A Lot Like Me

This is something I have written and it’s not about me.

This is about this girl I know and she’s my age and about my height and she has my face and the colour of our eyes, they match the same shade. And the texture of our skin is exactly the same.

She walks like me but her gait is softer. Her feet move gently like fish in the water.

And when she passes you by, you’ll want her to smile at you, touch your arm, fill you with laughter. I’ve heard her speak and she’s shy. Her face contorts into funny lines. She keeps quiet so you might not hear her. Don’t mind her when she does not meet your eyes; she’s just trying to not get in your way. She kind of quiet, okay but once you get to know her she’s kind of lovely. You just need to show her that you’ll help her build a conversation. That’ll make her go weak in the knee and then you pretty much own her.

When she moves she moves like me but she does it more elegantly. She likes to use her hand when she speaks to orchestrate her spoken imagery.

Did you know she writes? She likes words. They are exactly like the ones I’ve heard but even though she strings them as I do, somehow hers fit together and mine seems to never work.

Anyway, feed her chocolate, cake, and tarts. Give her books to read and movies to watch because she’s just like me. She’s just like me but she’s not. There’s something that separates us but I’m not sure what.

She sings Coldplay songs to herself at midnight very softly. She’s weird and different.

See, there’s this girl I know and she’ll grow on you. She might get on your nerves sometimes like I know I do but she’ll grow on you. I promise, she’ll grow on you.

Did I mention she writes? She likes words. She likes to woo people or rather boys with words and pose and though you might think that one simply can’t flirt in metaphors, she’s never flustered like me. Somehow she makes me work. She makes it work.

Anyway, Listen to One DIrection and take her on long walks. It does not matter if it’s on 5th ave or down by the docs. She loves listening to you as much as she loves to talk. She loves stories. And you can repeat your stories which is a great perk because her memory sucks and she probably forgot anyway.

She acts like me but she’s sweeter. When she messes up the moment does not last forever like it does when I tetter and tumble and subtle. She won’t almost always tell you wants on her mind but when she does, she will try her hardest to not lie even though it takes all her might to let her guard down and show you her vulnerable side.

You see, She’s a lot like me but she’s braver. Harsh words and crude comments don’t faze her, she draws strength from failure unlike me. She’s a lot like me but when faced with scissor shes rock and in the paper.

There’s this girl I know and we’re exactly the same. From the length of our finger toenails to the shape of our names. And I have to admit this even though I’m ashamed but I think it’s because I’m to blame. She’s the better version even though she’s a lot like me and it’s because she’s not what I see.

I think that maybe if I stepped out of my shoes, one day when I have the strength and I look at her objectively. Maybe I’d call her beautiful because maybe just maybe she is.

20

Turning 20 seems to be a big step.

At 20, you don’t get those impulsive teen vibes anymore. Even if you do, you’ve already learned how to resist it. Or at least, you try to. You can’t go around hopping down the corridor like a carefree little lass anymore. Rather you stop and gather yourself some posture, wondering if there’s someone out there who looks up to you or someone you inspire.

At 20, you see so many people around you reaching heights you can only imagine of. You too want to set an example for others. But the twenty years of life haven’t told you how as yet.
Life’s a mess at 20. A pretty mess, though.
You’ve already learned that fairness isn’t something life would ever offer you. And you’ve learned to love life that way.

At 20, you stop shying away from your own shortcomings. You start to accept yourself the way you are. You stop looking for someone to push you up the ladder, ’cause the ladder is only for you to climb.

The colors of the teen years start to fade at 20. There are so many crazy things you’ve done in your life so far, most of which you probably don’t even remember why you did it in the first place. But at 20, you learn to stop digging your past. ‘Cause now you know that every day comes with a new yesterday.

Things become easier at 20 when you start accepting that it’s okay to have haters, it’s okay to not to be loved back, it’s okay that your efforts didn’t pay off, it’s okay to let your tears flow, and it’s okay to keep your dreams alive no matter how many times you’ve been bruised and wounded. You learn to forgive. And you learn to let go.

At 20, you learn to smile with every ounce of the dying spirit within you. And the best part? You learn to fake it all.

At 20, the little girl who used to think that turning 20 is a long, long time away is a mere stranger to you. You’ve probably done things in the short twenty years span that you’re not proud of. But don’t forget to appreciate how far you’ve come. As they say, it’s the little things that count.

A late night rickshaw ride beneath the starry sky, the smile of gratitude of a strange old man whom you helped to cross the street, humming away a song that you can’t get out of your head, that one rainy day that touched your soul, the dark nights that you couldn’t wait for the dawn to break- they count. They all count. You can only step out of your own circle of unhappiness when you start appreciating the small, beautiful things in your life.

How does it help? Well, the truth is it really doesn’t help. It only gives you the strength to move up your ladder. It’s scary to look down from the 20th step of the ladder. And as time takes you up and life pulls you down, it’s the little things that give you all the reason to hold on.

Harry Potter in Real World

I have noticed that when we first read Harry Potter, Harry’s situation made us feel miserable. Our deepest sympathies were evoked. Some of us even shed tears because we couldn’t stand his predicament. We felt utter and complete contempt towards the Dursleys.

Why wouldn’t we have? They were horrible, horrible beings. They treated Harry like dirt. He was neglected, uncared for, mistreated. We were outraged by the Dursleys’ conducts. We deemed their treatment of Harry unacceptable.

Forcing Harry to live in a cupboard and making him wear oversized old clothing seemed deplorable to us all. Not letting him pick what to watch on the television and not letting him play on the computer was simply mean. Leaving him behind during trips and outings? That was just plain cruel. Letting Dudley pick on Harry? God that was just awful parenting. Not giving Harry anything nice; treating him like an outcast; not showing him his parents’ photos; yelling at him for no reason. All of these made our blood boil.

We were horrified. “How could they treat him that way?” we demanded. While in the meantime we overlooked the mistreatment of children at our own homes.

Did you ever notice how underage servants are treated in our country? We take them in and we treat them worse than the way Harry was treated. Most of the times we forget that they are children. We make them work till they physically can’t anymore. We take away their freedom, their voice, their rights. We treat them like we own them just because we pay and give them almost edible food. We make them live on the floor in the kitchen or in some small room; we give them old clothes to wear; we don’t allow them to come near the computers, and only allow them to watch what we are watching when they are done with their tasks. We leave them at home while we go out and have fun; we let our children bully and toy around with them; we order food in and make them eat the leftovers from previous days; we yell at, and at times even beat them when they make a simple mistake. We don’t even send them to school, or teach them to read. “What will they do with education?” we ask. And worst of all we don’t even let them go home or see their parents at times.

We look down upon them. Treat them like they are worse than dirt. And for some reason that is socially acceptable. That is perfectly okay.

When we shouldn’t even employ children to work at our homes, we do all these. Children belong in schools. But we as a society don’t seem to care. As long as we are privileged and as long as they serve to help maintain our comfortable lives it’s not our headache, right?

We are busy, important people. The value of our time is immense. And our time is much better spent crying over the mistreatment of a fictional character rather than caring about the less than humane treatment of living, breathing human beings.

Cheers to the hypocrisy! I guess for us to really care we need things to be in print.