Cultural Events

There is a recurring dream that visits my mind daily. Not frightening, not comforting. Just a sheet of white. Some say that these visions are not dreams, but if I'm asleep, and my mind hallucinates this sheet of white, it's a dream.

I prefer to believe that my mind and mental health have seen and heard things beyond my own imagination that there's really no scenario they can display to my unconscious mind.

I'm an open person.

I was seven - or six? - when I floated in a jelly donut blowup water seat and silently watched a girl, who had a large one-piece bathing suit on teeming with tacky flowers, get molested by my swimming coach. I genuinely believe and recall that moment to be the day my ebullient view of the world disintegrated.

I was nine when I wrapped myself like a woolen burrito with pillows glued to both my ears when my parents had their first fight. First of many. The cartoons lied, this pillow trick never worked. Maybe the gift of an iPod was foreshadowing the several years to come. I'm aware that in spite of my perpetuate love for both my parents, there is a resentment that gradually built up for their lack of honesty to one another, to our family, to me.

I was eleven when I first stepped into a crowded, reeking airplane. I was walking through clouds, I was having horrid airplane food among the sunset. My Lebanon bubble was generously popped. Thank you. I no longer limit myself, academically or socially. There's always something beyond our borders. That is what makes me smile.

I was thirteen when I had my first boyfriend. Everyone dates in Middle School, and once you're out of the frenzy, you wish you had listen to your mother's subtle comments about regret. I genuinely believed we were going to get married. There is a unique kind of loathing I feel towards him now, one transfixed with a love that, unfortunately, will never leave.

I am fifteen and my views of those around me has collapsed. Maybe I'm just inconsistent. Maybe the world is inconsistent.