It was never about religion.


It was never about your beliefs, or mine, or theirs. It’s always been the fact that we are all humans, therefore we should all be treated by each of our governments as such with the same rights, regardless of gender, regardless of preference, of race, or of reputation. You may have your truth about marriage; your beliefs and your strong opposition about it, but you cannot use it to deny a fellow human being of his right. We think for the good of all, not for a select few – and definitely not for a select group of beliefs.


You will survive this the same way you sleep through thunderstorms: with the knowledge that it will pass.

Happy Independence Day.


One tiny slip by our government and we might not be able to greet each other that anymore. Let’s make the legacies of heroes count, and even for just one minute in the twenty-four hours you are given to celebrate that day off from school or work, appreciate the fact that – whatever your cynic opinion on it may be – we are free.


You’re the sun. I’m the moon. You’re a bright star radiating life and warmth, giving hope and new beginnings, beautiful even when you wake and sleep. You tinge the sky with oranges and pinks as you wave goodbye, and a glimpse of you in the morning is enough to set anybody’s day.

No one can touch you. No one can even look at you for long. They can only admire you from afar, when you set your stare on a lucky guy, and glance away when you look back. You’re too bright, too damn bright,  that no one can fault you for sunburns and strokes because at some part of the world you’re a blessing to be even mildly felt; because simply put, nothing can survive without you.

Everything revolves around you. You stand in the middle of planets and stars and galaxies, while I, riddled with craters and gray and small, can only reflect your brightness when it’s dark; when it’s night, when everybody sleeps. I give light that cities do not need. I’m only beautiful on the rare times that I’m full; only beautiful on the times that you’re across me; that people come out to stare in admiration – all because of you. I’m no source of wonder, of light, or life, but of omens of monsters and myths and scoffed-at fantasies, and to humankind, I am merely another piece of their triumph.

Maybe it’s bitterness. But I just beg you to understand it.

For even on normal nights, they beg for stars.

Cracked Surfaces


Things may – and most probably will – break in your hands. The pieces will be tiny, jagged and sharp: they’ll want to fall out of your hands as easily as you let the handfuls of water drain from your fingers, and their edges will pierce and prick, and you will bleed from your fingertips to your palms. You will want to hurl the pieces away from you in agonizing pain.


Hold on to them. Let the wounds open. Endure the pain. Hold on tight enough to make it know it’s staying inside your hands. Another pair will come, warm and soothing, its fingers fastening the pieces back together again.

You will heal. Your wounds would dry up and new skin would cover them until your scars are the only marks on your flesh; the only proof, of how you truly endured. The hands that were with you, the ones that held the pieces together again, will be intertwined with your own. And though things will never be truly fixed, though they may have more than just a few cracks running along their surfaces, it will never look as broken as much as it will look strong.



There’s this anticipation that comes along with birthdays. Though I know better, I still expect drastic changes to come on the third of June. I still expect some sort of transformation; of noticeable change. So far, for the past birthdays that I can remember, I’ve got nothing.

I guess it further proves the theory that maturity never came with age. Neither does heightened respect, for that matter. I’m fifteen, still a kid, and I’m messing up half the damn time.



Roads taken alone sometimes make you appreciate the journey more – and you also learn how to look out for yourself.

It’s a wide, wild world out there. Just thinking of the odds is enough to power up enough fear to be aware; to be conscious of our well-being I’m sure we’d all like to keep and surroundings we all want to look out for. And that’s when all of a sudden, that fear that turns to awareness turns to appreciation. For example, at the end of the day we’ve remained safe and somehow just knowing you could’ve been a victim of some crime makes you appreciate that fact. Or when we’re walking and looking out for ourselves and just look up and see the sunset coloring the sky pink and orange, lighting up the clouds… It’s beauty found in the most unexpected moment. You’re looking out for the big bad wolves and found yourself in an enthralling forest.

It’s a strange correlation I can’t put into words very well, but it’s a benefit of being paranoid and imaginative as hell and something that’s part of my daily routine that I’m grateful for. It all happens in just a snap; a split-second of wonder… But somehow, it manages to be an amazing phenomenon.