Though he was tall, quite fair in complexion, His cerulean gaze was lowered in humility, For he was filled with the shame of poverty; Viewed he himself as nowhere near perfection. Life was a stagnant river of constant rejection. Dismay gnawed at his sad soul in brutal enmity. Wealth he lacked, but rich he was in sagacity. In the company of peers, he feared humiliation. Yet, in the radiance of dawn he arose with hope, Laughed about the sole of his shoe gaping so wide. ‘Much to be grateful for' was his personal creed. His heart filled with faith that again he would cope, Face travails, shoulder challenges and never hide From anything, as God provided for his every need. Image: Fernando Photography (www.unsplash.com)

It had started with a beautiful day in My hometown where I have learned such a beautiful lesson that I will never forget. Even though everyone was smiling, the sun was shining and children were playing happily, but my eyes were sparked by only one person; the one who was sitting under the tree with a smiley face, asking for a penny, to buy a loaf of bread saying Good Morning to everyone passing through him, I did not know what the first action should I make, wondering if I can ask him how is he doing? Is he okay? Why he ended up like that? Many questions came into my mind, because of that smile. How can any person be happy while he keeps always crawling from one street to another begging people for money and food? I was imagining myself if I were in his place my whole life will turn to a hell based on sorrow and grief. How can I smile while myself, and my spirit is telling me to cry, I would never endure this feeling, so I went toward him and asked all that came into my mind? With a sweating body and a trembling voice I said : Good morning, he replied with a grin on his face, wakey for a pretty lady I smiled sadly, and asked why? Why are you being so fake, pretending that you are having a good time and happy while you are not? Your eyes show you within pain and your hidden tears !? He answered me why are you so sad? don't you have everything? mm …Your eyes are telling something had happened? I was surprised by his answer asking curiously: how did you know? He told me we all have emotions but it depends on us if we like to show them or not. Yes I'm sad and you can bear neither my feelings nor my pain of having no shelter no family and no friends, but I try always to overcome the harsh memories I try to be positive and look to things from another perspective, I asked again but why? He told me because I believe in miracles I believe that there is someone who is always stalking and tracking me when I'm sick or sleeping I asked with wonder what makes you sure about that? he said because I feel it and for me, this feeling of being safe and protected means the world to me even more than being happy. I asked with amazement but who is that "someone"? He replied back with confidence he is in the sky watching me every day and I'm pretty sure that one day I will get what no buddy else had before, I will live with my own family and play with my kids because this life is not the one it is all fake, am sure that there will be something prepared only for poor people who did not have the chance to be like you or any ordinary person in this life. One day we will all die and none of us will take his money or glory to his grave, we will be alone there; in a place where we all be equal in. I started crying, and with a faint voice, I admitted: I wish all people think like that. I do not know why should we care about our good looking, job salary and what the others say about us, why do we care that much hate in our hearts why..? He answered softly because the truth hurts and hard to be accepted. I will give you advice my dear try to keep it for the rest of your life; just be who you are and if you want to do something that people think is weird while you really want to do it, just do it and never care about them .like smiling even when you are begging, as I did today although it was unfair to you? I surprisingly answered... how did you?... he gave me a tender smile and said yes This Life is so "UNFAIR" was what I have seen In your eyes.

