if you ever look back…

Not so smart after all… a small sentence. Containing a lifetime of regret.

It was a good life. Some of my best times. The memories… ahh.. sometimes they don’t let me breathe. I still look back. I still hurt. I still regret.

I try… so hard to stay away from anything which might bring back those memories… I fail. It doesn’t work most of the time. Mostly because I have no self-control. I miss…

I know I missed that window in time. I don’t even try anymore. I know I will never find that feeling again. I try to replace it with everything else in life. But I miss those bonds… I never wanted to become the person I am right now. I always wanted a separate identity… a backup when everything falls apart or maybe when I needed my space. I find myself having too much of it now… the blank hollow space…

Retrospective is a cruel thing. I wonder if I am the only one feeling this way… if you ever look back. Wanting things to mend itself. Go back to being that day dreamer that I was…

If You Can’t Stop Thinking About Them At Night

truth is so different from what we expected it to be… pain is different, healing is different, relief is different from what our mind expects it to be… but its real and its worth it. I guess.

Thought Catalog

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Be careful. Sometimes pain can trick you into believing it’s romantic. It’s not.

Sometimes it’s almost sickly enjoyable to lie awake in bed at night and miss them. To want them. To wish nothing more than to be lying next to them, or murmuring quietly on the phone with them until four in the morning.

Because that’s so much better than feeling nothing.

It doesn’t feel good, but it feels better than waking up and going to work and coming home and eating pizza and watching tv and going to bed just to start it all over the next day, the whole time feeling like a zombie who is experiencing life while half-asleep.

Sometimes we’re addicted to drama. Not because we’re dramatic or immature or vapid. Rather, we want so badly to feel alive, even in a bad way, that we’ll cling desperately to something, anything, that makes…

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Why You Should Date Someone You Can Be Boring With

But the point of being in love is not so that you can be perfect. The point of being in love is to form a connection with someone that allows you both to truly, actually be yourselves, especially on the days where you’re feeling vulnerable, or tired, or even… boring.

Thought Catalog

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In the beginning stages of a budding relationship, people will tell you some version of the same advice: “Be yourself.”

They have good intentions. What they’re trying to say is: be comfortable, have fun, enjoy yourself, be genuine. They want you to be able to have a good time and to show this person who you truly are.

But what frequently happens is that people take “be yourself” to mean that you have to be the most ideal version of yourself.

If you’re smart, do everything in your power to show this person how incredibly intelligent you are. If you’re funny, make them laugh as hard and as often as possible. If you’re compassionate, overwhelm them with how much compassion you have at all times.

Be yourself – in the most perfect, flawless, and unattainable way possible.

But the point of being in love is not so that you…

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the ‘You and me’ kind of confession

Dear you,

I have come a long way. But your memories, our memories still bring pangs of agony. I read everywhere that we should learn to let go. Learn to know when to give up. Learn to know when it’s time to walk away.  I did it. I walked away. But I still look back. And I still hurt. I don’t know if there will ever be a time when you are just a name in the list of names I no longer care about. I don’t know if I will ever be able to see your face in random friend’s wall and feel no tightening of the chest.

We are really far away from each other. And somehow it gives me a sense of relief, that there is no chance, no probability of me ever bumping into you. Because I don’t know if I have forgotten you enough to not care what you think of me.

You know what the trouble is with losing a best friend? You not only lose that one person in your life you thought was never going to leave your side, you are left with a huge blank in your life. A gaping hole in your soul which used to be filled with all the happy memories and time spent with your best friend. It’s like starting fresh in life. Only difference is, now you no longer feel comfortable enough to bare your soul the way you did with your best friend. Now you no longer believe you can find someone who is ever going to understand you or accept you the way you are. Now you no longer have a friend to lean on or share your happiness with. The trouble with losing your only best friend is, you are now all alone and no one has your back. No one to massage oil in your hair every alternate night. No one to go crazy with over a boy crush. No one to watch Korean dramas all through the night. No one to help you cross the road. No one to drag you along to watch the same movie twice just so your best friend could sit next to her crush. No one to be with while you grow into your own kind of person. Now you have nothing to look back on and smile. Because your every memory is tainted. Because all your memories are connected to that one person you are no longer connected with.

me…

Growing in All Different Directions

So we grow. And we develop. Not just physically but also emotionally. And the emotional growth is so much more harder to accept. You become confused… “Which way am I growing… what am I growing into? Who am I becoming? Which is the real me??” There are so many shades of you, it’s hard to know which is the real you… When are you just pretending to fit a particular situation and when are you actually being yourself.

I guess, no one can answer that correctly. There might not be a correct answer. Because maybe… all those shades of you are the all of you growing in different direction instead of following a straight path. What you feel with different people, how you behave in the same situation but in different places or with different people, it’s all you. It’s all the real you. Even when you are pretending, it’s you.

I guess it’s OK to doubt, to be confused, to ask questions about yourself, to feel like nobody understand, to feel alone. But you are not. You really aren’t!! it’s ok not to get the answers right away. There aren’t always answers for everything.

A Hijra in the Family

it’s a hard country to live in where all everyone ever care about is “log kya kahenge” (what will people say). why are we so judgmental?! sometimes we don’t even realize how powerful our judgments can be. That we can become murderers without even using a weapon to kill a soul.

leylashah2014

I was just another boy wanting to be a girl. Now, I’ll be just another boy. I have not complained, nor do I complain now. I only tell a tale, for that’s all I’ve got. A tale, some could relate to.

This is for everyone who sees the queer movement as a superficial rich kid’s tantrum. I hail from a deeply religious middle class family with strong roots in a place known for its gender based crimes.

One of these days if I stopped existing the world wouldn’t know but I don’t want to be just another lgbt person. I don’t want to be just another statistic, just another note. I want to see the light, I want to be able to  hope but I don’t know where to look for hope, where to find it.

There was someone who told me, that maybe I should get my career sorted…

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It’s not about you…

been reading about leelah for a few days now. and every time I cry. her mom is blind! even after her death she ignores leelah! that’s cruel and selfish.

Because I'm Fabulous

I remember being pregnant with my children, feeling as their gentle flutters progressed into full belly flops on my bladder and painful karate kicks against the backs of my ribs. Back then I had no clue what my children would be like; they were more like ideas than real people. I’d sit in my rocking chair with my hands clasped gently over my stomach and wonder who they’d be. Dreaming of children who loved singing as much as me; envisioning singing rounds, our voices weaving together in harmony.

Then they were born. Short, chubby, bald people who looked a lot more like Winston Churchill than either their Dad or myself. People that screamed randomly, pooped on themselves, and considered “gah” to be an entire conversation. I still had no idea what they were like except loud, messy, and highly uncoordinated. They slowly evolved into their own people. Emma was colicky and had a desperate need to be…

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