Dear Owls, legal.

Dear Owls, 

This year, I turned into an adult. Not just by age, but by wisdom (or so I want to believe). I learnt lessons, tried new things, reminisced over old memories, found good people, lost loved ones, and I needed to find a way to move on with life. This year, I truly marked a stepping stone. In the midst of confusion and doubt, I was slowly turning into the person I am now- and I like the person I am now. A person who, despite all troubles, would still smile through the pain. A person that has found genuine happiness and satisfaction in the stupidity she has once done and learnt to embrace every aspect of herself- for once in her life.

On some days, I wonder why God brings people into our lives, only to snatch them away, but I remember that with each person he snatches away, a lesson is embarked on our souls. And our souls need to be upgraded. Our souls cannot handle routine. I have met great people and done remarkable things. I’ve lost and loved and loathed and left and landed on all the places I needed to land on.

I, for once in my life, have started to see the world through the eyes of Roman Gods who once mocked the mortals. I relate to the poetry I once wrote, and take advice from the people I once blocked out due to stubbornness. I have started to watch people break people’s promises, lie to get what they want, gossip about insecure girls, and take all the time in the world simply to bring each other down. You can’t see it if you’re standing next to them. But you can if you go far up. You can when/if you visit the moon, it’s so much easier to see the world for what it truly is, for what it was truly made for.

This year, owls, I sat on the moon for the very first time.

I sat on the moon and realized, I can never truly run away from humanity. No matter how far I go, something will always bring me back- be it a memory, a sibling, a mom, a responsibility. I sat on the moon and felt like it were merely a beach, overlooking a typhoon of busy fish swimming in a small world that promises us death the day we are born- and yet we attach ourselves to the silliest things. The moon, unlike anything I have ever seen, taught me how to live life. It taught me that lessons were meant to be a breaking point to another chapter. It taught me that chapters were meant to complete my story. You become a different person when you visit the moon.

The moon: being a very bad metaphor of becoming an adult. However, humans will always find their way to put you down. They’ll tell you your past is dirty and your path isn’t worth living. They’ll tell you the moon doesn’t exist and give you fancy quotes to prove it. This year I learnt that no matter how far you go, you can never truly go too far- battles weren’t meant for fleeing.

The moon, no matter how far it sounds, will still be not-far-enough, because even on the moon, you will find footprints of a human.

Ps; Today marks my 18th birthday. Now, I'm an adult- and I'm not sure I can handle such a title. What scares me is the difference one year can make. Here's to another year of absolute confusion, because let's face it, I'm always confused. But more importantly, here's to another year of love, laughter, lessons and family. 

I hear from a little bird that now I'm (legally) a woman; thank you, legal does have a nice ring to it. C'mon world, bring on the yearly blood tests that only "adults" get, who cares if I might faint 3 times at best? 

PPs: I love you, mom. I publicly confess my love and utmost gratefulness towards you. If it weren't for you, this year would have been a complete mess. Thank you for getting me through the bad times (and the really really bad times) and being there to clap for me during my good times. For all our letters, jokes, laughter, fights, make-ups, conspiracy theories, shopping sprees, debates in the car, debates everywhere and sisterly talks. I thank God for giving me what he knew I needed most. May we forever share the bond of girl power.

Yours with chills of birthday vibes, 

me.

Dear Owls, the grey.

Dear Owls, 

I find myself wanting to be free, but feeding my own chains, wanting to run away, but finding places with quicksand. It's an odd adventure to float around your feelings, be cautious which ones you should visit and which you must leave behind.

I find myself wanting to do what's right, but racing from the past of mistakes. It's an odd feeling to have the overwhelming need to tell everyone you know that you're sorry, even if most of them owe you the apology. It's not fun, but it happens to the best of us (so I'm told...)

So, what happens when your walls are closing in and you feel like the only person you can ever rely on is yourself? What happens if you know you're happy, but you know you're not where you want to be? What happens when everybody around you seems to think someway and you're stuck in a magical level? The level of knowing too much but feeling too little. When you're wise enough to know what you did was wrong, but you're too scared to try to live again?

What happens in the grey? The space between white and black, when it's not wrong or right, just somewhere in the middle.
What happens when you explore all the colors?

Your past is not hidden. Your past is important, and a lot of people that I've met recently have told me otherwise, but I don't buy it for a second. It's impossible to think that the only thing you can do is live for the future- that only happens to the luckiest of us (if you can't relate to what I'm saying right now, you're probably the luckiest of us..)

Sometimes, grey gets boring though... and seeing the grey in situations is how you know you're officially older. Maybe, deep down, I just don't want to see in grey.

Yours always owls,
me. 

