Muslim. Pakistani American. Punjabi. Traveler. SDSU. Write. Friendly, but blunt. 21 years old. Dance. Adventures. Coffee. Cats. Half hipster, Half desi. Sarcasm. Foodie.
"that’s what really scares me. falling in love is easy. having sex is easier. but bumping into someone that can spark your soul - that shit is rare. you could fuck four, five, all the people in a god damned room and you’d only feel a connection with one. or none at all. and what sucks is despite the undeniable real magnetic pull between the two of you, more often than not, you don’t end up together. i’m afraid i won’t meet anyone else i can connect with. i’m scared it’ll just be you."
"How right that the body changed over time, becoming a gallery of scars, a canvas of experience, a testament to life and one’s capacity to endure it."
Best friend post.
When all you have to do is ask them to go on a drive with you and they immediately know something’s up.
When you get in the car and you are already crying and they don’t barrage you with questions. They just hold your hand.
When they know just where to take you to recover from your little breakdown.
When, especially after so many years, they know and you don’t have to waste the effort trying to explain yourself.
And above all, when they can determine how rough of a time you’re having just by the way you are dressed.
if you know me, you know that I do not cry often. In fact, since my accident, my endurance for pain is substantial. Today, however, was the first time in my life that I cried tears of joy.
My good friend, Jordan, visited me this morning before work. We’ve both been having a rough time; she struggling with roommate situations and me from work and school. I gave her a mug I picked up the other day with her initial on it and bought myself a matching one. We go out for coffee before I walk to work.
I come home from work, exhausted, with a fat paper waiting for me to write it, to find a bag of trader joe’s on my bed, a card propped up on it. Inside are coffee mix, healthy snacks, and a bottle of sparkling pomegranate juice. I sat on my bed, in awe, staring at this gesture. Incapable of comprehending the kind of thoughtfulness and kindness my friend so unselfishly gave to me.
After weeks upon weeks of feeling underappreciated and overworked, I cried. I was so grateful and happy that someone out there, in all the billions, gives a damn and cares about me. The validation of existence, the extremity of kindness rendered me blubbering.
"Let go of relationships that do not serve you. That means negative people, dishonest people, people who don’t respect you, people who are overly critical and relationships that prevent you from growing. You can’t grow as a person, if you don’t have people in your life who want to grow with you."
"I’m not really sure why. But… do you stop loving someone just because they betray you? I don’t think so. That’s what makes the betrayal hurt so much - pain, frustration, anger… and I still loved her. I still do."
I don’t know how to not get caught up between two friends who are fighting. I want to be the supportive foundation they both need while their friendship explodes and spatters all over the place but at the same time I can’t listen to them shit talk the other. So instead, I’ve been avoiding them both, and spending a lot of time alone.
this is exhausting.
"He says: I’m Muslim.
As he brings the double shot of rum to his lips.
I imagine the way it burns as it slides down his throat.
He winces, then smashes the glass against table.
Everyone turns and cheers,
then they go back to their conversations.
He says it again — I swear.
I say: I know.
He looks at me with sad eyes.
Wallahi - he says,
still trying to convince me.
I say: I know.
I watch his eyes turn to glass as he downs another.
I swear I am Muslim - he slurs
I say: I know.
No— he says— you’re judging me, look
and he holds his hands over his ears and he begins to recite.
And I put my hand over his as people begin to stare.
And I say: I know.
And he begins to cry, and his tears look ancient, and his face contorts, and his mouth is open but there is no sound, and his body shudders.
And he tries again and again, never getting past Bismillah.
He keeps on saying “No you don’t understand I am Muslim, I am Muslim, I am Muslim, I am Muslim”
I know, I say.
And he holds the bottle to his mouth and he almost swallows it whole, and he says “marry me Aasiyah, I am a good man, my father is a hafiz of Quran,
it is just this Dunya, it is this world that has killed me”
I know, I say
"A cramming of living spaces, a modge podge of different colors, and mismatched paneless window shapes, windows that act as doors and doors as windows, and ledges as stairwells to higher lofts. Wires cat-cradled between wedges of slumped buildings. There are window paths, narrow spaces for walking from one room to another. A dropping of tired old squares, rhombused with overuse."