I never expected the expected

when life goes down like the checklist in your father’s hand, you endure it. you endure it. even when the classes you take gut punch your curiosity. or the joy you force down your throat at graduation, underwhelms. or the years of nine to five, create caverns of despair in your ribcage. even then, you endure it. you endure it. because you live for seconds. because you live for the universe within. because you know how to build galaxies with your hands. these very hands that have set you free, again and again. and you find your peace. so you endure it. you endure it. and then you slip and lay in the place between your mother’s hands and waterfalls catch in her lap. and you endure it. you endure it. because you’ve never truly been safe except in blood that calls you. and you’ve never truly been home in blood that calls you. but you know where to look. you know where to look. and you find them. some, caught in the break of light on concrete between 39thand Broadway. others, the ocean. no end in sight to love. so you endure it. you endure it.

⚠️⚠️ Emotion Dump ⚠️

An Ode to an Ode

The raw feelings that words can evoke often get lost in flowery prose and sophisticated jargon. It’s quite ironic but I find it to be true in most cases. Whenever I try to rephrase my thoughts artistically, I forget what I’m really trying to convey.

A rough draft is more honest than a revised one.

So from now on, I won’t rephrase my stream of consciousness. I’ll simply write down whatever thoughts decide to gradually, albeit brutally, gnaw their way into my psyche.

There are certainly some regular customers at my mental cafe for late night overthinking. One of my most persistent customers is “Coincidence.”

In English, we’re taught a slew of literary devices so we can discern underlying messages within the overall plot. There’s foreshadowing and symbolism and parallels repetition and whatnot. We become masters at bullshitting some meaning behind a reoccurring color or object in a story.

But it’s jarring when some of these literary devices seemingly creep their way into our lives.

Seeing parallels between your life and the media you consumer makes sense on paper. You tend to surround yourself with media that caters to who you are. Yet, it’s still something I can’t quite wrap my head around. Why are my emotions so similar to so many other seemingly unrelated events?

Do coincidences really happen or are we just meandering wayfarers that seek to extrapolate meaning from our lives?

My mind always drifts back to this one music piece. The title is befitting.

“Sincerely.”

Sincerely is derived from the Latin statement “Sine Cera”. It roughly translates to “without wax.”

Sculptors can hide the imperfections in their work by utilizing wax. By saying that your words were devoid of wax, you are confessing that they are not laced with deceit. They’re out there for everyone to see despite all of the imperfections that mar the ink smeared stationary. Concluding your letter with “Sine Cera” meant that you were making an unfiltered confession.

In a similar vein, “Sincerely.” plays at the end of each episode.

It’s sweet but fleeting. It’s beautiful and ethereal. But it’s also simple and very repetitive.

In terms of music theory, there’s really nothing much to it. It’s a short exiting theme for an animated show. Almost every instrumental arrangement of it just repeats the same motif over and over again.

Despite it’s simplicity, it’ll always be profound to me. It evokes the same viscerally churning turmoil that Schubert’s heartbreaking Fantasie in F minor does.

Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture has literal cannons in it and yet, Sincerely is better at morphing me into me a trembling, weak, emotional wreck.

I attribute my fondness to this piece to mere coincidence. What else could it be?

I found it at the right time and it provided intangible comfort for me.

-|-

“ How lonely it is here, and how well it suits you. “

Franz Kafka

“Why am I so lonely?” is a mantra I’ve kept repeating although I already knew the answer. It’s because I didn’t bother talking to anybody.

Over the years, I’ve made more attempts at that. I thought I was finally getting better.

But when I was in COVID isolation, that statement reemerged with waxing intensity. My phone was pitifully devoid of messages other than the occasional reminder to wear my N-95 mask and face shield before grabbing my meals.

It was lonely. The spinning, barren blue walls of my room kept me company. But only for a little bit. Then during the morning, noon and night I’d scurry like a mouse to get food and eat outside. It was an odd experience. There is nothing inherently weird with eating outside. But being forced to eat outside because you’ve suddenly been deemed contagious with a life threatening pathogen felt a little funky.

There were so many other thoughts that could have been running through my mind at the time. I was born and grew up as a relatively sickly child. For years I’ve dealt with severe respiratory issues. All throughout middle school I’ve been constantly sent home for fevers and randomly vomiting. Having COVID could’ve triggered something life threatening or permanently altered my breathing.

