It's New Year's Eve and I feel as though I should do or write something meaningful. Every year since I was fifteen, I've done something that means something to me right around this time of the year and I figure, why stop? 2012 has been such an awkward year in general. I've changed (or tried to) so much of myself and yet it feels as if nothing changed and this means one of two things. Either I failed miserably at changing or I did it so well, I can barely notice it.
I bet it's the first.
One of the most important features of 2012 was how I realised I'm such a vindictive, obsessive bitch. I mean, I knew I was - but never to this extent omg. I'd be scared if it wasn't myself I'm talking about. I guess that the fact that I'm not even a little bit sorry is proof enough that yep, this is me alright.
This was such a good year. It may have not been the happiest of years but it was definitely a great one in terms of all the things I managed to make happen.
I'm good at this.
And if I was half as good at writing as I am at scheming - patience included, I'd be a published writer already.
2012 was great, but 2013 will be awesome.
Monday, 31 December 2012
Sunday, 25 November 2012
the three times you must fall in love;
“
Before you can grow up, you must fall in love 3 times.
Once you must fall in love with your best friend, ruining your friendship forever. This will teach you who your true friends are, and the fine line between friendship and more.
Once you must fall in love with someone you believe to be perfect. You will learn that no one is perfect, and that you should never be treated as any less than you deserve.
And once you must fall in love with someone that is exactly like you. This will teach you about who you are, and who you want to be.
And when you’re through with all that, you learn that the people who care about you the most are the ones that you hurt, and the ones that hurt you are the ones that you needed the most.
But most of all, you learn that love is only a concept and is not something that can be defined, it is different to each person that experiences it. And you will learn to respect each and every person on this earth, knowing that everyone only wants to be loved.
”
Friday, 2 November 2012
stuff for college
So, I'm going to leave this list here to go back to when I start purchasing all the stuff I'm going to need for college next year. I can't even begin to express how excited I am already! I need May to hurry the fuck up.
- Clothes, including coats, gloves, hats (both warm & cold weather items) and boots [Winter clothes sales on December, summer clothes & swimwear on August]
- Pillows, sheets and blanket for an XL twin bed (36”x80”) [Target puts bedding, placemats and cloth napkins on clearance every February. Wait for the third markdown, and you can get linens at 75% off. ]
- Waterproof, allergy etc., encasing for XL twin mattress.
- Towels, washcloths, toilet paper, shower curtain and shower curtain hooks
- Soap, shampoo and personal toiletries
- First-aid items and prescribed medications
- Desk lamp, alarm clock, surge protector, and flashlight
- Vacuum, mop, broom, iron, ironing board, laundry soap, garbage bags and cleaning supplies
- Hangers andlaundry basket/bag
- Pots, pans, cooking utensils, plates, bowls, mugs and eating utensils
- Pictures of family and friends
- Decorative accessories
- Computer/Laptop
- Microwave
- Toaster and coffee maker
- Car
- Cell phone
- Television and coaxial cable
- Radio, CD or MP3 player
- Fan
- Backpack
- Sports gear [January and April]
For the record, my measurements are:
Hips: 35in
Waist: 27in
Tuesday, 26 June 2012
dil kharab;
There is no word in the English language for it, but in Urdu, it roughly translates to "heart-wrong".
I think there is something so powerful about this word. To feel heart-wrong, because you have been wronged and your heart aches for it. Because you are un-well, and it will never be the same, even after it gets better. There is no way to fix it, not really.
It has gotten better. His memory no longer makes me weep. I am not bound to him, by word, or by deed. I don't care what he does, where he does it, with whom he does it. I used to worry so much about him, once. I used to feel guilt -- unmeasurable waves of it washing against me each and every day. Leaving me heavy with regret, beaten down and dejected.
I loved him. I think I did. Some days I wish I loved him more. Other days, I wish I had never loved him at all. Most of the time, I do not remember him. Once in a while, I wish we had fallen in love.
We were selfish. I know that now. I wasn't the victim I felt myself to be; not from Thursday to Sunday, at least.
He wronged me.
I wronged him too.
For every tear I shed, I forced ten out of him. They were bitter, and tasted of heartbreak, touched with a tinge of plastic and a hint of cheap aerosol paint. It felt rusty to the touch, and sometimes I could taste the blood at the back of my tongue, and see the red in his eyes.
I was never moved.
He suffers, in silence. There is noise. His laughter sounds a lot like resentment, and there is unhappiness shining in every smile. The strain of silence makes him taciturn, and irritating to the touch. His love hurts now, more than ever. It is his weapon, not his shield. He always held that against me.
Indifference was always my finest armour. Vanity was his. But ruthlessness cuts deeper than pride, and it was easy to cut him down to the knee. I walked, and I swam, and I watched him drown.
Dil-kharab.
