“Tell me that we’re going to be okay,” Hallie said, her eyes transfixed on the horizon as the wind whispered a melody in her ear.
“We are going to be okay,” Blake said, letting out a sigh. He nudged around the sand until he found a comfortable spot, and reached her hand.
“No, tell me the lie. Tell me that we’re going to be okay,” Hallie said, silently allowing Blake to reach his hand. His hand was cold. It was as if he was a stranger.
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Once upon a time, age is the golden metrics we use to everything. When one turns eighteen, he’s suddenly legal to drink and to get his driver’s licence. When one turns twenty one, she is accepted in the public as a woman, not a girl or a teenager.
As a child, I grew up wanting to be seventeen. Seventeen was the age when my parents started to give me more freedom. It was the time promised to me to be treated like an adult. Yet when I reached seventeen, I felt like I haven’t grown up yet, so I was looking forward to be twenty one.
At twenty one, I was officially an adult by society’s standard and yet deep down, I still felt like a little girl. I made mistakes I was not proud of, and I silently wished to be much older. Perhaps when I am older, I will be wiser, and more adult-like, in a sense.
Now that I am slightly older, at almost twenty two, I long to be twenty five.
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He turned twenty-two today.
Sally woke up with a tremble in his feet. She didn’t know why, but her whole body was shivering like it was winter in July. But winter in July? Sally laughed. It had been a dry week.
Yet she shivered, the coldness piercing her bones.
She kicked her blanket and began her morning routine. First she would knelt beside her bed while folding her blanket into a perfect square. Then she would place it slowly above her pillow. She brought two fingers from her right hand to her lips and placed them on her blanket. Then Sally would get up and go straight to the mirror, as if trying to remember the girl she was.
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Many writers claim that they love to write, that their whole lives they could do this thing called writing and writing and writing some more.
But writing is torture. So is not writing. The only feeling that’s truly liberating is having written.
When you start on a blank page, you just don’t know what to write. You get distracted, opening your Facebook account and replying to messages. You try to search for inspiration and read ten different articles which consume thirty minutes of your supposed writing time. Then when the lightning strikes and all you want to do is write, you don’t know if whether this would be received widely by the people. You don’t know if what you write about is worth reading.
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Will you ever be able to reach it?
It’s there. It’s there. But it’s out of your reach. As if there’s an unseen force that keeps you down. You try to grab it. Again. And again. And yet all you’re grabbing is air.
It’s useless. It’s like chasing wind. You can only catch the shadow, never the person. It’s like trying to stop time. It can never be done.
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If I were living in your world, I would be the Princess. I would be the one who breaks the curse that entraps our kingdom for ten years, separating wives and husbands, friends and families. I would be the one who goes through it all, putting everything unto my shoulder as I sacrifice for the sake of my people. Not because I have to, but because I want to.
Read more →'In a kinder world,' he whispered, 'one I promise you I've seen, men and women flirt and dance and love with only the fear of what it would mean without the other in their lives.'
Melina Marchetta, Froi of The Exiles
It’s simple. I care about my time, you care about yours. I care about you being late because it’s fifteen minutes of my life waiting on the uncomfortable wooden chair, being lost in the sea of strangers, putting my head down, transfixing my gaze upon my iPhone and playing Candy Crush. That’s fifteen minutes I can spend napping, instead of waiting for you.
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I love you even though you are almost always late to our dates, prolonging my agony to not have more time with you as every drop of the minutes we have is precious.
I love you even though you are sensitive, because that’s where your charm lies. Your sensitivity towards me and others makes you such an understanding man.
I love you even though our paths are not always smooth, even when we go through bumpy rides. Somehow, we always make it through.
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There are too many minds in life. Too many opinions, too many comments, too many should dos and what ifs and could haves.
Not all of them matter.
There are too many people trying to be smart. There are too many people, acting as if they know it all. There are too many people, telling you how to live your lives.
Not all of them matter.
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