Dear Owls, happiness

Dear Owls,

Today in psychology, we learn about happiness. We speak about it, all knowing that we are all wounded soldiers walking on this battlefield. We become more fragile when we speak about death, divorce and depression- the three D's. I notice, some people think that happiness can be taken away from them, others believe if they have it once, they can learn to have it again. There is a silent boy in my class who doesn't speak. He listens to the answers of many and contemplates then scribbles something in his notebook. I wonder what he's thinking. I wonder if he's happy. I wonder, does he know that far from the room, there is a girl who's looking at him, anticipating a response. Every class, he speaks once. All he says is that life is hard and everybody has a different perception of misery. 

I wonder what he means. I wonder if he's happy. 

Today in psychology, the teacher told us that boredom is worse than depression. She explained to us that boredom can mentally destroy our happiness because we begin to feel that life is a routine and our life has no meaning. I wonder if I'm happy. I wonder if watching other people in my class helps me understand humanity or leaves me with more questions. There is a girl in my class that nods her head whenever someone says something like, "...but that isn't always the case." regardless of what we are speaking about. It's almost like this girl, with her hands on her bag and her eyes on the class, is waiting for someone to speak for her; and she'll applaud them with a simple nod. I watch this girl and I anticipate her nods. I wonder if she's happy. 

I watch the class and I think about the many things that we all must be going through. I wonder if this lesson will leave us with anything but doubts about happiness. I wonder if we're happy. I look over at the text projected on the board; "Your past does not define you." and I think to myself, "so why does it bring me down so much?" 

Why does everything that has happened bring me down sometimes. Why does it remind me of the times I thought I was happy; maybe I was happy? More importantly; Am I happy now? Yes. 

But nothing changed. Everything is still as jumbled up as it has been for a year now- I just woke up one day and decided I wouldn't cry about it again. 

So, I didn't. 

I am happy, but I'm also human, which entails that I won't be happy all the time. We all have those days where we think life isn't on our side. But what got me through everything is God. If He's on my side, then I genuinely don't care who else is. 

It's a strange concept, happiness. It opens up a lot of doors and I doubt a university course could find the keys to this doors. I think about the people in the class and I wonder how many of them are happy. I scribble down a number on my notebook and smile. 

I wonder, if I was right in my estimation. Then again, everybody's number changes due to their perception of happiness.

15 students in our class; how many would you say are happy? 

Figure it out,

Love, 

Me.

Poem || Papercuts

Choosing to become a writer was the stupidest thing I've ever done.
A singer can allow the world a sneak peak into their life
Without making too much of a mess.
And the sad little girl who plays the piano
Can seduce the world into her sadness
Without even telling them the reason behind
      Or why she doesn't delve for a cure.

But me?
I chose to become a writer
And when I offer the world my past
It's a party.
And there are red plastic cups everywhere
Alcohol on the floor,
I use it to purify my wounds 
From the paper cuts because
I chose to become a writer
      And paper is patently our worst enemy

Choosing to become a writer
Is like choosing to commit suicide
With childproof scissors.
And you keep trying
In front of the whole world.
But they're laughing because
Somewhere along the way, you
managed to find a way to make mockery of your tears.
You managed to show people the brighter side of
A not-so-pretty-picture
And how flabbergasted would they be
To find out they're been laughing
At puns that have memories of deaths
Stitched to their edges.
They're been drinking at a party
            That was intended for a funeral.

Choosing to become a writer
Is like telling the world your secrets,
and hoping they don't connect the dots
It's like spreading your fractured wings
And wishing for the best
It's like 3AM heartbreaks that are
encased in rhyming words
And cheesy jokes
It's like saying you've never been so happy
And writing a poem like this.
        that's another paper cut.

It's almost like you're lying to yourself.
                 But maybe you are happy.

But writing was never a choice.
Writing is a jail masked as a safe haven.
With all the loonies in the world,
selling bestselling books about
Love lives they could have had
Marriages they could have saved
           Paper cuts they could have avoided.

Dear Owls, big world.

Dear Owls, 

The world is big. The world has so many people, sometimes I lose myself wondering how we're all just hanging in space. We're all just living life, winning poker games and losing loved ones by the second. I chose those two examples because they're both by luck. We have no control over what happens next, unless you've rigged the poker game, then that's totally irrelevant to what I'm trying to explain. 

The world is big and I suck at reading maps. Why countries separated themselves and created boundaries and roads that split to cities is beyond me. I will never comprehend why humans always want to find ways to seem more lonely. We seek the differences in each other and whine about the inequality. We silently judge each other and blab about not being able to express emotions. Most of the time, I think humans just want to live a lie, they want problems. Problems somehow make meaning to our life. We want to get lost in a big world because the space means that there's still things we cannot fathom into problems.