“Rohit, Rohit…, where are you? Where are you Rohit, come quickly, wear your clothes”. His father, Mohan called out several times, but Rohit did not show up. Rohit was just 2 years old. It was 6:30pm, the sun had just set. People were getting ready with candles and kerosine oil lanterns. It is a backward Indian village and people still don't have electricity running. This summer the village just got the electricity poles erected, however villagers were still waiting for the electricity to come to their houses. One day Rohit‘s mother decided to pull the electricity wire from the Newly-erected power lines pole to connect to a bulb in her house. Unfortunately the electricity was flowing through at that very moment. Electric shock caused the immediate death of Kamla. Another big disaster happened when Rohit followed his mother, who was lying dead on the ground, holding the naked wire in her hand. Rohit touched her and died immediately too. It was a small, close knit village. Everyone knew everyone.The whole village was weeping at the sight. Sadly no one could go through greater agony than the three daughters, Kamla left behind her. The whole family was mourning the death of Kamla and Rohit. The youngest daughter was just 3 years old. She did not even understand what had happened to her mother. People tried to console her, but everything went in vain. Life still has to keep going on. Slowly the other daughters learnt to live without their mother except the little daughter Chandi. Finally Mohan decided to re-marry a woman named Hira, so that kids can grow up with a female figure, who will at least try to love them as her daughters. Hira was a kind and beautiful woman. Hira loved all the kids with her whole heart as her own kids. So far so good, until one day the reality unfurled and she found out that her husband already had a vasectomy. She was in disbelief as to what cruel game god has played with her. She felt cheated and angry for the terrible injustice.The frustration started coming out at kids in the beginning, and eventually it became obvious that step mothers can never love as your own mother. This was just the thin end of the wedge. Bigger problem was somewhere else. Perhaps it was the agony of not bearing her own kids. Hira felt her life was ruined, she wanted to see her own flesh and blood. Nonetheless her motherly instinct was very strong. She wanted to have her own kids, but she wanted to love her step kids too, just the way she loved them before. Very soon it became a domestic gossip in the village as to how unfair Mohan is to Hira. People started accusing him of committing a crime for not being honest before he married Hira. In the meantime kids were oblivious to the emotional roller coaster Hira was going through. Kids took Hira's anger as a temporary adjustment to her new life. Mohan felt guilty for causing this pain to Hira. He soon realized that Hira will never forgive him, and his kids will live without a mother's love again. Sadly, what is done cant be changed. In villages divorce is not an option. Well, Hira was very bitter, and if one believes in restorative justice, this is it. She was entitled to “Her Female Body” and have her own kids. She felt deprived and Mohan was guilty in her eyes. Ironically in-spite of everything, Hira loved Mohan a lot. At the same time she did not want to be a mean mother to her step kids. With all these emotions, Hira became the perfect picture of what it says “repression breeds sublimation”. A moment of tranquility set in. Hira started to look at the bright side of her life. On one hand her step kids may not be her own, on the other hand she got such beautiful daughters; all grown up, without any pain.The daughters, who love her so much that they even forgot their own mother now. She thought that with everything that has happened to her, she can either feel sorry for herself or treat what has happened as a gift. She accepted her step kids with all her heart and never wanted to separate from them. Hira realized that the word “Maa” has no boundaries, no discrimination, it is the purest of all, the word which her daughters call her. Hira found a new dimension of her life and felt, “the wheel turns and turns and turns: it never stops and stands still.” She will always love these kids as her own flesh and blood from now. This incident happened long back in 1988 in a village in India where I lived as a child. But the memories still haunt me even now. Whenever I see a charging cable or a wire hanging from the electric outlet, I get scared. So many years have passed but the memory is etched so deeply in my heart and brain, that I never let my daughters go near the electric outlets. On one hand science and technology can be so useful to humankind, on the other hand a small mistake can ruin everything. This is the evidence right here and I always keep this in my mind.

Who am I. What right do I have to feel this way. Millions have died, some struggling to live, while others going through the most ineffable sufferings. Precious and dear lives have been snatched away by a very well-known adversary, death. Yet still, here I am, with the mere audacity to feel what I consider as - sadness? Here I am, with the absurdity of my emotions and the insanity of my thoughts. I have been in this deep, dark pit too before: shutting out any form of light and reveling in my own emptiness. It was that way until someone was brave enough to venture into the pit and save me. Well, it's different now. Social interactions are now perilous in such a way that it must be avoided at all times. Our natural desire for consolation and comfort in tough times was shifted to simply video calling and messaging. As convenient as it may seem, months with almost zero human contact turned out exasperating and troublesome. I, for one, deeply sunk into my own personal bubble where it seemed like there was no one else but me – no one to save me this time. All these humanitarian disasters, social crises, and global conflicts are unraveling in front of my very eyes. In all honesty, my so-called “problems” are trivial and insignificant in comparison to the chaos of this world. Stressing over the lack of food while others long for at least a biscuit to munch on. Complaining about my pathetic life when others are mourning over the loss of their loved one and fighting for their lives. Although I hate to admit, it is extremely tempting to just overlook all these and focus on my situation – to cancel out the noise in my surroundings. Indeed, these inherent instincts of mine start to kick in. Several news on social media do not seem to bother me as much as I believe it should. It became a personal struggle for me to remain alert on all the contemporary issues while handling my very own issues. After all this, I have come to a realization. I am not to let my pride and selfishness get in the way and cloud my judgement. I should not neglect the important things in these world just because of my needs. However, on the other side of the spectrum, any emotion or feeling that we may experience must not be disregarded and just pushed to the side. We are human beings with natural tendencies to feel sadness, anger, and confusion. Our very existence validates it. Although setting these aside may appear like the simplest and most apparent thing to do, we are unknowingly causing ourselves more harm than good. The first step we must take is to fully accept all these negative things as part of ourselves. Personally, I was caught up distracting myself from all the sadness until it consumed me, bit by bit. I forced myself to become happy, believing that being sad was not and should not be an option for me. I detested the feeling of extreme loneliness and somehow wished I'd never felt that way, which eventually led to hatred towards myself. “I don't deserve to be sad because of some stupid and petty reasons.” “I need to be happy, so others around me can be happy.” I tried, but no matter how much effort I put in, it would never truly work. Sadness, depression, anxiety, among many others, does not just simply disappear. Acknowledging my emotions played a huge role in this battle, realizing that it is okay to not be okay. Small steps toward the goal may not be a lot, but together they contribute to being completely “okay”. Even if it is as simple as taking care of yourself or doing something you love, do it. If it's listening to music or reading that book you've always wanted to read, do it. It is all about how we deal with what we feel that matters. When I chose to put it aside, it was still there and I never overcame it. Recognize it, face it, and let go of it – that makes all the difference. My worth is not defined by what I feel, I know that now. The reality is this – we are all human beings with our own varying problems and circumstances. Some are at the very peak, enjoying the best times of their life, while others their lowest and darkest times. Everyone has their own timelines; we must never compare our failures to others' successes. Who am I? Well, I am me – a daughter of the King of Kings and that is enough. What right do I have to feel this way? I have every right. My emotions are valid, and yours are too.

