My Writer Brain (No, it isn’t always easy!)

Originally posted on Everything and Life:

It is my personal belief that there are two kinds of writers.

There are those who have a story to tell which makes them into writers and then there are those who have a mind ready to tell a story and so they find one, everywhere.

I happen to fall under the second category and I thought I would do this post to tell you a little about what goes on in our minds.

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We find a story everywhere, in everything, in every person. You see that lamp across the street from your window? To me that lamp is a metaphor. You see that photograph on your table? To me that photograph is a memory. That scent in the air? That is seven years ago the day I went to visit my friend for her birthday to me.

Everything is a story, and it isn’t easy picking one, hence you…

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When I fell in Love

41b7e7d55d1bb4c4fb91827ed32b82cbIt’s absolutely, utterly, completely unfair that I am not allowed to talk about him.

“It was never love, it was a sort of obsession and years later you are still not over it”, that is what someone recently told me, of course with an “I’ve been there”, to ‘soften the blow’.

Well do let us begin with the last part of that little pep talk, NO you have NOT been there.

Believe me I know more than you could ever imagine that the term love is very subjective. There has been a myriad of situations where I sat darting my glances inwards and wondering, is this love? Sometimes the answer was affirmative and other times not so much. Sometimes hindsight changed even that. Sometimes you cannot define an experience, a feeling in your life until another one has happened that gives full form to it. I do know all this.

Yet, I will tell you if there is a singular experience in my life that I never doubted for a moment and I know I never will, it was falling in love with him.

Today people so often think they can define ‘true love’ in black and white (and by that I mean black ink on a white screen with listicals telling you 10 ways you know you have found ‘true love’), they tell you what is good for you and what is harmful, they chart out for you the very neatly trimmed borderline between love and obsession all the while forgetting what was taught to us from the very start, if you think you can adequately and succinctly pen it down in all its entirety, it probably isn’t the real thing.

We are all trying to capture it, because we as a race love to capture anything beautiful and cage it, but we often forget that the act isn’t of capturing but of setting free, because love is caged inside us, awaiting for us to let it loose.

So my love was a little wild, my love was a little obsessive, my love was a little more than a little toxic, but my love was breath-taking and it was real.

My love was the first time he stood before me on that staircase and his eyes darted into mine, my love was the first time he called me ‘my dear Rose’ in a text message; it floored me, my love was the awkward text message he sent me telling me why he wanted me as his girlfriend, my love was our first kiss and it tasted like bubblegum, my love was our second kiss and it felt like Christmas; the best one in sixteen years, my love was the funny little hat on his head, the sparkle in his wide eyes; I could swear there were galaxies tucked away inside them, my love was his full lips that forever had a mischievous smile dangling from them, my love was his long, soft fingers and his tattooed arm, my love was the first time I touched his tattooed arm, my love was the little pink penknife he gifted me; the poem he wrote along with it, my love was the eternity ring pendant he slipped me through the window of my slowly moving school van, my love was watching him attempt to speak with pigeons, my love was the way I could swear my heart stopped beating when I first realized he was moving away to a different continent, my love was the endless mails I would write him every single day when he was away; he may not have been a soldier but I was his faithful lover back at home, my love was the two times he told me he didn’t want to be with me and when all of my love poured down my eyes for days on end; orange juice helped me a lot for some reason, my love was carving time that was his and only his in between a whirlwind of a life, my love was meeting him after nineteen months and instantly feeling all the time give in to the massive blow of my love; my love was the look in his eyes that night, my love was the most real relation I could ever have wrapped into then days that winter, my love was that cab ride fighting every human urge to not reach out and hold his hand, my love was that second hug I wrapped him into because I knew it may just be the last, my love was walking away that cold night and not daring to turn back, because I knew it would be the last time I was walking away from him.

My love wasn’t perfect, but like I always say what even is perfect?

My love was real.

It was magnificent, it was destructive, it was elating and it was psychotic. It changed me in ways I could never have imagined and it took away from me a part that will never be mine again.

Now let us take a look at your first remark, and once again I will have to tell you that you are wrong, it WAS love and it is love.

Now when I look back, it is mostly nostalgia laced around some very vivid memories, but if there is one thing I will never forget, it is how he made me feel. If that isn’t love, nothing in this world will ever be.

So I want to talk about him when I feel like it, I don’t care who judges me, I don’t care who says that it never was love or that it still is, I want to talk about him because no one else made my heart beat that way.

On Terrorism

A lot of things make it to your think tank only when they happen closer to your heart, your home.

Today, I think I need to lash out about terrorism.

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The scary thing is that I understand terrorism, I wish I didn’t sometimes, I wish I could blatantly curse those who do these things they do and scorn them with every fibre of my being (which I do still do) because that seems easier but I think it was sometime last year that I really sat down one day to think about it and understood that my feelings for them don’t end at hate and anger.

I feel bad for them, I really do. I can’t imagine what it must be like being bred and raised in a setting where you are taught that it is alright, scratch that, necessary to kill people for whatever cause. I can’t imagine, in some cases, what it must be like to be born and live your entire life knowing you are nothing but a sacrificial lamb, for some sort of greater purpose. I can’t imagine for a minute, what it must be like to never know what the value of a life must be, or worse yet to be lead to such a path where the idea of the value of a life is extorted from you.

