’m stubbornly opinionated.) 

I can’t really say I know exactly where this new-found anxiety is coming from. I’ll try and venture an explanation if it’s all the same with you.

First, I don’t feel as smart as I think I am. I feel as though my opinions don’t hold much meaning. And if that’s the case, then why even have one in the first place?

Second, I feel as though I have run out of people who care about what I have to say.  People who’d care for my unfiltered opinion. I constantly feel as though I’m expected to stick to a script everytime I try to say something. The problem is, I don’t think this script was availed to me. So I’m mostly trying to construct pieces of the story from what people around me are saying. An endeavour I’m failing at, disappointingly so. So I opt to skip the table reading altogether.

But mostly, I’m in no head space to carry on a conversation. I’m a lot more emotional than I always am. I’m prone to bouts of intense sadness. I feel numb(such a paradox) and empty by day and drained by night. I have all these words swirling in my head, carefully reconstructing themselves into doubt, fatigue and despondence. If I were to have a conversation, I can’t promise this negativity wouldn’t find it’s way out of my head and into my mouth. I don’t want to be the person who kills the mood. So I choose not to speak until I’ve found my way out of this dark, dreary place my head has become. 

Also, I’ve increasingly grown hateful of texting. I’d prefer it if people just called me. Well, only certain people.

So until I’m back to being myself again, I hope you don’t let the silence drive you too crazy.

Also, please don’t leave me:(

​If you are going to love me.

If you are going to love me, please love me in my entirety. Love the parts of me that sob for no apparent reason at two in the morning and the parts of me that bursts out laughing because of a lame pun in the middle of a tragic movie. It is in bad taste I know. It’s just that I feel sad a lot, it’s difficult to stifle a piece of happiness when I stumble upon it. 

If you are going to love me, please love me when I’m insecure and avoiding my reflection. I’m not saying I hate myself, but there are times I see a seamlessly beautiful girl in the bus next to mine when we’re stuck in traffic and I can’t help  but think, “she’s the kind of pretty that incessantly just is and I’m the kind you can only capture in a certain light at a certain angle. So it’s not that I’m vain, it’s that in that moment when I catch a glimpse of my reflection as I’m hurriedly trying to look away, I notice I look sad. The kind of sad a smile can’t conceal and for a moment, I forget that I’m smart and weird in a way that people think is funny or any of the things that actually do matter.

If you are going to love me, please love me for my humming brain. Love me for my detrimental ability to turn ant hills into mountains. Love me when it’s two years later and I’m still heartbroken and blaming myself. Love me when I have dug deep into my head and I can taste blood in my mouth. Love me when my head is throbbing and I can’t sit still. It’s not that I’m not letting it go because I swear to you I’m doing the best I can. It’s that my head is like a video reel of my life and there are days the shuffle function only selects the videos that make me cry. 

If you are going to love me, please love me for my meltdowns and deathless anxiety. Love me when I’m too wound up from life to converse properly. Love me when I’m starving but won’t get out of the house to look for food, because you know, people. It’s not that I’m a negative person. I’m actually quite optimistic about life. Too optimistic even. And maybe that’s why I panic. Because I know things could be better and when they aren’t, that reality sometimes suffocates me. 

If you are going to love me, please love me when I’m being needlessly emotional.  Love me when I need reassurance and won’t let the hug end. It’s not that I don’t believe you or that I think I’m not worthy of love, it’s that I’ve been loved as an afterthought one too many times and I’m still a little bit scarred. My wounds are healing, there are times they just need a little more tending.   

If you are going to love me, please don’t try to fix me. I understand I look broken to you, but believe me I function just fine. I promise you I’m okay. I just feel deeply.  

​Dear daughter; lessons on love and friendship.

I chuckle at the irony of what I’m about to do. Truth be told, I don’t know much about love and friendship. Attempting to talk about it, would be like Hitler giving a lecture on tolerance. I’ve only ever had a handful of friends and up until I was twenty, I did not understand these two concepts. I would like to believe that I have grown; that in just two years, I have acquired knowledge I should have amassed in twenty two years. But really, the jury is still out on that. So let’s see.