Life is so uncertain, actually everything that happens is uncertain. Everything was going well like business, economy, works, exams and suddenly all things got paused because of small virus - corona virus/ covid-19. So my life during lock-down consist of happiness, sadness, loneliness, and ya was exhausting sometime. I got chance to learn so much new things and some moments were so stressful as well. Everything was going okay but one evening my dad received call from my uncle. He was having fever and was really sick. So he was planning to go Chitwan for further checkup and wanted my dad to go there from Kathmandu. Doctors referred to Hospitals of Kathmandu so they came here next day. Soon after they came various check ups were done and because of unknown reason there reports came late than expected period of time. We were really afraid what might happen now. We had already tested for covid-19 and fortunately results were negative. Still he was having continuous fever and cough. But soon his right part of the body like right legs, right hands were so weak that it was being hard for him to walk and eat as well as speak. Doctor said that physiotherapy can help so he started but time passed and no any improvement were seen. Everyone in the family were tensed. Nothing was working well. Business were shut down because of lock-down, uncles condition was getting worse, me and my sibling were at home since more than three months as colleges and schools were closed. Nothing was going good. Later report came and it was shocking for all of us. It was cancer. And soon they decided to go Delhi, India for further treatment- my dad, uncle and aunt.Despite the increasing cases of covid-19 and specially in India it was really a tough decision but getting scared and loosing life is really not an option. So we have to take risk sometime in hope that something good might happen. Somehow they manged tickets and went there. Currently they are in Delhi doing treatment. So this one of the most stressful period. During this period I also learned so many things. I always have been an introvert but I realized that we also need some social connection. Being around friend surely helps to uplift the mood though you don't like being with them all the time. I tried various recipes from You-tube and guess what they turned out to be good. So I decided to try painting as well and I soon realized it was not my cup of tea at all. Also I did various online courses on mental health and I am glad I did them. Learning about various things has always been my passion. And I am here trying my writing skills. I realized that various unexpected things happen. But we should have positive attitude within us to deal with those things. We have been so busy an we got free time to know our self in this lock-down period. So just explore thing and seeking for new things helps to please your soul and provide good vibes. It is really important to have balance in various things like work, family, relationship, etc. The time we got was really necessary to take a break from that tight schedule. I spend my day with family, talked about childhood of my parents, listened their stupid jokes, helped my siblings, tried things that I never could because of lack of time then. Sometime there were arguments but there were care and love hidden inside it. The bond with family became much more stronger though there were some arguments and all. We created special moments that will never be forgotten for rest of our lives. The unity and support was the most required thing because being lonely and not trying anything new can be really dangerous for my soul at least. So all those are my experience and opinion about the quarantine. There were good times, there were bad times. There were moments where all family used to sit in drawing room and laugh, forget everything that was happening. There were also moments where everything and everyone seemed to be blanked. There were time where I was learning new things and there were times when I was struggling with some old things. But what i think important is that I learned how to cope with all those things, how precious are the things that I used to take it for granted.I have learned to appreciate and also what i have learned is gratitude. Bad things will happen in life but what I believe is being positive is important. If you have any problem, seek help, try to trust your loved ones, believe in yourself, keep your faith in god and carry what you are doing if you believe that the things you know, is not harming yourself and others as well. Peace of mind, a good and correct information, patience, love, self-respect and hard-work are most powerful tools of life that I believe I sensed or we can say learned in this quarantine period. Now I am ready to tackle any problem with a smile though I would panic sometime and that would be completely okay cause I know I have people by my side and they always will be.