But instead, all I focused on at the time was crippling loneliness.

I kept wondering why nobody was checking up on me except my immediate family and a few random relatives overseas that I haven’t seen in years. I’ve told a handful of people and they all acknowledged it. But nobody checked up on me.

Nobody.

Early on, I realized that I couldn’t seek solace in anybody. So I turned towards media and sleeping. Sleeping worked like a charm at first. But then it slowly felt like a chore. I was always bed ridden and wheezing. I began to detest my bed.

I turned to eating. But then my taste left me, just like that. Eating was also a chore.

‘Exercise maybe.’ I mused at first. But when your body is seized by dull aches and your back feels like it’s going to break with each cough, you don’t want to move.

You want to precipitate.

As corny as it sounds, tv gave me transient peace. I began to watch a show and I heard a lovely little peace during each episode’s ending credits.

Sincerely.

It was so pretty.

The show itself was very bittersweet and I scoffed at the timing. It was coincidentally funny. At the time, it felt like I had hit a low point in my life (but as I’ve learned, it could always get worse. Prior to that, I have gone through worse. And yet, it felt like the lowest point at the time)

Its premise revolved around the main character writing letters for people. My unoriginal corny ass soon followed suit and started to write shitty poetry and angry journal entries.

After finishing the show and its spinoff movie, I began to scour the internet for piano covers. I wanted to replicate it. Even if my playing was clunky and ugly, I wanted to recreate a sliver of the music.

I can’t adequately describe the breathtaking yet very tranquil bliss I felt from watching each individual cover. It felt so profound but not in an overwhelming way. It was far too serene.

I later realized that all of those piano covers were dedicated to a real life tragedy. The animation studio that made the show was burnt down in a vendetta fueled fury. A handful of musicians had chosen to arrange Sincerely in their style and donate their ad revenue to the families of the Kyoani Arson attack victims.

The profound tragedy impelled me to invest the minuscule modicum of energy I had into learning the piece

.

And despite wanting to keel over, I kept attacking my flimsy $20 keyboard relentlessly. Repeatedly assaulting the unweighted keys as I tried imagining how it would feel if my piano was real. If it could resonate with the same intensity I was prone to feel.

I learned it. I learned it by the end of isolation.

I spent my whole winter break and all winter holidays locked up in my unique purgatory.

It wasn’t that bad now that I think about it. Having a break from people was honestly nice. I didn’t have to deal with creepy stalkers that persistently chased me despite having girlfriends. I didn’t have to deal with losing my mind trying to communicate with people who didn’t respect boundaries. All of the ebbing static from other peoples’ conflict and drama just ceased.

It was just me. A chance to focus on what it meant to be me. What I enjoyed. What I hated. What I feared. What I aspire to be.

Is it a bit narcissistic that this evoked happiness from me?

I also got to rekindle my neglected love of piano and writing

.

I went back to school the week after winter break ended

.

And didn’t think about this again for the longest time.

But when you’re stressed and lonely, your mind always reverts back to other times of misery.

-|-

Am I still lonely?

Yes.

And despite being surrounded by so many wonderful people that I love, I can’t help but feel lonely. So lonely. What is wrong with me?

But the only company that’ll ever keep this ebbing pain away consists solely of myself, my odd fixations and my anxiety

Honesty is mean. It’s the most cruel way of interacting.

Therefore, self acceptance is the most arduous task one can undergo.

Learning to appreciate your own company is a never ending journey.

-|-

I still want to talk to other people though. I want to learn more about the world through people and their experiences. I love people! I love the way their eyes crinkle when they gaze at something they adore. The inflection in their voice when they rave about something they enjoy. The way each person lights up in a different way as they walk through the door. People are all different yet the same. We share the same emotions despite varying interests and ways of expressing it.

When I head to college, would my progress reset? Would I revert back to an antisocial mess?

I’m so lonely.

I’ll start crying the moment someone says hi to me.

Any smile would move me to so many tears.

The slightest brush past my shoulder and I’ll collapse on my knees and sob until my eyes are as rheumy as Niobides.

