From a journal entry.

i remind myself to remember these moments. 

the first time a boy breaks my heart. 
the first time i receive an acceptance letter i am truly proud of. 
the first cross country road trip i take. in the hopes of leaving my demons behind, nonetheless.

and the first time i decide to fight for myself.

i remind myself to hold close the people who loved me unconditionally along the way. the ones who held my hand in grocery stores when i sobbed uncontrollably. the ones who showed up unexpectedly and at the most perfect moment in my life. 

and the ones who proved to me in the end that everything in this world happens for a reason.

xx

I don't know what it is about India that unearths the writer in me. The long periods of silence. The vastly empty days punctuated only by meals and tea and the occasional guest. The smells, the myriad of sounds, the vibrant colors. Perhaps it's a bit of everything that forces me to break down this wall I've erected to preserve this feeling of numbness.

I read somewhere that we only accept the love we think we deserve. These days I feel like I'm not worthy of love. In any form. By anyone. I feel like a pretty crummy person for so many reasons. I will never be what they expect me to be. I will always disappoint. I will always be just a little less than what's needed. And I'll have all the regrets that I've carried with me. Those that keep adding on. I haven't done a lot in the past year to be able to stand up for myself or the person I've become. I don't deserve your love. Never have. Perhaps never will. I'm just not suited for this. And for that I'm sorry.

home away from home.

a letter

You picked me up when I had fallen so hard; taught me to dream again; dragged me into every possible adventure.
You're there somewhere, I'm having such a hard time finding you and it's breaking my heart. Just to hear you laugh or say something stupid or even just smile.
You are the reason I'm still standing, that I love what I love, that I'm as brave as I am. You were a dreamer who taught me the value of dreams. I miss you so.
I don't know how I have such a hard time fighting this, when you fought so hard for me. Just come back, as you are, it's okay, so we can be the pals we've always been.

i am just a poor boy though my story's seldom told.

Some days you end up sprawled on your polished wooden floor wondering how you got to a place where you feel so empty.

But some days, the thunder echoes louder than your fear. And your music drowns out their existence. And you have a seat. You feel elated. 

You realize that if it doesn't work out in the end, you'll leave. You'll find a way to avoid home. A way to avoid the bitterness that tore at your seams. You'll find a way to survive. Because you were born a fighter. You were raised an achiever. But more importantly, you taught yourself to dream. 

notes from my journal, september 2010

Ravaged by time, the house still stands. It has undergone numerous paintings yet the color looks faded, pale, cold. As though love is a prerequisite for vibrancy. The gate has begun to rust and the walls are crumbling, stone by stone, cement crumble by cement crumble.

It’s hard to stand here objectively, to view it as just another house. It’s hard not to see the Christmas stars we hung on the Verandah. Three because three was what we used to be. Lit up by the 40 Watt bulbs we bought at Manasi Gifts. Three children, blind and unknowing, pitching rocks at the green, unripe mangoes and running to grab them when they had fallen. It never did matter that they were unappetizingly sour. That’s not the point really, is it?

The road that runs in front of the house is pot-hole ridden. I can remember a time when they had recently paved the road. It was the color of coal. Of kohl. Of Indian irises. I wanted to sweep the street every day to make sure it stayed that way.

I walk by. I tell myself it’s because the gate is locked, it’s because the house is locked. But when you get down to it, the truth is blatant. It has lost its value and so I leave.

Seventeen paces from the edge of the church is a grave. The stone is marble, and the words read, “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.”

Seventeen paces from the edge of the church, my heart gives way.

Eleven years ago, a child was buried here. The priest stood at the edge of her grave and sprinkled sand on it.

Eleven years ago, I buried my soul in a dusty town in southern India.

The people stand by, their beady eyes watching closely. I want to scream. I want to tell them that this isn’t a movie. That this is life.

The women stand on one side, their sarees lifting in the light breeze that drifts through the open church. There is a sound of a hammer knocking on wood. It is distant and perhaps I’m the only one to hear it.

We walk in single file. My hands are sweaty and clammy.

I want to cry.  It's all I can think of in the moment. My sister is dead. And the crowd is watching; we're on display.

I don't cry at my sister's funeral and for the life of me will never be able to let that thought go.

so happy right now... that i had forgotten until this moment that im turning 21 in ten minutes. and that is what great friends and family will do.

Dinde, an Indian Turkey

Tomorrow: family and friends are coming in for Thanksgiving Dinner at our home.

My mom and I are making cheese scones, pumpkin bread, and a pomegranate-apple-walnut salad among all the other staples.