I push back from the laptop, my fingers trembling when I fumble with the edge of the drawer, pulling it open. I twist the cap off of the medicine bottle, shaking out two pain pills and popping them into my mouth. Another headache, my vision spotty from it. This morning there was a doctor's appointment, one where I laid out my symptoms and the doctor assured me they will only get worse. He gave me a sales pitch on chemo, along with a fresh script for pain meds. The chemo I passed on, but the meds I accepted. I'm breaking. I can see it in the rigid grip of my stance, the clench of jaw, the tremble of my entire frame. I can feel it in the air, the rough pain that emits, and this is so much deeper, so much stronger, than my own mortality. In that news, there had been no emotion. In this, I am a raw current. I don't know when it happened, or how, but grief is a song I am well versed in. I'm dying. It's a grim start to any story, but I think the news should be delivered in the same manner as a ripped band-aid. Short and blunt, a stab that burns for a moment, then is gone, the moment over. My doctor tip-toed around the news, showing me test results and citing blood cell counts, CEA numbers, and an MRI that showed a tumor the size of a small lemon. He drew out what could have been accomplished in two short sentences. You're terminal. You have three months left. I should be sad. I should be emotional, my fingers shaking as they press cell phone buttons and make depressingly bleak phone calls to all of my friends and family. Only, I don't have friends. And my family… I have no family. I have only this countdown, a dark ominous chant of days, sunrises and sunsets before my body gives up and my mind shuts down. It's not really a terrible diagnosis—not for me. I've been waiting four years for something like this to happen, a guillotine to fall, an escape door to appear. I'd be almost cheerful about it, if it weren't for the book. The story. The truth, which I've avoided for the last four years. I step into my office and flip on the light. Moving forward, I reach out, my hand trailing over the corkboard wall, hovering over the tacked up photos, the pages of abandoned ideas, jotted notes of a hundred sleepless nights, sparks of inspiration—some that led nowhere, some that now sit on bookshelves all over the world. My husband made me this board. His hands held the wood frame in place, cut the cork, and nailed the pieces into place. He kept me out of the office all day to do it, my insistence at entering thwarted by the lock, my knocks on the door ignored. I remember sitting back in this same chair, my hands on my belly, and seeing the final product. I had stared up at the blank board and thought of all the stories I would build on it, the words already itching for their place. It had become everything I thought it would. I stop at the page I've read countless times, its paper worn more than the others, the edges not obscured with clippings or neighboring photos. It's the synopsis for a novel. Right now, it's just one paragraph in length, the type of copy that might one day be embossed on the back cover of the book. I've written fifteen novels, but this one terrifies me. I fear that I won't have the right words, the right arc, that I will aim too high, hit too hard, and still not properly affect the reader. I fear that I'll tell everything, and still no one will understand. It's a book I had planned to write decades from now, once my skills had grown, my writing sharpened, talents perfected. It is a book I planned to spend years on, everything else pushed aside, my world closing in on the one thing that mattered, nothing else moving until it was finished, until it was perfect. Now, I don't have decades. I don't have years. I don't have the level of skill. I don't have anything. There is no time for perfection; it doesn't matter. I pull at the tack that holds it in place, and set the page carefully on the center of my clean desk. Three months. The deadline is the tightest I've ever faced. There will be no frantic calls to my agent, no negotiation for more time. Three months to write a story that deserves years. Is it even possible?