Friendship as I know it is the purest form of love. You are going to grow up in a society that will make you believe that a sexual relationship is the height of all relationships. But you are my daughter, and as you will find out, I am not in the business of raising you into a cliché. You will be a rebel, an outcast, an outlier before you ever are ordinary. So take it from me, if you screw up all the relationships you will ever be in, if you’ll break the hearts of everyone you set your sights on, pick one friend that will know every bit and crevice of your soul. When you find this person, it doesn’t matter gender what they’ll be (because people will try to tell you that you can’t be friends with male people. Another myth I’ll debunk), be good to them. Endeavor to unravel every bit of their being. Learn the difference in the quivering of their voice when they are about to cry from happiness or sadness. If you can’t do anything else for them, never let them forget that you love them. Be vulnerable, be honest be raw. Because really, out of all the things you could give to people, the greatest will always be your uncensored self. That and your time. So if they ever call you in the middle of the day saying they are having a bad day asking to talk for a minute, please say yes. Because you can always finish your homework an hour later. What you shouldn’t do is let your friend go through the day thinking they are a bother to you. If you ever have the power to make someone feel better, do it. And as you get older, you will find that these are the things that truly matter.  

In your lifetime, you will come across people that you will be inexplicably drawn to. The sad thing about life is there won’t be a lot of these people. So when you do come across one of those people, drop everything and see what shore that current dumps you on. These people will come in various forms; family, friends, strangers on the street. They will serve different purposes for different periods. I hope you will be selfish enough to enjoy these people, especially the ones that are not permanent (actually nobody really is because we all die.) But just because people aren’t permanent doesn’t mean they aren’t worth it. Some of the best memories will be made by people you shared a bus ride with, people it didn’t even occur to you to ask their names. 

Finally, I hope you know what kind of treatment you deserve. Don’t ever be too busy loving and supporting other people you forget to do that for yourself. No one deserves to be happy more than you do. If you ever are to choose between people, pick the ones that put in an effort over the ones that claim they love you. Because not everyone that loves you will try. But people that try will always love you. Pick the friend that listens to you. Pick the friend that knows all the different ways to put your pieces back together because they’ve seen you fall apart so many times. Pick the friend that cherishes, you’re A-Zs, your skin to your bones. Pick the friends that knows all your scars and the story behind each one. Pick the friends that calls you just because. God, pick people who try. I cannot tell you how important that is. And when you have chosen this person, try for them. Try even if it kills you.

And when all is said and done, not all relationships last. There are people who for whatever reason will hurt your feelings. Please forgive those people. If I should leave you with anything, may it always be an unwavering assurance that people’s actions are not a reflection of your self-worth. This is in no way saying that you are beyond reproach. We all need a little shaping. What we do not need however, is a crumbled sense of worth stemming from someone’s indecency. If you ever have to listen to such misconceptions, if your only choice is to sit and watch your life and everything you stand for be reduced into a vulgar misunderstanding spewing out of even more vulgar mouths, I hope you know not to turn the pits of your stomach into a graveyard; a dark dreary place to bury every judgement passed, every door slammed. But above everything else, may you always find the light inside you. That you will use this light to illuminate your shadows of self-doubt and turn them into reflections of beauty and joy. That you shall always put your happiness above all else.

​On Complements.

I think I was ten when I read somewhere that men like women who know how to take a complement. My ten year old self thought, “that’s great. Men like women who know they are smart and beautiful.” I thought men liked it when you agree with them when they complement you. 
As it turns out, that is not always the case.

Yes, there are men who don’t like it when you don’t “accept” a compliment. I don’t think anyone likes it when they tell someone they are beautiful and have them say something like, “you don’t really mean that.” Yes, I mean it. Why else would I say it? I think it is sad, especially for women, to be unaware of their good qualities. Because society more often than not, will tear us down. You cannot afford to do that to yourself. I think everyone needs a sense of pride. I think everyone deserves to believe it when they are complemented.

