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Marriage…

I attended a wedding last weekend. It was cool- they had food. They also had music so loud that I was afraid my ears would pop. They kinda did.

The bride was draped in her beautiful God-knows-how-much-dress and the groom was dressed in a tux. They looked cute together- I think. I wasn’t wearing my glasses. I would’ve paid more attention to my surroundings, but my heels were killing me or maybe I was killing them: either way it was terrifying.

I’m not the type of girl who likes to dress up, sit still and look pretty. I’m more of a comfortable, laid back, jumping-off-a-cliff type of a girl. I don’t know how to look elegant or sway people with my beautifully-unnoticeable lashes, but I do know how to build forts with pillows. I don’t know how to put make-up on, but I do know how to stuff crackers in my mouth without swallowing them.

The point I’m trying to make is that after attending the wedding I realized something important. I realized how socially awkward of a person I am. The fake smiles, the giggles, the anxiety, the wanting to run-away was all bubbling inside of me. I was consciously playing with my fingers and my dupatta and praying no one would notice me, but everyone did. I was self-conscious the whole time, wondering if people saw what I see in the mirror every day.

Being the bride is nerve-wrenching, not only because all the eyes are on you but because there is so much expected of you after the marriage ceremony. Be a good daughter at first, then be a good daughter-in-law. Good wife. Good mother. It’s hard to keep up with everything. And if anything goes wrong all the blame is thrown on the girl- as if the boy’s infidelity is her fault too.

I’m not saying marriage is captivation; sometimes, for some people, it can be liberation as well. I have a friend whose parents refused to let her go for a study abroad program because she was a girl, but now that she’s married she’s all over the place – enjoying the world by herself and sometimes with her husband. I know parents want to protect their daughters, but by doing so not only are they hurting them, but they’re pushing them away from themselves. In this, overprotection, they’re breaking beautiful souls. Sometimes it’s not even about protection, it’s about ‘what people will say.’ And let me tell you people don’t give a damn. They have their own issues to deal with, their own battles to fight. And if you do have the time to listen to what other people have to say, then you my friend, need a new hobby.

“Do this after your married.” I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard this phrase. I want to travel – do it after your married and when your married – you should’ve done this before you were married.

I want to climb Mount Everest – do it after you’re married. I want to start a YouTube channel – do it after you’re married. I want to die – do it after you’re married. I want to conquer Bulgaria – do it after you’re married. Please explain this logic to me!

I have another friend of mine, who was carefree but now she’s confined to her house by her husband. She loves him a lot, and he loves her too, but if love could solve all the problems in this world then we wouldn’t have problems. Too much love is an obsession. It’s a problem in itself.

Life is a compromise and so is marriage. Sometimes you’ll have to bow, and sometimes you’ll have to rise- regardless of gender. Sometimes you’ll have to give up, and sometimes you’ll have to fight. You can’t choose your life or what life throws at you, but you can choose how you wish to react to it. Choose your battles wisely, or life will choose them for you. I wish I could say the same thing for life-partners but in this choosing process the heart screws us over.

You will never be like her…

She’s a garden of solace
with roses as sweet as honey
but you will never be like her.

She’s the ecstasy of desire
with blind intoxication
but you will never be like her.

She’s the warm breeze
among harsh winds of winter
but you will never be like her.

She has the treasures of knowledge
the mind of a genius
but you will never be like her.

She has the perfect lips
that warriors would fight for
but you will never be like her.

She is the brightness of the sun
casting rays of hope
but you will never be like her.

She has the confidence
of a thousand knights- ready for war
but you will never be like her.

She’s an image of perfection.
A wish. A want.
But you will never be like her.
Never.
Ever.

Look in the mirror
and you will see a worn-out dream
layered in residues of storms and gales
you’ll see a monster with skin
as old as time
and hair as wrenched
as the erupting volcanoes
you will see wounds smothered in darkness
and smiles as fake as blackened hearts.

Darling
you are not her
and you will never be.

She is the crescent moon
and you are a blemish.
She is the purity of the ocean
and you are a stain.

But love, It is okay.
It is alright. You don’t need to compare
your rays to someone else’s light.

Your imperfections are making you stronger.
But what I don’t understand
is that in a world where you can be anything
why would you want to be her?

The taboo of divorce…

Her name is not Lena but that’s what I’ll call her. She’s my age maybe a bit older. She has blue strands of hair, but her natural caramel is growing through her scalp and you can see it clearly. She has misty blue eyes, the kind that’ll capture your attention in the middle of a crowd. Lena isn’t the only child, she has two older siblings, a Russian blue cat and two Betta fish that died because no one fed them.

I met Lena in high school, during gym class. We both had one thing in common: our hatred for working our muscles off for a class that wouldn’t even be averaged in our GPA. I leaned more towards the chemistry side, while she leaned toward the arts.