Sometimes I want to do nothing more than crawl into bed and never wake up. I can’t bring myself to get out of bed unless my stomach aches or if it gets too cold to withstand.

When the school day ends, I feel like I’m in a fog. A painstaking bout of autopilot. Everything I do from that point on is a miserable haze.

I hate going home. I abhor going home. I will find any reason to stay away from home. Because whenever I step foot into my house, all I can feel are the intangible cordons of fatigue and misery dragging me down.

I don’t know why. It’s just a building. Still, I never cease to be sapped the moment I get home.

So if I can help it, I don’t do anything. After my obligations are cleared, I head to bed, wake up early and cram at 2am before heading to school. Cold showers, a shit ton of black coffee and an apple tends to snap me awake quite easily.

I used to work out. I don’t anymore because of this looming sense of panic hanging over my head like a clingy cloud. But that would probably help. Those running endorphins……

What even makes me happy anymore? My eating habits are so disorganized and bizarre. I either skip meals or binge on a mountain of carbs.

Music maybe. But I neglect it too much for it to bring enough joy.

I feel temporarily happy when I talk to people and that’s it.

Or when I visit my teachers during office hours. I genuinely love working through problems and learning even if it takes me a longass time to do so. It’s like I’m transported into a different world and I have one goal: to overcome a clear obstacle.

On the other hand, life is a massive mess and I am directionless. Just a hopelessly romantic vagrant whose emotions are wildly out of check.

Is my smile convincing enough? Are my mannerisms, riddled in deceit, enough to show others that I’m happy?

But why should it matter? It’s not like anyone cares.

Although in reality, I’m just pretending to be until it something changes. Fake it until you make it.

[Unedited,

05 04 2022]

-|-

If I get Baker Acted, I’ll know that it’s because one of you has snitched and I will haunt you in your sleep.

-|-

I can't help but cringe when I see writing prompts that ask the writer to "keep it clean." Other than certain rules around basic grammar, punctuation and spelling that help ensure ideas can be conveyed clearly across audiences (and even here, there is arguably some flexibility), writing should be untethered. Good writing exists at the place where creativity and risk intersect - if there isn't some sort of fear or discomfort at play while you contemplate sharing your writing, you're doing it wrong. It's hard to be honest with yourself, let alone the world, but that authenticity is what makes writing sing - the best songs evoke strong emotion, connect people and move us to action.

This is not to say that good writing has to be full of "fucks" - obscenity, sexuality, violence and the like all have their place insofar as they further the story or characterization and help the author to build a world or setting that feels true. Many a work has been criticized for unnecessary rape, for instance, that does little to advance the plot or characters and is used more so for shock value, often offering insight into the writer's social/political views on women more than anything else. But to box someone in from the start - to tell them to keep it clean in a world that is very much the opposite - seems like a recipe for the production of writing that is superficial and half-hearted. Give me the grime and the pain any day, to remind me I am real.

I like an ax. I like the heft of the head, and the smooth ergonomics of it’s shaped hickory haft. I like the power conveyed when one is cocked overhead, lightly balanced, playing you like a fulcrum. I like the speed with which one falls, the weighted head using gravity for assistance.

An oddly shaped knife is all it is, forged for chopping. A billet of iron, or dense steel shaped and forge welded to a sharpened steel bit for penetration, and an eye pushed and punched through hot metal by a leathery-skinned artisan wielding a ball-peened hammer.

And with it the iconic images of Honest Abe building a cabin, George Washington owning up to the Cherry Tree fiasco, or even Lizzy Borden, who might have just been a crazy woman, or whose Poppa might have been a mean, mean man… history has left us uncertain as to which.

Either way, Lizzy undoubtedly shared mine and Abe’s love for the versatility and practicality of a good, old fashioned ax. Her daddy must have gained a newfound respect for it’s abilities too, right there at the end.

"Can you provide a definition of the word woman?"

Republican Senator Marsha Blackburn from Kentucky recently asked Supreme Court Nominee Ketanji Brown Jackson to answer this question, not because she was looking for a personal answer - perhaps about the resilience and strength of women like Brown herself who rise in a patriarchal society despite its challenges - or because she suspects Jackson doesn't have a basic command of the English language, but because she was looking for a very specific answer about biology and chromosomes.