To Lose a Child Through Life - A Poem It's impossible to know that you child is still OK To protect your child was your job, so you think you failed in every way When your child is no longer with you and still so very young You can't help but think there must be more you could have done You turn the music up and sob while in your car and the shower hides your tears You know you can't survive this kind of loss another day, another month, another year Yet, the years go by and you realize you're still alone Although you did all you knew and could, your child did not come home The child you carried and brought into this world has gone away There's nothing left to do but pray and pray and pray How evil are those who desire nothing more than to destroy the mother-child bond You continue to seek justice, but the gutwrenching pain goes on and on No matter how huge the loss, you have no choice but to start another day Without your child that gave your life meaning in every way You lie down at night and think of your child and feel so all alone There is nothing in this world you want more than for your child to just come home. - Robin Karr Losing a child ‘through life' is the most horrific way to lose a child.Until a couple of decades ago, nobody had ever lost a child in this way– at least not in mass numbers. And, children didn't go missing ‘legally'. No mother should ever have to lose a child through life. It's not normal. It's not natural. There is no closure. There is no end to the gut wrenching pain. The wound does not ever heal. In fact, it never even forms a scab toward healing. It remains perpetually open… The taking of living children from living mothers is something so terrible, so evil, that there is no way to really describe such a loss. Not really... Mama loves you, Bradyn and Gracelyn

I remember when I was a child – when I had wide eyes and wore white. I remember trying to capture butterflies as I twirled and danced my way through the flowers. I remember the scent of blossoms, and mildew, and the smell of dusk and taste of dawn. The warm embrace of sunshine cocooned me as I echoed my laughter throughout a world that opened its arms and caught me when I fell. Today, I can now reach the top shelf and think for myself. Cracked eyes leak wisdom, and hands shake with effort. I see you and the world. I see it broken as it is – destroyed and decaying as humans run across it like ants. The stars glitter through white smog, and a single hand can count the trees. The pavement grazes my knees when I fall, and no one's words mean more than a shallow step to get ahead in the game of life. I realise as I have grown older that age is just an allusion; adults' bicker like kids, and when they shout, they don't get reprimanded. An adult is only trying to survive and look alive in a society that aims to tear each other down. Growing up is not a matter of age, but rather a matter of perception. Adults pull roots from the soil, destroy homes to build factories, dump garbage in seas, and murder animals for the chase of the kill. Today the world is broken, and no one (not even the grown-ups) knows how to fix it. I remember the exact moment when I became a woman and no longer a girl. I was 13. I recall looking around and realising how destroyed everyone was: how people held up masks, played charades, fought in a game that only they were playing. At that moment, it was decided that a grand gesture was needed – something to force Earth back on its' axis. Things needed to be cared for, and others made to feel like they mattered. I aspired to make reality feel like a fairy tale. My heart only knows how we grew up believing in things made of wisps of words and imagination; a princess, dragons, a knight, and mermaids splashed deep beneath the sea. The real demons were the ones under our beds, not the ones in our heads nor lurking the streets. Are we all drugged? We have all cheated, lied, or stolen; committed a crime that is better if forgotten. In the end, are we our enemy? I know the only battle I am fighting is with myself. Still, I yearn for when I used to believe in a world filled with fair-folk and folklore; a world where saying hello to strangers on the street was okay. I did not know that by today, I would be shattered like glass sprawled in pieces across the floor. I know now that the world only makes sense when examined in parts. I am searching for something blind. What I know is that I want to live, to be alive, and to no longer survive - to be free in a world that follows strict sunrise and sunset. I need to feel the grass beneath my feet and the wind blowing in my hair like a summer breeze. I wish to return to the world of make-belief. I mourn for whispered words, lullabies, and fables. The sunshine is shrouded, and the acid rain falls; darkness has bled into my veins. Now flowers bloom with poison, and the butterflies have flown away. My dress is red, my steps stilted, and only the scent of decay persists. The land I once knew no longer exists, and I refuse this new one that has swallowed me whole. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut until the horrors of today leak from my head. Please, I dream of sanity. To be insane in a mad world, now that isn't of myths and fairy-tales.

(This article may be triggering: caution) Nothing hurts more than a lost parent who is still physically here. In my eyes either feared or loved. I hated you but loved the idea of you. You were abusive and a helpless narcisisst. I never understood as a child how much pain you really brought until the flashbacks kicked in. Suicide attempts leaked in my mind at the age of 6. As a kid, i wanted to believe the person you were when you built me forts was who you truly were. That's the part of you that you lost, it was barely there when i was a kid, and as i grew, it faded more and more. It faded until it drifted into an abyss. It's going further and further deeper into the abyss. Mom, me and my brothers left you, I am sorry, but I wish you were sorry you led us to that. I could'nt bring myself to contact you in any way for years. Finally one day I wrote you a letter saying if you would get help i would want to see you again. I said you could only make me happy if you were happy. I know you have a troubled past, though the pain hurt, I didn't want you to feel that hurt. You refused and justified your actions, blaming me or saying my mother intoxicated my brain. Where did you go? I need the real you back, throw a rope into the abyss and save yourself please.. before its too late. I love you and need you on earth to get better. I need you back. You refused. I tried to text you again. Same thing, wanting you to apoligize of at least get help. Refused.. again. I miss you. I miss the idea of a father. Not a father figure, a father, my father. You are lost, and you dont want to save yourself. Having a father with no empathy, sympathy, nothing.. but narcissism. Please, Dad, Come back to yourself and see me again. I need you, the real you back.