His lies hit home. my truths became sour grapes for his wine. He drinks it sparingly, and always washes it down with the sweet reds of colder places in higher grounds where the vineyards are his own, and abundant. This is his secret stash, and he only offers the best to those he entertains.
I am his best-kept secret - the one that everyone knew. I'm his worst mistake and his biggest regret. He's the least of my problems, and has the minimum of my thoughts. Yet, he has some of me. Or had. Or wishes that sometime he'd had. I hold no wishes for him, not one.
I tore down our empty house and planted flowers on the field we used to share. He built a prison atop what was before, a place where sinners go to rot, and stay, and wish and pray for Hell.
I burned the books I wrote -- the very ones he never read. I wanted to say I loved him, but the words never made it to my head. His name died somewhere in a fire, a small, insignificant flame. I cut mine on his forearm, clean with blades of anger sharpened with our mistakes.
I heard time betters everything, but people never change.
I am sick of the heart, sick to my stomach.
It feels wrong, but I know it is only right. And it will never be the same, but one day, it will be repaired.
My wounds -- the ones he gave me and those I gave myself -- no longer hurt. All my bruises faded, and I have tougher skin. My scars, I cannot remember where they are, or why.
But my heart knows; it knows with every beat it has. That it feels wrong now, but is only right.
Dil-kharab.
I think there is something so powerful about this word. To feel heart-wrong, because you have been wronged and your heart aches for it. Because you are un-well, and it will never be the same, even after it gets better. There is no way to fix it, not really.
It has gotten better. His memory no longer makes me weep. I am not bound to him, by word, or by deed. I don't care what he does, where he does it, with whom he does it. I used to worry so much about him, once. I used to feel guilt -- unmeasurable waves of it washing against me each and every day. Leaving me heavy with regret, beaten down and dejected.
I loved him. I think I did. Some days I wish I loved him more. Other days, I wish I had never loved him at all. Most of the time, I do not remember him. Once in a while, I wish we had fallen in love.
We were selfish. I know that now. I wasn't the victim I felt myself to be; not from Thursday to Sunday, at least.
He wronged me.
I wronged him too.
For every tear I shed, I forced ten out of him. They were bitter, and tasted of heartbreak, touched with a tinge of plastic and a hint of cheap aerosol paint. It felt rusty to the touch, and sometimes I could taste the blood at the back of my tongue, and see the red in his eyes.
I was never moved.
He suffers, in silence. There is noise. His laughter sounds a lot like resentment, and there is unhappiness shining in every smile. The strain of silence makes him taciturn, and irritating to the touch. His love hurts now, more than ever. It is his weapon, not his shield. He always held that against me.
Indifference was always my finest armour. Vanity was his. But ruthlessness cuts deeper than pride, and it was easy to cut him down to the knee. I walked, and I swam, and I watched him drown.
Dil-kharab.
His lies hit home. my truths became sour grapes for his wine. He drinks it sparingly, and always washes it down with the sweet reds of colder places in higher grounds where the vineyards are his own, and abundant. This is his secret stash, and he only offers the best to those he entertains.
I am his best-kept secret - the one that everyone knew. I'm his worst mistake and his biggest regret. He's the least of my problems, and has the minimum of my thoughts. Yet, he has some of me. Or had. Or wishes that sometime he'd had. I hold no wishes for him, not one.
I tore down our empty house and planted flowers on the field we used to share. He built a prison atop what was before, a place where sinners go to rot, and stay, and wish and pray for Hell.
I burned the books I wrote -- the very ones he never read. I wanted to say I loved him, but the words never made it to my head. His name died somewhere in a fire, a small, insignificant flame. I cut mine on his forearm, clean with blades of anger sharpened with our mistakes.
I heard time betters everything, but people never change.
I am sick of the heart, sick to my stomach.
It feels wrong, but I know it is only right. And it will never be the same, but one day, it will be repaired.
My wounds -- the ones he gave me and those I gave myself -- no longer hurt. All my bruises faded, and I have tougher skin. My scars, I cannot remember where they are, or why.
But my heart knows; it knows with every beat it has. That it feels wrong now, but is only right.
Dil-kharab.
Friday, 1 June 2012
Reed vol. 65
Yesterday when I got home, there was a package waiting for me. I didn't recognise it at first and it took reading the enclosed letter to remember part of the deal was receiving this year's issue of the Reed magazine.
I have it on my hands now, and though my name is nowhere in it and Benj Hewitt has the spot I thought to claim for myself, I am elated.
This is my first prize as a writer. Not the one I wanted, but the one I got anyway. And I love it. This, it's ... it's that moment when you realise you ARE doing something. I may have lost, but this seals my existence as a writer. I exist. I write. I didn't win but I AM a writer.
It's all I've ever wanted to be.
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