Fragmented

Hope ruins people. It ruined me. Hope deliberately betrayed my perspective which I tried so hard to create, it’s like standing on the edge of failure clinging desperately only to be pushed by reality, living through each day hoping and praying that everything would change, that it would make sense, that one morning I’d wake up to a better sight of the world, a world which is less painful, less frustrating, less cruel, a world that doesn’t closely resemble misery.

 

But every morning is not a start, it’s not a beginning, not a chance, not a blessing, it is yet another part of an endless cycle of decimation, a continuous struggle for change. Hope means weakness. Hope means defeat. Hope is an evil form of profound devotion. Hope is a lie, a fabricated excuse for deliverance. Hope destroys people. It destroyed me.

Big Heart

Six times a week I saw him there. He was the first one to always greet me whenever I arrive at work. He is a big man. You can already assume that he is from Africa or Bangladesh because of his skin colour. His hair is the typical-curly-I-woke-up-like-this kind of hair. He was always the coy type – something that you would expect from a person who came from a destitute household. He barely talked although he seemed chatty around me.

Puso. His name is Puso. It’s an average name, a name that you could easily forget. It doesn’t have a nice ring to it. It’s not even interesting, but there is more to him than meets the eye. There’s something special about Puso. Not just because of the fact that his name means “heart” in my language, but because it makes him who he is. He has a big heart.

He worked as a janitor/maintenance guy in the company where I work. He was the cleaner, the sweeper, the toilet ninja, the dust warrior and the garbage hero. Not one single time did I see him doing nothing, taking a break or getting a snack. He was always doing something, whether it be polishing the windows or mopping the floor. He was practically a robot. A robot that needs to work; that needs to suffer the hardships of life for a chance to change the course of his future. I admire him. I admire his dedication, his commendable fortitude to deal with righteous people and co-workers who think that he is nothing more than an expendable employee – someone who isn’t capable of whining about injustice or maltreatment. He didn’t complain, he didn’t make a fuss, he basically would just shrug his shoulders, look down and not say a thing. He would just go back to what he was doing and act as if nothing would ever break him – no words, no insults, no judgment – nothing could ever rupture his faith: his faith that someday…someday…life would be in his favor. Someday…where no one could tell him what he can and what he cannot do, where no one would be discriminated.

Puso taught me a lot of things, things that I never would have appreciated had I not seen the reality of weakness. I will be like Puso. I will be brave. I will never let anyone violate my worth. I am not going to be defined by stupid and inane perceptions. I will never be daunted by people’s foul and callous judgment. I am my own person.

All About Daniel

Can you keep a secret?

I was thirteen years old when I fell in love with Daniel Jacob Radcliffe, an English actor, and a famous one at that – the boy who lived, the chosen one – yes, Harry Potter – need I say more? So, it wasn’t just an infatuation or a childish admiration for a popular celebrity. It wasn’t a crush; it was nothing simple. I practically adored him. I wasn’t just a typical fan. I wasn’t some girl who simply wanted to get his autograph or take a picture of him, or scream his name on my sleep. No, I was actually weirder than that.

I was captivated by him in the simplest way, it was so simple, yet I cannot describe it. It felt somehow ordinary and yet, my heart can’t find the perfect adjective that would suffice to limn how I felt for him. He was my inspiration. I was just a little girl, clueless about love and emotions, and he taught me how to feel, how to lose my heart’s control and believe that someday, he’d know that I exist, that I could be a part of his world.

His world and mine could not possibly meet, but that didn’t stop me from thinking about him, from practicing the exact words that I would use if we ever had a chance to know each other. I didn’t need to talk to him personally, as impossible and foolish as it may seem, I talked to him in my own way, in my own creative solace. I wrote about him, I wrote to him. Through my writings, I was able to tell him about me, that I exist, that there’s a girl on another part of the planet who loved him and cared for him. I introduced him to my world. We were two travelers, walking through different paths of uncertainties and puzzles, and I believed that someday, our paths will cross and together; we could create new journeys of love and possibilities.

Every day, for the past four years of my life, I wrote to him. I wrote a book for him – a story untold; a story no one could ever comprehend how profound and emotional; my own version of happiness and serendipity. It was a book about faith and hope for an impossible love; it was a book about the other side of the equation; it was a book of promise. My promise.

And then it was nothing. It became nothing.

One morning, I woke up, feeling more agitated than usual. I looked to the right side of my room and there they are: my addiction, my obsession – Daniel had a special place in my room, from the walls, to the ceiling, to the wide side table, in every photo album, in every HP memorabilia, in every wallpaper, in every diary I ever kept, in every stationery, in every note, in every notebook. He was everywhere to me. And he was in my heart. But that day, I decided to just get rid of my hopeless dream, my luckless romance. I realised that I wasn’t a kid anymore, and that I needed to dispose of every negative thing that would deter my growth as a person. And a normal person wouldn’t fall in love with a picture on the wall, or a character in a movie, because it’s never going to be real. And if it’s not real, what do I live for? A fantasy? I wasn’t going to lose my sight of the real world for something that would keep me from it.

So I took my book, lit a couple of match sticks, grabbed a large metal basin, threw the book and I watched as it got consumed by the mighty fire of awakening, the flames slowly tearing it apart, burning every word that I had ever conceived, perishing every letter, every line, every feeling, every emotion, until it became nothing. Just ashes. Just gray particles, lying there, waiting to be forgotten. I cried. I cried a lot.

It was my first heartbreak.

They say that if you truly love someone and you let them go, their memory will always haunt you and hurt you until you find someone who will replace the emptiness, but when I let go of Daniel, I felt better. I will always remember him, after all, he was the reason I wanted to be a writer. I wanted him to know that I was different, so I wrote a book for him. I wrote a version of the world where I could be with him; where we’re both just normal people and that we could also fall in love; a world where no one would be unfair; a world with Daniel. It was all about Daniel, but I let it go. I burned the book, not because I don’t believe in dreams anymore, or fate or destiny, but because I learned that I have a life too. And Daniel will never be a part of that life. I was meant to be alive, not to fantasize or be trapped in a dimension of chimeras and magic.

Life is a magical journey. We meet trolls and monsters along the way. We see chaos and giants. We feel butterflies and heartaches. Nothing is going to be easy. No one is going to be fair, but just be yourself. Believe.