A lot of times, when a guy says, “hey, I think you are beautiful” and you respond with a “thank you. I know”, they will take it back. They will tell you to not be cocky because you are not even that beautiful to begin with. That they were only complementing you to start a conversation. You’re probably thinking, no one likes an arrogant person. But why is a woman knowing she’s beautiful arrogant? 

I find this ironic because our culture conditions women to care so much about their physical attractiveness but doesn’t place the same emphasis on men. Men grow up knowing that their looks play little to no role in their lives. So why is that we shame women for believing they are beautiful? Why is it that women who spend time and money on their outward beauty can only be shallow and superficial and dumb? Why can smart girls only be ugly?

I got one word for you. Patriarchy.

Patriarchy requires women to be led (read oppressed), to have no control over their lives. To not know what they want. Patriarchy requires women to be ashamed of their sexuality, that or she is a slut. Patriarchy expects women to be timid and take crap, that or she is a bitch. Patriarchy requires women to be beautiful but somehow oblivious to it, that or she is superficial.  

It might seem insignificant that a man would get offended that you are aware of your beauty, but what he is really saying, is I’m threatened by you. Because a woman who knows she’s beautiful and strong and smart, knows she’s deserving of equal rights. And that is a threat to a culture that profits from women doubting themselves. Case in point, would you imagine the hit the cosmetic industry would take if women woke up one day and decided their bodies are perfect? That their stretchmarks didn’t need removing and their hair didn’t need straightening.  That the acne on their face is only proof that they are humans capable of communing and being impacted by the elements. That whatever shape, size and form and bodies take as we go through life is just but a testament to our strength, that we can take on life, wage and win wars(mostly against ourselves, but still) and when all is said and done, we’ll only grow and morph. 

So when people tell you, “don’t be cocky”, what they are really saying is, reign in your power. Dull your shine, don’t blind us. But it shall never be your responsibility to accommodate ideals that break you. May we always be the women that refuse to blush, may we always be the women that say “thank you very much. I noticed my banging ass too.” 


The sound of other people’s lives. 

I spent most of today fighting the urge to yell “shut up” in people’s faces. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t hear what they were saying, on account of my ringing ears, or maybe not even talking at all. Everything just seemed so loud. 

Everything feels loud these days. I can’t seem to still my brain.

It could be argued that a loud mind is my fundamental building block and in a lot of ways, that argument would be correct. I don’t know how to live outside my head. Reality is too disappointing.

But every once in a while, I feel the need to numb my brain.

Every once in a while, I want to indulge my sister in small talk, or a classmate about an assignment. Every once in a while, I want to focus outside of myself, if not for anything, then to avoid how vividly red the darkness in my head feels. This is an endeavour I fail at more often than not. My mind on such days only feels hotter, so much so, it makes my eyes sting.

So I retreat into my head, the only place that feels familiar, the only place that feels like home. Oh the irony of that. And in the end, I’m still a snub, even when I’m trying not to be. Especially when I’m trying not to be. 

But really, the routine of existence exhausts me. People going about their lives; telling their jokes, grieving their losses, celebrating their triumphs simultaneously enrages and numbs me. It feels like white noise that has long overstayed its welcome and no longer motivates and/or accompanies me as I go through life. I’m bored and tired and I just want a hug from my best friend. 

I am immensely sad and for the life of me, I cannot explain why. I just want to sleep for a really long time. But then again, I’m wide awake at 1.30am on a school night. So maybe if I’m irate, it’s not because I’m sleep deprived. I could sleep if I wanted to.  My soul is tired, my spirit is battered. Sleep remains only an escape, a foolish indulgence, for a few hours at best. And what kind of grown up would that make me, if I solved (avoided really) all my problems by taking a nap?

More than anything, I want everyone to stop talking. I want the world to slow down. I want my head to stop spinning. I want my eyes to stop stinging.

I miss feeling happy.