Denise - my best friend since I was four - and Sam, my brother's friend, drove all the way from Massachusetts. It's been so nice having them here.

Lately, I've been feeling like things are falling into place - like things will get better. Life has been good these past days and I feel calm.

I'll be 21 this Saturday - we;ll see how things go from there.

today is a new day.

watching parks and recreation while drinking a cold glass of 1% organic milk. life doesn't get better than this :)

today was not the best day.

the little things that frustrate me

have the greatest pull on my feelings

the smallest victories elate me

and the tiniest of defeats drag me so deep,

that i feel water filling my lungs,

i feel the waves dragging me to the deep.

if i were to tell you of the latest defeat that has left me feeling shattered,

you would laugh,

because even i can tell that it is so insignificant.

and yet, i have no control over how i feel.

and that is a terrible way to live. 

progression

it is truly a sad day when football takes precedence over rape.

i've been inspired by lizzie to start knitting again ~ i think it has been seven years. i'd like to make something simple for now.

i'm in the process of decorating the house for christmas.

i feel a strange mix of certainty and uncertainty. like i know my future is set and also that i don't know in which way.

i'm reading the girl with the dragon tattoo. i am in desperate need of sleep.

what i ate:

papaya

grapes

rice, dal, and french green beans

lemon water

what i did:

skating lesson at 10:00

derm appointment at 12:00

sephora

cleaned my room and bathroom

went shopping - new royal blue coat and mustard cardigan - 

finished my essay - crossing my fingers on that one

what i'm looking forward to:

this upcoming week

thanksgiving - family and friends -

hot cocoa - now -

going to the movies more often - alone, preferably -

In less than a month I'll be twenty one. I always thought that by twenty one I'd have my life under control. Someone once said how much they hated birthdays because after a certain age, each passing year was just a reminder of how little they had accomplished. I laughed at that idea. After all, I felt accomplished then, I felt that my life was in order. But, not so much anymore.

Perhaps though, I am not the failure I think I am. The failure that society has deemed me as. I am on a journey. I am feeling out the road. It is dark and someone has pulled the signs out. So it'll take a little longer. Maybe I shouldn't have to feel guilty about this year off. Maybe I should just breathe. Let it pass. But account for it. Maybe I should be whatever it is that I am capable of right now. And sometimes more, sometimes less. But, I need to stay happy. Because in the end it won't matter what they've said. All that will matter is what I think of the person I once was.

constantly the eyes of God watched over me

My first ice skating class was not the disaster I thought it would be. Starting something new is always intimidating, but now that I've put myself out there, it's not all that bad.

I bought a Norfolk Island pine, it's quite small. It's been pre-decorated but I will be adding to it. Also, I put up my Christmas lights and I love them dearly.

I've been drinking fresh lime water in my blue nalgene. I try to drink at least a liter and a half every day. 

I am currently watching the United States of Leland. 

I wish I could explain what I'm feeling. I can't quite put it in words. Perhaps, tomorrow when I have my Christmas lights in my room and I've accomplished something for the day, I'll better be able to write. Right now, I'm watching Half Nelson. I went to the movies today. I sat in a near empty theater and watched 50/50.

but i can't move the mountains for you

I signed up for a skating class for the next eight Saturdays.
I am going to learn photography.
I continue to teach myself Hindi and French.
I will be an ice hockey player by the end of 2012.

I will flourish.

the twenty fifth.

This morning, I made myself buttered toast and warm cocoa. I sat at a clean counter and read a National Geographic article on Mongolia. I went to mon cours d'histoire and learnt about Watergate and the end of the Vietnam War. I am determined, by the end of this year, to be somewhat fluent in French. 

Also, I went to the movies today  - something I haven't done in months - and saw the Ides of March and the previews for J. Edgar and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. I desperately want a nose ring and feel I am not complete without one. 

Someone once told me that I wouldn't make it as a journalist. I am determined to prove them wrong. 

an update

Today, I made a friend. I nibbled on a berry coffee cake, with the sun shining outside and laid out everything I've been battling for the past year, to a stranger. But nothing has felt more right.

Today, I type at my wooden table, which I love dearly; I'm listening to 'after the storm' by mumford and sons. I am sad on the inside but somehow feeling something is better than living numbly. Somehow I feel like I will get past this.

I have a pile of National Geographic magazines (1970s -1990s) on my table. I have 'the road to dallas' on my nightstand. I have a Tintin painting that needs attending to. I will find myself.