He was the wisest man I have ever known. And the cruelest. He taught me to love art, music, poetry, to enjoy the free and open exchange of ideas, creativity, and the purity of thought for the sake of the purity of thought.The poet, the rebel, the non-conformist, I am all these because I am his son. Like him, I don't suffer fools kindly. He told a story when I was a child. He was in a meeting with the vice president of the company who asked him what he thought. My father picked up a napkin from the table, shredded it, and said, “This is what I think about your idea...” Then he told them all how it really needed to be done. A few weeks later, he was without a job. Again. The only difference between my father and me is that I have learned to hold my tongue. Usually. His cruelty scars every day of my life. Anorexia, at 7, alcoholism, at 16, the disdain I carry for myself - I can't look in the mirror - all stains he placed upon my life. His ill-health and his alcoholism forced me to work at 7. His cruelty cost me my childhood and my innocence. One day, my father had cornered my mother in the kitchen. I watched as he raised a hot pot of coffee high over her head. The pot was shaking. Coffee burning his arms. The more his arms burned, the angrier he became. I knew that if he hit my mother, I'd kill him. So at 13, I left home. At 16, he broke his hand on my face. I didn't cry. I just stood there calmly. I felt nothing, not even the pain of impact. He screamed in pain and told me what he'd do to me when he got his hands on me. I just turned and walked away. Just before he died, liver cancer caused by alcoholism, we took a walk to the church near where I grew up. “I have one regret,” he said. “That is?” I said, coldly. “We are not as close as I hoped.” “What are you talking about?” I said, lying. Whatever love I felt for him was beaten out of me long ago. Eight weeks later, we buried him. Life went on. I had every reason to fail. Abused children usually fail, at least it is what has happened to most of the ones I have met. When I teach, I can identify them quickly, especially the brightest. The story is always the same, and it leads to the same life-long suffering I have endured. When I was about 7, my father took me to the factory where he had worked before becoming an engineer. His father and brother still worked there. It was a terrible experience. The factory was dark, dank, loud, and smelled of urine, sweat, and machine oil. My grandfather and my uncle were filthy. My grandfather lifted me up on to his workbench and my uncle bought me a ginger ale. The pounding of the machines made it hard to hear anything. The floor of the factory and the workbench pulsed with every smash of the machines against the steel and aluminum they were machining. At one point, I watched as my uncle crawled under a machine as long as a football field to fix a part. “What will happen,” I asked, “if the machine falls on him?” “It will kill him,” my father said. As we left the factory, my father, who was 6'4,” looked down at me and asked, “What do you think?” “Horrible,” I said. “I don't ever want to work there.” My father spun me around, got down on his knees and took hold of me by the shoulders. “Fuck up your life,” he said, “and this is your future. There is no Plan B.” Honestly, I had no idea what Plan B was. I guess I didn't need to. The last thing I wanted to do was to spend my life in that factory. I can't say that experience turned my life around. I wasn't old enough to turn anything around. However, I never forgot it. I talk to my students about it. Whenever my life gets dark and I face failure, or, when I just get to the point where it is all too much for me, I remember looking at my father's face. The anger I saw in his eyes as well as the concern. I am because he was. The days are shorter now, The nights are longer and darker. If you knew me, chances are you'd say that I am loving, kind, patient, gentle, and caring. I am always surprised when someone says that. I don't know why I am or how I can be. Not after all the cruelty. Or, perhaps, I have found a way to love despite all I suffered. It doesn't matter. The past is past. “When the dead are left to bury the dead,” Koestler wrote, “the living are left alone.” I have been alone a very long time. Sometimes I wish he were still alive. Not because I need him in my life, I learned to live without him long before I turned 13, but because I want to know why someone who was so wise could be so cruel, and why I can't ever seem to leave the scars he cut across my life behind. As he lay dying, his stepmother, a miserable person, came to see him. There was an intercom in the bedroom so that if he needed my mother, she'd hear him call out. “Did you ever love me?” he asked his stepmother. “What do you mean?” she responded. He died without ever knowing the answer to the question that meant so much to him, and, sometimes I fear that I shall as well. I am because he was.

