Category Archives: Writing

Sometimes I wonder what the point of waiting for my dreams to come true is. Of anxiously waiting for things to happen that seem like they’ll never happen.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one who’s stuck in this place, a place where the future I imagined with sparkling eyes is an alternate universe, an imagined utopia.

Sometimes I wonder if I should just give up.

But then I can’t imagine a world without dreams, a world without hope. Because no matter how far-fetched these imaginations are, no matter how daring or silly or extreme, they help us move on, move forward.

Because to dream is to live, to breathe, and to be human. To dream is to believe in the sweet promise of tomorrow.

And so I’ll keep dreaming.

It doesn’t take much to be carried away on the weak wings of imaginings, as these fleeting hopes take us to unimaginable heights.

It doesn’t take much- a look, a laugh, a lie- to lose ourselves utterly to the dancing little girl inside us, to her girlish fantasies and impossible dreams.

It doesn’t take much to rewrite ourselves and our futures so completely, to be rendered helpless by these fantastical ideas and hopes, so much so that we forget ourselves.

The dancing little girl, who dreams of horse-drawn carriages and moonlit nights, is the first to skip and giggle at the whisper of delight, at the rustle of dreams coming true.

The dancing little girl, who dreams of ball gowns and royalty, is the first to drown under the tsunami tides of disappointment, of the crushing realisation of rejection.

Modern and practical, we pretend we have outgrown glass slippers and tiaras, but inside, we are jumping and leaping, dancing and skating, our hearts soaring and floating. But it is when that little girl comes out, her tiny shoulders shaking, that we find ourselves unable to pretend any more, as the wings crack and break, and we fall back harshly on the ground.

On the ground, we stare in awe at the heights we had risen to, the silly thoughts we had entertained. On the ground, we promise not to be swayed by the dancing little girl again, to remain unattached and unaffected next time.

But the next time finds us liars, as we can be found throwing ourselves off the cliffs of practicality, hoping against hope that our dreams can keep us afloat. Because this is what makes us forget; this is what makes us girls.

Title inspired by the Lana Del Ray song of the same name.

They see me, all they do is see me. Because I cannot hide in the wide, open pastures of cruelty. Instead, I crouch down low, and try to avoid their shameful gazes. Their eyes full of judgement.

For some, I am the wrong colour. No matter my clear accent or my birth certificate, I will never belong. This is not my land. Technically, it’s not even their land, but they’re loathe to let me remember that. Instead I am the exotic and the Other.

For them, this veil creates barriers, and not friends. For them, this face is one of millions who cannot adjust, cannot adapt, cannot assimilate.

Every bangle, every spice, every syllable of my difficult pronounce name never lets me pretend to be one of them. For my very skin, my very essence, never lets them forget.

For others, I am the wrong colour. In a sea of pale faced beauties, I am too dark, too short, too fat. No matter my name or my attempts at the language, I will never be them. For I was born here, in a land that is not their own. Instead I am the exotic and the Other.

For them, they do not see the clothes on my body as belonging. To them, I am an imposter, a foreigner to their superior culture of back home, and I will never belong.

Every pair of jeans, every bagel, every word spoken in the language that is not theirs never lets them forget that I will never be one of them. For my essence, so diluted and divided, never fits their pure, perfect mould.

I am broken, the jagged edges of my soul torn, as I try to fit myself to their convoluted puzzles, but in the end I fit nowhere. Am no one.

For some say I am black with white stripes, while others say I am white with black.

As for me, I’ll never know.