Skip to main content

Unshaken.

It's subtle, but it's there. I can feel it, and you know it too. Our eyes meet, but our laughter doesn't have the mirth it once had.

The hands that were left unshaken, the hands that should have been clasped in greeting, remain motionless. They are our hands, separated by an invisible barrier built out of respect—at least, that’s what we call it. Some gentlemanly, chivalrous idea, noble in intention but twisted in its execution. It sounds more like disrespect.

A simple acknowledgment would have gone a long way. What is meant to be some holy form of respect feels like a dismissal, a negation of my presence, as though I am invisible, unworthy of being drawn into the conversation. Does my body, does my mouth intimidate you? Does the very thought of my words unsettle you? 

It stings every time it's noticed, yet my body has grown accustomed to it. My eyes no longer widen in shock, but my heart still flinches. It isn’t unfortunate that it continues to hope. It’s that stubborn hope that leans towards the idea of change, that maybe tomorrow will be different.

But this feeling... it’s relentless, as if it has made a home within me. I notice it every day, but today, it’s particularly sharp. I feel it again, reminding me of who I am—or rather, who I’m expected to be. The assumptions weigh heavily on me before I even open my mouth, before my name is uttered. 

It’s as though something is fundamentally wrong with me, something so viscerally unsettling that others feel the need to handle me with care, as if I were made of glass, delicate and easily shattered. And yet, despite the scream that shatters inside me, nothing ever breaks. I remain perfect. Sit still and look pretty. 

How much longer I can hold onto hope before it too slips away?

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Fading Glory.

It's getting worse each time. A stabbing pain pierces the right side of my body. Is it real or fake? I can't tell, but it feels real enough. The pain is undeniable. It's like the cry of an athlete dislocating their knee, or the off-pitch note of a singer losing their voice. Years of honing a craft, developing a skill, and with one accident, one minor moment, it all slips away. It's harrowing to face the prospect of dying on the field you played to stay alive for. The sheer exertion and endurance of these athletes—it's a testament to their dedication. The sweat on their faces is more than just a sheen. Wipe it away, and it reappears. Bruised and darkened knees, common slides on any type of ground—their bodies are used to being used. They throw themselves into their sport until it consumes them entirely. It's both their beauty and their burden. Do the expectations and reports weigh on their shoulders? Aren't we supposed to lift them up on our shoulders? My mat...
Post a Comment
Read more

Permission to Dream.

I had a dream. I ran out of the airport, got into a taxi, then out again, and ran. I ran so fast, yet my left lung didn’t pinch. I ran home. The company house I had called home for so long. I told them it was technically my tharavad. They laughed, and I understood why. But I knew every inch of that place. The way my feet could map the cool tile floors, the small gaps between them, the familiar weight of the air inside, the walls that had seen me through everything. I opened the door, and everything was just as we had left it. It was a dream. It’s been a while since I dreamed. And yet, this one felt jarring—not in a way that unsettled me, but in the way that it confirmed something. I knew I was heading home. I knew the airport, I knew my destination. But as I stepped inside, I felt as though it was telling something. Telling me.  That I could call it home. That I had permission to call it home.
Post a Comment
Read more

The Old Vase.

We remember so we don't forget. Of the pain, of the love, of resistance, of liberation. They will forget, their children will not remember. But our flesh has the memory stored in our bones, as we are born, it is born with us. In us.  Forget about it. Forget about yesterday. Time that's to come is made by time that's gone by. The bones remember, the flesh clings to what was, and with every breath, we resist. The past slips away with parts of us, we must hold it gently without letting its arms turn into binds.  Can we live without leaving scars when we were all made of wounds? Can we make choices that feel like they reach beyond ourselves?  We remember as if by instinct because we were forced to forget once.  I hold the cracked vase gently. I wait for the glue to arrive. I can buy a new one now, but something tells me the old one will last longer. Once we trace our fingers over the scars, let them heal and fill them for all the space it has created.  Maybe then, t...
Post a Comment
Read more