Pray tell, what do you think a child dreams of? Perhaps they wonder what it's like to soar through the sky? Or they dream of exploring the infinite universe? Or maybe they think about what growing up feels like? Each child has their own dreams and wonders, their own desires and destinies that they wish to pursue. So why is it that, in a world where following ones dreams is a universal goal, very few manage to get there? I'll tell you why. These dreams children often have, dreams that make them smile and excited for the next day to come as they rest their heads for the evening, are crushed by those who had their own desires smashed to bits in front of their very eyes. We dream to be whatever we desire before those wishes are blown to dust, and then we grow up only to do the same to our own children. Why does this cycle of misery continue so often? Why is it so hard to break this link, this chain, that holds many of us down? I once dreamed of many things. I wanted to be a ballet dancer, then a singer, then a firefighter, then an artist, and then soldier working to protect my country. All of those dreams were decimated by my family. I understood well enough that they had good intentions, and their reasoning was everything but illogical (we are too poor to pick ourselves up after the fall after all). However, everything has become different for me now. I fear of the future, and my desires are unclear. Do I chose what is best for my family's sake, as well as my own, or do I follow my heart's true wishes and let my dreams guide me through the rocky stream of life? Do I work simply for the pay so I can live a better life, or do I work because I enjoy it and love doing what I accomplish? My life has made it all hard to choose. I had grown up believing that I can only have one, not the other, and thus cannot formulate a plan to achieve both goals. Even in writing--for I once shared my desire with my brother only for him to tell me I could not simply because I couldn't earn enough money unless I had plenty of wealth and connections at my disposal, in which I had neither nor--I know not whether to pursue this dream or to abandon it like all the others. My love for stories, helping others in need, children, and the creatures of this planet that we hold so dearly to our hearts is what drives me to pursue these careers. Yet, the need to do better than those before me who did not go to college, who had children at a younger age than they should have, and are still too poor and can barely afford rent every month drives me to pursue careers I have no interest in whatsoever. My whole life I have been stuck in this infinite loop of choices, deciding the pros and cons of each path, and I still have not found my way. Now here I am, a junior in high school almost ready to leave for college, and I still have the same broken mentality of my younger self. The version of me who could not decide for herself, and thus let others do it for her because it made them happy. The version of me who did what she desired in secret and was forced to wear a mask around her own flesh and blood. The version of me who at a young age continued to foolishly follow her heart only to have it broken again and again, over and over, until she could take no more and grew a lust for revenge against her transgressors. The version of me who was once so innocent and so pure, and who is now nothing more than a walking sag of flesh waiting until the day she can finally rest and leave this world behind forever, relieving her of all that has saddened and angered her for decades. So, again, I ask of you: what do you think a child dreams of? Space? Love? Adventure? Well, one thing is certain. This child here dreams of being herself again. She dreams of freedom, true love, and a happy life. It matters not to her how she gets there. She cares not if she is poor or rich. She cares not if she has a 3-acre mansion in LA or lives in a one bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. The only thing she cares about is finally being happy again. That is her childhood dream.

I looked at my elder brother' life from under the ridiculous bang that mom was cutting me each 2nd day of the month throughout my sad life. He was not particularly physically strong, and his spirit often failed, but I always thought that he was the most extraordinary person, so I was lucky with him. My pride has no limit. When the girls from the class were talking about their brothers and sisters, I stood in a corner and smiled broadly, because I knew that my brother was the best. Considering how difficult it was for me to converge with my peers, I had to take the position of an observer. My parents didn't understand my brother, or frankly sometimes they pretended as understand. And only I felt his pain during his strange life. My brother was very sensitive to the world, so very often, through the sieve of children's thoughts, I could not help noticing how his gray-green eyes filled the ocean. He did not talk to anyone since the age of 16, people began to believe him, as if he had lost his speech, and it was good for him. Hikes for speech therapists left much to be desired. Day and night he was reading, noted some individually-made phrases, paragraphs and sometimes smoked cheap cigarettes from a kiosk located next to the house and wrote poetry. Oh God, what poems he wrote! It seems to me that the whole world could have long ago turned a blind eye to all its oddities, just to be able to read or hear his works. He recited his poems only to me and it was the happiest time in my life, usually filled with chocolate sweets, eating teeth; classmates, catching up on boredom and ridiculous fours in a diary, grieving parents. With him my soul ascended higher and higher. In those moments I felt myself involved in something supernaturally beautiful. With sweeping movements of his hands, he told me about his touch; what touched him, but was at the same time indifferent and finally, that his, to his great regret, could not touch. This was our secret: I was invited strictly to the apartment in a shed, I, and he, of course. I loved observing the facial expressions of my hero, who was climbing enchantingly on the curb, and a constant sense of fierce pain pierced me, so that after nights of another secret literary evening I would close in the toilet and bellow for a long time. Of course, no one knew about this: neither his brother, nor even more so our parents. They would simply have not forgiven his brother - neither that, as it turned out, he still knows how to speak, nor that he allegedly influences me badly. When I turned 12, my brother was no longer able to put up with life, he left. I can not blame him, though sometimes I confess and try, sitting on a lid closed with a toilet and blowing every 40 seconds. After drinking a lion's dose of sleeping pills for the night, my hero went to a meeting with dreams. His parents found him in the morning cold and blue, with a note at the head of the bed, the content of which provided parents with no persecution by state bodies. My brother asked me not to blame anyone for his death. I tried to understand why he did not write a single word to me, I was very upset and at the same time for a second I did not doubt his great and sincere love for me, perhaps to the only creature on the planet that did not upset him. Thinking over what happened, I did not understand how my legs led me into the barn, into our secret shelter from the outside world. I decided to look over the curb, where he hid his works and not in vain. He wrote to me the lines that are permanently carved on my soul, and which I will never share with anyone, as adults say too "too personal." I always knew that my brother was special, because only he could hear, understand and accept me, deaf-mute a closed girl without embellishment, he did not feel pity for me, for him I was just like him - absolutely normal.