I can’t imagine what it must be like to live, but to not know what the meaning of living even is.

So I actually feel bad for them.

I know, I know you have a hundred counter arguments to throw at me and I am not saying that they aren’t valid. I am quite certain they all are.

All I am saying is that I AM also able to see the other side of the coin, be it however disturbingly wrong, and if you take a moment and maybe try to see it with me, not to justify it, just see it, then maybe you would feel more than hate and anger as well.

I am not saying that I am not pained, that I am not livid, that it doesn’t bring tears to my eyes (okay WHAT doesn’t make me cry anyway, nix this point!), but it gives me hope to think that I can find more in myself than just that, and if I can look past my principles of right and see them as lost, for even just a moment, then perhaps we all, including them, carry something really powerful within us.

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My heartfelt condolences to those who have lost their loved ones in today’s attack in Kuwait, may their souls rest in peace.

It’s Not Always Salvation

43cc9feb9b2494f54f79f878685d189fOne of the easiest things to fall prey to is a foul mood, even for those of us who generally tend to strut in the sunshine, I’ll tell you it doesn’t take much to trigger that little hate, little longing, little nostalgia gone haywire.

She and I were the closest of buds way back in the day, some even called us ‘twins’, we weren’t my definition of inseparable but we were always loitering somewhere near the corner bend of the same.

For a lot of relations I would say that life came in the way, but for ours life happened, and we let it. We are nothing more than a social media update on each other’s homepage now, and sometimes not even that.

It isn’t easy for me to watch her go on with life, I know it makes no sense that I can justify but it irks me at a very vain level, and you can try to deny it but we all have those levels!

Irk me, I can live with that. Throw a little sticks and stones at my rainbow, I can handle that. The point it really begins to get the better of me is when it makes me question myself, my life, my decisions, my accomplishments.

Don’t get me wrong I am GRATEFUL for the life I have been given, for the countless blessings showered upon me every day, sometimes for no apparent reason even, I am. Yet that is exactly what makes this so odd because it only goes to show how no matter how happy we are, no matter how content we are, no matter even if we have cried tears of joy six times in the past seven days (I kid you not), all it sometimes takes is one person to make us doubt everything.

I can sense that I have reached that point in this article where I am supposed to start spitting out epiphanies and answers but I’m just gonna be straight with you, I have none this time.

I don’t know if there are some relations that will forever haunt you until you are brave enough to fix it, I don’t know if it will ever stop bothering me when I see her life going on, I don’t know if this makes me a bad person on some level, I don’t know.

What I do know is it doesn’t always have to be salvation, sometimes it’s just a minor rescue operation.

Good music, my gorgeous new earphones, some tea and an unexpected conversation with an old school mate performed this on me today and so I’m here, telling you my story and hoping I am not alone on this one.

To Write Love on Her Arms

Note: The below post is extremely personal and the hardest thing I have ever had to write, so please be kind when you read it.

Fotor_143490589806132I was fifteen when my first demon body slammed me down. She was called anorexia nervosa.

I had just rejected a boy who wanted me to be his girlfriend. I said to him that I had barely known him for ten days and I couldn’t date someone I didn’t know. He said alright and cut the call.

The next day he called me to tell me that he is up to take on my suggestion to be friends instead and get to know each other. Meanwhile, he just felt it was necessary to throw in a few little comments made by his peers as to how he could do a lot better than me. A few little, graphic comments. A few little, graphic, nasty comments. A few little, graphic, nasty comments that changed my life.

I cut the call, got inside my tiny wardrobe with a broken soul ready to bleed a life away and I shut in the doors, blocking away the light.

I will never forget a minute of that day because it was the most painful day of my entire life.

In the year that followed I lost nearly 20 kgs, morphed into the worst possible nightmare for my family and spend more time crying myself to sleep than I care to remember.

Life went on though despite my more often than naught wishing it wouldn’t, and the demons accumulated, self-mutilation, depression, addiction and of course, I can never possibly forget the day I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder.

I have never shared this with anyone in my whole entire life, not family, not even my closest of close friends, but I am here today because I know that it is time I did, it is time I choose to write love on my arms instead.

It has been nearly eight years since that fateful October 12th but I refused to share my story till today because I needed to know that I was strong enough. Even though I have decimated almost all my demons I needed to know that my story would be of hope and hope alone when I shared it, and I wasn’t sure until this month.

My story is of hope though, my story is of light and my story is of dreams coming true.

I cannot remember one day when my life changed, it took years, but sitting at the other end of these years I need to tell you that change happens, that from spending six months avoiding the mirror you can wake up and feel invincible, from looking for the nearest knife or scissor when your pain gets blinding, you can one day look for the name of a best friend on your phone instead, from lying in bed for months on end awaiting for life to change, you can one day get up to collect all your love that is bleeding from a broken heart and choose instead to give it to someone who needs it.

I am not one bit stronger than you are. I am just your friend who walked the bridge before you so that I could tell you that the other end is everything we hoped for and then some.

I hope to see you here soon.

P.S. check out the movie and the incredible global movement that inspired this post to finally find its words.