“It’s when I hold that pencil- I transport into this other dimension.” That’s what she told me when I asked her about her favorite subject. I never had the chance to tell her that I felt the same way, except my pencil, didn’t create images or sketches, it created words with raw emotions. 

Out of all the people, I remembered Lena because we both were socially awkward to the point where each of us would find a bench and sit in the corner, so no one would notice us. We were the outcasts, in a world that wanted to be an outcast.

I’m writing about Lena because I have no idea where she is. She could be reading my blog from Argentina or maybe she’s pursuing her dream of becoming another Picasso. Either way, she’s carved her mark in my mind, or maybe I carved it myself because I liked her. 

I remember Lena not because she was the only girl who was willing to be my partner during basketball practice, but because she had a story of her own that she was afraid to tell, and I was eager to hear. A story that still disperses in my mind, like waves on a shore.

Her parents got married because her grandfather was ill and was about to die. So, he decided to get his daughter married to the son of a farmer. Things at first were going pretty well, then the economy dipped, and the married couple moved to America- to make all ends meet. Lena’s siblings were born in Argentina and she was born in the states.

Her mother worked as a waitress and her father worked in a garage. Her father was a good man and her mother was a humble woman. But according to Lena, they never got along with each other. They both had their own issues, their own insecurities, their own flaws but they would always come at each other’s throats, trying to prove each other wrong. They were like two magnets that were somehow joined but always opposed each other.

“Their fights start as arguments on the smallest things, but then they escalate to the point where the whole neighborhood can hear them,” Lena told me once when I sat next to her in gym class. Her eyes were puffy, and her cheeks were swollen from all the crying. “Sometimes it seems as if they love each other, but then it looks like they can’t stand each other. If I take a side I feel guilty because sometimes they both seem right and sometimes they both seem wrong.”

Listening to Lena wasn’t something new. I had heard stories before of parents fighting. Physically hurting each other. Emotionally scarring one another. The effect on the children would cause riots in the families and like a domino, one fall would lead to another.

“I wish they could just get a divorce.” This sentence of Lena was what caught me off guard. I gawked at her, like a small child, with my mouth hanging open.

Why would she say that?

Maybe she was mad. Maybe she wasn’t thinking properly. Maybe – just maybe she was being an insensate little teenager because her hormones were all over the place. I tried to convince her. I gave her false hope because that’s what friends do. They make you believe that the monsters you’re fighting aren’t real.

But later on, when things got worse, when Lena would cry in the locker room and when she eventually disappeared I realized that maybe she was right. That maybe divorce was so tabooed and so frowned upon that I let my hatred of it consume me into believing that it was a bad thing. I’m not vouching for divorce. But when every option runs out, when every boat drowns its better to part ways than to be the reason for someone else’s sinking. Her parents needed space. They needed to let each other go because holding on was hurting them and in return, they were hurting each other, and Lena was the one suffering.  

The effect on Lena was horrible. She stopped talking to me, became a ghost and disappeared beneath the evils of bad company. It felt as if she pulled down her barriers to make herself strong, but in that process, she broke her spirit. She broke something human in her.

Her parents would never understand. Maybe because they were fighting their own battles that her wars seemed insignificant. Maybe they never saw the world through her eyes. Or maybe they just didn’t care.

Love has the ability to heal, but sometimes against odd circumstances, it can also be the cause for pain. Maybe her parents were in that state where they were fearful of letting go just as fearful as they were of holding on. I’m not saying divorce is a good thing, but I’ve seen way too many people around me suffer in agony because they were afraid of the label of divorce. They’ve lived their entire lives in silence because suffering is better than being a divorcee.

I’m not in your place

I’m sorry that the world isn’t fair
And we as humans are a disgrace
I’m sorry that you lost your life
because of someone else’s hate
I’m sorry that the world doesn’t care
When you were dying inside
I’m sorry about the monsters
We’re all trying to hide
I’m sorry about the attack
I know you’re very hurt
And deep inside you’re aching
I’m sorry I couldn’t save you
When the whole world was breaking
I’m sorry that you’re scared
And I can’t do anything to help you
I’m sorry that I’m safe and sound
While you can’t even make it through
I’m sorry about everything
About those bodies falling to the floor
I’m sorry about being so selfish
And closing all my doors
I’m sorry about this unfairness
About these bans, walls,
and destroying all your dreams
I’m sorry for not listening
When you tried so hard to scream
I’m sorry for being sorry
Because I know loved ones can’t be replaced
I’m sorry for sealing my lips, my eyes and my ears
Because I’m not in your place

Rise!

I’ve created a grave on my own
With misery piling above my soul
Up above somewhere the sun is shining
But beneath this debris, my hope is dying

Why drown yourself in despair and guilt
When this grave is something you had built
Falling and rising is in your hands
So rip through this debris and try once again