Hey everyone! That's my first essay for a while. Generally speaking, i am very excited to tell you many stories that were happened in my life. I hope you will like it, even though i have no followers there, ha-ha

My life is so weird. It's always been weird. That's probably because I was born in 1949, the 3rd child of a family that wanted to stop at two. I was constantly told that I was worthless and was always costing my family money. In those days, children had no social security numbers and if somebody had the right connections they could sell an unwanted child in a black market adoption or even worse, sexual slavery. I think I was three at the time but my parents left me with the baby-sitter on Christmas. The baby-sitter, I found out later from my older sister was also the contact for back-street abortions and black-market adoptions. The babysitter who was an older woman, left me alone with a book filled with Christmas stickers. In those days, there was no self-stick stickers. You had to lick them glued back to make them work. This was the first time I was away from my parents and I was scared. My anxiety increased as I stuck stickers everywhere, hoping my parents would return soon and be proud of my handiwork. Instead a young couple arrived. I remember the woman had long blonde hair and a red dress under her fur coat. My babysitter picked me up so she could hold me when all that anxiety and glue backed up on me and I threw up all over her red dress. She yelled something like "How dare you give me a sick baby!" and pushed me back into the babysitter's arms. I was put into a crib in a dark room after a lot of angry talk and I stayed there until my parents picked me up. I don't remember much of what happened next, but I was very sick because the next thing I knew was that I was in a hospital, being stuck with needles by angry nurses. The story I heard later in life was that my parents left me with the baby-sitter so they could attend my sister's Christmas pagent and was sick with something that was called "glandular fever." My mother said I spent eight days in the hospital. The first seven days I was given sulfa drugs that had little effect on my sickness. The end of that week, the doctor told my parents that he could give me a new drug that was still largely experimental, but my father would have to sign a permission slip because the new drug could cure me or kill me. My father signed the paper and they gave me another giant needle of the new drug. That night I flew. I flew around the hospital. I saw what looked like a woman having an operation. I saw lines of cars and trucks on the roads outside. Finally, I was back in my crib I was coloring in a coloring book and throwing crayons back and forth over the tops of our cribs which lay head to head with a kid named Mikey. The next day, I stood up in my crib and tried to see over the huge wooden top, but I was too short. When the nurses came in, I asked where Mikey was. The younger nurse burst into tears and said "Mikey's dead!" I went home that day. When my mother told that part of the story to my sister and me, she asked "Guess what that medicine was?" We shook our heads. "Penicillin." Our life was rough after that. My father had a successful machine shop but he drank all his profits. My mother took in ironing. Later, I found out she was also turning tricks. When she wanted to insult me, she'd tell me I was "just like my father." For a long time I wondered what she meant by that because weren't we supposed to be like our parents? It wasn't until much later that I found out about the visiting "insurance men." We had dogs but the one assigned to me suddenly disappeared. My mother said it was all my fault because I didn't take care of her and she ran away. Years later my sister told me that she wasn't going to keep a female dog that wasn't spayed. The male dog was never the same. He always kept to himself and never wanted to play. My mother did some darker things to try to "turn me out" but I was too defensive and would say I'd jump out into traffic before I'd go along with that scheme. And I said it while in a moving car going down the Long Island Expressway. My parents bad habits were backing up on them. I got into constant fights at school. Nobody wanted to be my friend. My mother kept trying to get into the local social scene by joining a church but the gossip got about and she was shunned. I was shunned too. Finally, my father lost his temper one last time and decided to move from New York to Florida. In Florida, he bought a bar and had my mother help him run it. I had always wondered why they stayed together for so long. She said it was because he was the only man who offered to marry her. I always wondered why a man would stay with a woman who fooled around. I found out later, he fooled around, too--with other men. The whole marriage thing was one big made-for-social-acceptance sham. My mother liked playing the diva at the bar and my father spent a lot of his spare time fishing. My brother only stayed for the first month when he turned 21 and flew back to New York to stay with friends until he got a place of his own.