To start, we should all be able to recognize that the question itself is irrelevant in a Supreme Court confirmation hearing (much like most other Republican lines of questioning about religion and anti-racist babies), the purpose of which is to judge fitness for a life-long position on the bench. But more than that, it was a question not asked in good faith, one aiming to either A) catch Jackson in an answer that would somehow denigrate transwomen or B) get her to do exactly what she did - provide no answer - so that Republicans could froth over the mouth at it. Either way, what remained evident to me throughout those hearings is that what womanhood is most about is putting up with an exorbitant amount of bullshit. And sometimes, quite sadly, that bullshit is coming from your fellow women, whose internalized oppression endangers us all.

To be a woman is to wonder if your breasts make your shirt too tight for an interview, if you'll be able to walk home from the bar tonight alone, if you'll be heard at the doctor's office, if you'll be given the promotion even though you're pregnant, if your kids will resent you for the time you spent at work, if you're too quiet, too loud, too emotional, too aggressive, too ugly, too pretty, not enough. It is learning to exist and attempting to thrive in a world that was built for you to fail, because no matter what you do someone will notice you are trying to escape the confines of the cage built for you and they WILL have something to say about it. Your freedom makes men uncomfortable.

And yes, things are slowly changing. We can have conversations about gender as a construct, gender as performance, gender as fluid - all valid and complex assertions that deserve to be explored. But there is no erasing the experience of being a woman, which regardless of the anatomy you have, is irrevocably linked to the way you move through the world and are perceived. The treatment you receive (or are denied, if we are speaking of the reproductive health kind), the assumptions made (about your intellect, your desire, your capabilities), the tight rope you must walk that almost always requires a polite smile in the face of ignorance at best and outright sexism at worst.

Maybe to be a woman is to exist as the nexus of all these constraints and contradictions. And any moment of joy in the face of such a thing is both a triumph and act of resistance. Womanhood is war.

Have you seen lots of eggs today? Bunnies? Chicks? These cuddly symbols of spring always remind me of the new life we gain when we place our trust in Christ. Though all of us sin, God forgives us and made a way for us to have a close, personal relationship with Him.

Long ago, God allowed Jesus to be put to death. But, three days later, He arose from the tomb. What a glorious day it was! Defeating death, He gave us a chance to live forever by accepting Him as our Savior.

E- Emmanuel. A name for Jesus meaning "God with us."

Matthew 1:23

Behold, a virgin shall be with child, and shall bring forth a son, and they shall call his name EMMANUEL, which being interpreted is, God with us.

A- Almighty. The God who gave us Jesus.

Revelation 1:8

I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the ending, saith the Lord, which is, and which was, and which is to come, the ALMIGHTY.

S- Savior. Jesus covered the price for our sins, becoming the Savior of all who believe.

1 John 4:14

And we have seen and do testify that the Father sent the Son to be the SAVIOUR of the world.

T- Three. How many days Jesus said He'd rebuild the temple if it got destroyed. Little did they know, He was speaking of His own body!

John 2:19-21

Jesus answered and said unto them, Destroy this temple, and in THREE days I will raise it up. Then said the Jews, Forty and six years was this temple in building, and wilt thou rear it up in three days? But he spake of the temple of his body.

E- Everlasting. How long our lives will become once we put our trust in the Lord.

John 3:16

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have EVERLASTING life.

R- Resurrection. The most important part of the story. He didn't just die. He got back up! That's where the power lies. He defeated death, so now we can rise above sin and come into the lives God created us to live.

John 11:25

Jesus said unto her, I am the RESURRECTION, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live:

I pray you all had an exuberantly blessed EASTER!!!

Ok, so first and foremost, those views are persecuted. There are hundreds of hate crimes committed against Muslims in the U.S. every year, as well as more around the world, and lots of people think of the religion of Islam as inherently evil and antithetical to proper "western" values.

This "well maybe we should discriminate against this religion because its bad" logic is ridiculous and isn't a good moral position even when religions are causing harm. We should not be discriminating against people's personal faiths. We should be calling out and challenging the way that those beliefs are twisted and used by people in power to maintain that power and to subjugate others. I don't hate Christianity or think that Christians should be persecuted. I do however absolutely despise the people who try to use Christianity to justify cruel and inhumane laws to control women's bodies and deny gender affirming care to transgender people. I am sure that there are people who use Islam for similar purposes, I am just less familiar with them because in the U.S. Christianity is vastly more influential and used for far more violent oppression.

