Friday, February 3, 2012


I know why those who love me continuously tell me to change, to be more upbeat and happy, but I wonder if they know that circumstances in one's life tend to introduce them to comfortably, uncomfortable sensations. Sensations that in their own right, stain the past, present and in some cases the future, too. It's like Shakespeare said, "To thine own self be true." I am true to all that is Neda. I can’t apologize for the presence of incomplete human emotions in others. I am for the tenth time in my short life, willing to be open while I seek the stability raped of me by others; others whom I don't know whether to love or hate and whom I love and hate. I find it one of life's greatest conundrums; a lot of people just wrap a Band-Aid around a cut and move forth, others are told not to cry about it and, if you will, man up, but I, I just keep cutting. When I bleed, that's when I feel. Pouring peroxide on a wound, for me, is an excruciatingly, uninviting sensation though it lasts but a meager instant. It's the dismembering and remembering of my father's spirit. It's remembering the past, documenting its wraithlike wind, rewriting it, revitalizing it and allowing it to tap into its own memory, while the scent of cigarettes cinched into my grandmother's silk nightgown remains on the tip of my nose which no longer reserves that place nestled into her deep clavicles while I sleep. It's a sense of comfort tied to the struggle of trying to duplicate these things, knowing that the past is the only feat that's impossible for anyone to ever conquer. I keep asking myself if there is a way to make others understand how necessary the magnificent, albeit at times unimpressive, minutes of my past are obligatory to my survival, and now I see that there may never be a way and frankly, I no longer care to question if one is even necessary.

I am this life.
I am here to shout it from the rooftops.
The past is the only lifeline that some of us have.
I want to secure my thoughts a valid presence, here at this moment in this particular life; attachments to the past MAKE US WHO WE ARE.
I don’t need to feel this intense desire that something needs to be removed, discounted, or let go of in order for me to move forth.
It was something not even the most privileged people will ever be given the chance to experience. It taught me sorrow and without sorrow, I would have never realized how badly I wanted peace. It taught me peace and without peace, I would have never become the empathetic, kind person I am.
I am independent.
I am my father’s daughter.
I am Margrit Khankhanian’s granddaughter.
I am worthy of happiness.
I am deeply in love with feeling anything.

I live, breathe and dream the past; and that, that is the kind of excruciating sensation I am faithful to no matter how many times it hits; every morning, day or night, when I realize it is time to wake up, live or sleep.