The world is big and I find myself getting lost in it. Slowly, my thoughts hover over random days and months and years. Slowly, I find myself getting lost in the simple complications. I find myself trying to find a solution for everything. A solution for sadness, grief, loneliness, fear, denial and life even. Because for many of us, life sometimes becomes a problem. At certain points in your life, you begin to wonder if your purpose is of any use or if one day you'll amount to something. But when I ask myself if I'm worth it- what exactly do I have to compare myself to? Technically, I'm the only person in this whole world who's been through the exact same experiences and moments in my life. The story I've got written for myself cannot be shared with another soul; maybe the scenarios could clash, but there is no other person with the same past, same emotions, same thoughts. This keeps me going. I feel like maybe I am needed for the story I hold- maybe I am needed somewhere. 

The world is big, and I need to buy a GPS. 

Again, Life.

I am the brave little boy that stands in front of his abusive mother and tells her to stop. 

I am the mother that lost her mind trying to pay the bills. 

I am the pain in her eyes. 

I am the hope in her voice. 

I am the cold winter laugh that sings Jingle Bells to those who need to hear it. 

I am Life.

I am the soldier in the war of never getting the right luck. 

I am the blood slipping down his eye, I am a tear drop on the floor. 

I am the man in the suit cheating on his wife. 

I am the doubting wife. 

I am fear that love is never true. 

I am fear in general. 

I am Life.

I am the girl in the dress that never fit her waistline right. 

I am the insecurities that tie her down to the ground. 

I am the prom queen who doesn't like the king. 

I am the pills being shoved into mouths of those who do not want me. 

I am anger at the breakfast table.

I am the loss at the end of the poker game. 

I am a gambler.

I am life. 

I am the lies you feed your brain. 

I am the loss of a best friend.

I am the cake with no candles. 

I am the birthday that passed.

I am the thieve that stole your voice.

I am the cold phone handle. 

I am the lost Skype connection.

I am your past. 

How did it get so messy?

I am Life. 

I am the wind that only brings hurricanes. 

I am the tides of liquids that only hurt your liver. 

I am the third drink at a bar. 

I am the regret the next morning. 

I am the ache at the middle of the night. 

I am the baby crying for milk. 

I am the mother too drunk to feed it. 

I am Life. 

But I am also joy. 

I am new beginnings. 

I am sappy movie trailers and long walks. 

I am stupid snorts of laughter. 

I am Brangelina's first child. 

I am the sigh before a sneeze. 

I am the laugh after a fart. 

I am Life!

I am the smiles on a first date. 

I am the prom queen in her dress. 

I am the first kiss in a Cafe. 

I am the slow dance in a wedding. 

I am the hope of winning the lottery. 

I am hope. 

I am Life! 

I am payday. 

I am the doorbell when you ordered Pizza. 

I am the fresh ironed school uniform.

I am the sun setting. 

I am the sun rising.

I am the sun. 

I am the dress that never fit. 

I am the girl that didn't care anymore. 

I am the confidence in her walk. 

I am the shimmy in her shake. 

I am the burgers hanging on her thighs. 

I am the salads on her plate. 

Let's face it, she doesn't do salads. 

And I'm the look on her face that says, 

"I'm okay with that."

I'm the happiness in a pickup line. 

I am the girl that slapped the boy for using it. 

I am the boy that used it again. 

On the same girl. 

Ada boy. 

I am the ambiance in a buffet. 

I am the comfort in a bed. 

I am the hugs between friends. 

I am the inside jokes.

I am the memories. 

The good ones. 

The ones that don't keep you up at night. 

I am the smell of fresh baked French Bread. 

I am the flame in a barbecue

I am the dog crying for his owner. 

I am the owner 5 seconds away from home. 

I am the jump in the dog's welcome. 

I am life. 

And sometimes, I'm not so bad.

Poem || History Book.

You are a history book

Your past is being studied

By people you don't like 

You are a history book 

Hitler is your villain and you 

Are a confused German

You are a history book

And your edges are worn out and

Your pages are being skimmed through 

Your pages skimmed through 

Like they don't mean anything 

But you're in pain because 

You are a history book 

And you're trying to run away from

Your past; ironically. 

You are a history book

And people are lying about you

Claiming they know your reasons

You are a history book

And your story keeps 

Repeating itself 

As if it wasn't hard enough 

To live through the past 

The first time

You are a history book

And you've forgotten where

You placed the bookmark

And now you're flipping

Through yourself wondering how

You turned into this mess

You are a history book

And nobody

Seems to be on the same page