Religion at its best creates community and love and draws us into the beauty of the world. However most religions have been used to oppress and control, by painting others as enemies of the faith and demanding strict obedience to a deity through obeying a very human tyrant. Viewing a religion as the tyrants who have used it, is not helpful, but we must always be watchful for those tyrants, name them and cast them out.

I fought I argued I tried to convince my thoughts but it no use the problem is men like it how it is very convenient to them using religious excuses to overpower women and many women too not fighting back because they think it's in their religion to obey their husband and they have to follow it.

Many of my arguments and debate ends with sentences like ' The world will always oppose the right thing ' and ' we can't defy god ' and much more . That's why who oppose are thought to be enemies of Islam or not an islamic person that's why voices never get raised and even if it does they were silenced out except some places.

And Even if I saw a very little of world i think I may know why it's like this very well and I can't tell it in the real world at least for now but I can , here i guess. If you want to know just tag me please because I wanted to write it and wanted to it to be read by lot of people and understand it even if it look some "nonsense"- this is what my friend told to me when I tried to change his way of thinking.

In fifth grade all the girls were brought into a room and shown a film "You're a Young Woman Now" and given a free belt and shown how to hook up a Kotex pad. I got my first period in third grade and thought I was dying. I had a lifetime awashed in estrogen.

On the pill in college, then a uterus filled with fibroids causing infertility. Cystic breasts with irregular cells a cause for a benign lumpectomy. Menopause delayed by HRT. Now an ovarian cyst the size of a peach I see on a big screen in a room made for couples to catch the first glimpse of their child squirming in the womb. A new OVA1 test, with 98% accuracy tells my OB-GYN it is low risk yet he recommends we take it out everything.

My breasts now too large for my frame. Always the smallest kid in class. In 1960 president JFK wanted American kids to be fit so we had to pass tests until I was a senior in high school. I was a sit-up champ but always last in the 600 yard run. They never show a film on menopause and how it changes you for the last half of your life.

I attended an all-woman's college. That prepared me most for life.

Nothing ever held me back. Often the only female in the room, I rose because of it. My difference, my strength to which no one could compare, understand, question. My greatest achievement when it stopped mattering. When I didn't stick out but fit in.

I am woman, with all the pluses and minuses that individual biological differences in humanity bring....and yet I roar.

There’s a dirty anxiousness that’s settled around my spirit, like a dust cloud raging a slow war against the blue skies. This has happened before, many times actually. I didn’t tell anyone then, and I don’t tell anyone now. Why would I? Who would even care?

Besides, I’m supposed to be fully composed and capable, at least in my role of “confident and zen professional woman/super-girlfriend.” It makes the most sense that this will remain between you and me, and the four shrinking walls.

It sits low, this anxiousness, and unsteady, way deep in my belly. Enough to feel desperately uncomfortable in my skin with every passing second; yes, second. I’m too nerved up to use the broader clock of minutes or hours. Instead, the measurement of time is short and acute, surgical in precision.

My breaths stay shallow, just a series of involuntary actions to cycle through the obligatory process of breathing in and breathing out. Reminding myself to breathe does little for the daunting task of transforming myself from full-on crisis mode into grounded and calm.

Before long, there’s a stretch of silence in the air, and it hangs heavy. The tears have made their appearance, as I knew they would. They sting a bit, pooling in the corners of my eyes, and I almost feel a bit of pride that I could sense them coming like some predict impending rainstorms.

The tears cause the breathing to come in quick, sharp gulps now, and I brace myself for the worst of it. The air around me gets tighter. It closes in while I wrap myself deeper inside my blanket. Open your eyes, the air seems to say. I frantically shake my head. Open your eyes, it says again, somewhat gentler.

A hand caresses my cheek, wiping away the complicated knot of pain, and brushes over my eyelids, finally resting on my forehead. I open my eyes and see. And finally take the deep breath that I’ve been needing to take. “I’m here,” he says. “I’m still right here.”