Reality and Another Reality in The Span of 329 Minutes

 

Thursday, September 19, 2024. 9.57 am.

 

     I cried in the bathroom again, after a few minutes of desperately trying to convince myself and feed my mind with lies about how this isn't the end of my life. Flashback to a few minutes ago, the 9th grade school counselor spoke in my class about various excellent high schools as a reference for us. And of course, most of them being an Islamic school—the thing I loathe with all of me.

 

     The talk about high school to me is merely an act of digging my fingers into a newly-healed wound, revealing the flesh, and letting the blood stream down my skin. It's nothing except a reminder that after 9 years of serving my sentence by having to study in an Islamic elementary and middle school, after 9 years of being someone else, another 3 years of sentence is waiting for me. 

 

     Another 3 years of being forced to believe in beliefs I don't agree with. Another 3 years of being perceived as the role I'm playing instead of my actual self. Another 3 years of being good at things that don't really matter. Another 3 years of crawling in a mud trench, fighting invisible wars that only exist in my mind. A war that left me with a broken mind and heart yet no damage on the surface. A war that happened only to me, forcing me to fight in it with all my life while standing consciously on my feet because no, the world didn't stop for those little nuclear missiles inside; it keeps on spinning.

 

     What a waste. Spending what was supposed to be three of the best years of my life in the worst way possible. I have been trying to find a way to justify this, but I can't. I can't justify living through my teenage years as someone else. It's cruel enough that I’ll only have one summer while being 17—let alone living through it as a stranger I don't know. 

 

 

Thursday, September 19, 2024. 3.08 pm.

 

Somewhere between 9.57 am and 3.08 pm, life feels good again.

 

I went to the bathroom with the cool girls I just befriended in 9th grade. I don't even want to go to the toilet, I just want to wait for them while saying reckless things and talk about anything. They said their first impression of me is that I'm "sophisticated," but I don't believe them. I think I would believe them if they said people view me as a lonely, untrusted loser. But we laughed it off. I got an A+ for my Arabic test. I put on my earphone and put the shuffle mode on, and my favorite song immediately played. I found this great book about World War 1 and World War 2, and the author explained the topics in a simple yet detailed way.

"Maybe in between what might be the worst times of my life, there will be short commercial breaks of life boasting its beauty to me; showing me that life doesn't have to be a book of wasted potentials or a film of unfulfilled dreams."

 

So, about high school. Maybe that isn't as horrifying as how it plays inside my mind. It will be tough, one thing's for sure. I will cry in a lot of different bathrooms. Life will drag me into the trenches again, and another invisible war will break out in my mind and heart again. Another 3 years of being anyone else other than my true self will be exhausting. But, maybe, just maybe. Maybe that'll make me swear to never take every second of my life after this for granted. Maybe in between those invisible wars, I'll discover a great band from the 70s or a book that no one reads in a library I've never visited before. Maybe I'll watch a film that will haunt me with its beautiful shots or brilliant lines. Maybe I’ll laugh again until my stomach hurts with Ella, Jihan, and Umar again. Maybe in between what might be the worst times of my life, there will be short commercial breaks of life boasting its beauty to me, showing me that life doesn't have to be a book of wasted potentials or a film of unfulfilled dreams.

 

Maybe, as horrid as high school could be, the moments that will slip between assignments and these weekday play-pretends are also as beautiful as it. After all, I can't just say “life is horrible” when if I just look around and feel once in a while, these stills that look like they were robbed from a Luca Guadagnino film exist and all I need to do is just look, and feel. These sequences that feel like they belong in a Damien Chazelle film. These raw dialogues that sound like they're taken from a script of a Greta Gerwig film. Maybe.

Mixtape: 

45 / Bleachers

Mando / Will Paquin

Sweet Disposition/ The Temper Trap

August / Taylor Swift

Secret Life / Bleachers, Lana del Rey