All posts by Twisted Unicorn

1. Writing

As a way to encourage my writing, I had the idea to write about my first times. Hopefully, it’ll be a weekly challenge, and anyone can join in.


Vivid imagination was a gift of mine, very easy to fall into when time allowed. I’m able to get lost in my mind for days; my mood easily affected by the lives that lived in my mind. This is a story of a little girl’s first attempt to write, a story of passion screwed over due to fears.

Years ago, as a child, a story screamed at me to be written, an urge that was not new to me but simply had lacked the self-deprecation that prevented me before from taking such a step. That day the urge was stronger than I have thought it would be, and I wanted to write. So I took out a favorite notebook of mine and wrote my story. I wrote in explicit detail as it would be seen by the eyes of a child. Filled with new burst of emotions, my tiny hands shook but continued scrawling over the papers. The character grew in shape and color with each sentence. I remember the need to show my work to my parents, the need for their pride and love and I remember having this deep belief that they would love my work and would encourage me to become a writer.

Deeming the piece ready, I reread my unfinished scrawny story in an attempt to fix any mistake. I left my room, allowing my feet to carry me to my mother. I don’t remember what she was doing at the time or which room she was in. I reached her and my mother being a supporter of arts, she had in her eyes pride, after all her young child was talented enough to write her own story,

A peak into my childish story, though, and confusion settled in. English not being her native language, she asked me ‘What is it you wrote?’

So I narrated the story to her, I told her of a girl who lived among us. A girl who was abused by her parents. A girl who constantly thought of death and escape. A girl who cried alone in her room, because she was in so much pain. A girl who was too young to think of life and its unfairness.

I remember her gradual shock that was quickly covered up with a strained smile, she forced a nod and fake pride spoke volumes. Not knowing that a child sees and senses just as much as the adult. I remember leaving her and heading to my room, feeling confused. My father arrived home from work, I had at the time thrown the story away. Shredded the paper into pieces, angry with myself for aspiring to be a writer, for getting my hopes high. The child choosing to blame herself for disappointing her mother and later father.

My father called for me later that day, asking to speak with me. I walked into the room they sat in, thinking I was in trouble. Both my parents had grave expressions, and the moment I stepped in I was bombarded with questions: Have we ever mistreated you? Have we ever abused you in anyway? We love you and we would never hurt you, why would you write a story such as this? Eventually, the questions turned into a lecture of sorts, on what true mistreatment is, on how I’m lucky to have parents like them, on how my cousins are not as lucky and as they spoke my guilt and self-hate grew. The child wanted to hide away from the world.


I remember my frustration, my anger for their inability to understand as I attempted to explain that it was just a story. One of the many stories I lived in my mind, that I’m aware I’m lucky. I remember the hurt, I remember not being heard, and I remember, in frustration, quieting down. It was not the first time they hadn’t listened to me; it wasn’t the first time they had assumed on my behalf. Silence was easier as I have learned at such a young age. Finished with their lecture, I was finally allowed to leave to my room. I walked in with an attitude of defeat, I took a final look at the garbage bin where my story laid there in shredded pieces. I remember the silent tears that I wiped away angrily. I remember making a decision that day: I’ll never write again.

I stopped writing ever since and it took me years to gather my courage to leave behind that childish decision. It wasn’t till I had another strong urge for a story to be written, the urge fought me till it became an action. I wrote then and I secretly enjoyed it. I never, though, shared my secret with anyone and every time I wrote a piece, I shredded the paper. It took me years to have the nerve and to break that promise. Looking back to what my parents did, I understand now it was fear. Fear that I was unhappy, fear that they did something wrong, and fear that they were bad parents, and so they mistook my story for a personal experience.

A Stroke of a Brush

Frivolous colors splashed on the canvas creating a massive explosion of emotions hidden but burning under my skin. The black hole within me decreases in size with each stroke of brush; breathing becomes easier with each expression of color or shape. Nothing is clear; no intention is applied on the oil painting just plain frustration and anger. Being engrossed in my painting silences the voices in my head; they become a mere buzz that is eventually reduced into eerie silence. I don’t know what scares me more, the voices or the silence. I can’t handle being alone and yet all I want is to be alone. I start breathing heavily as my strokes become more and more aggressive and anxiety creeps up to me. I work harder and my colors change from brighter to darker colors, and the hole in my heart grows steeper. My art is my voice but I speak a language no one understands so I’m still unheard. I scream my pain and frustration through the colors I have but I’m not allowed to be seen or heard. After all I am privileged, who am I to complain, who am I to break free of the chains surrounding me and who am I to even believe I’m chained at the first place. So I break free only through my canvases.


The Struggle Within

The pain that followed the punch was unbelievable, it coursed through the child’s body as every part of him screamed for attention. The boy was hunched over gasping for breath. He shook but not in fear nor in anger but in misery. The being that hovered above him was just a shadow, a huge dark unclear silhouette, which just ignored the boy’s existence.

Determination set in the boy’s shoulders as he straightened and looked into the shadow’s unclear face, managing to fuel its anger again. It jerked and took a step back in confusion before it attacked again with a forceful slap across the boy’s face. Stoic, the boy said nothing as he fell to the ground. Silence descended within the abyss they are in, only the heavy angry breaths of the silhouette was audible.

It didn’t take long before the child became determined again, refusing to be ignored. The child stood but instead of a boy, it was a girl. She sniffled and wiped her tears off her black and blue face, her eyes filled with willpower as she stared into the silhouette’s face. It didn’t take long before it kicked the girl, and her body flew far away before it hit the ground. Her body fell lifeless and the shadow grew restless. It walked around mumbling, unable to fathom what was going on as she began to move and gain her strength again. As she stood her body changed and grew into that of a man.

The man stood and limped his way towards the shadow. When he was close enough he lifted his eyes and stared at its face. The silhouette was already prepared, and the moment the man looked at him, it punched him. The sound of a breaking rib echoed through the abyss, and so did the sound of a screaming man. Groaning, the man’s body began shifting into a more slender form.

A woman instead was holding her side, groaning in pain as she began to roll over to get on her feet. Barely able to stand up straight, the woman looked straight ahead at the shadow. She was prepared for what was to come. It didn’t take long before the silhouette slapped her and punched her till she fell to the ground. Motionless, the woman’s body curled and shifted into a shadow.

The silhouette in anger and confusion screamed, as it slowly dropped to its knees on the ground next to the unmoving shadow. It didn’t want to see them nor acknowledge them. It didn’t want to do this over and over again. They wouldn’t leave it alone in ignorance, because they wanted to be seen and accepted and that is the constant inner struggle that we have within our own abyss.

Shooting Stars

My father and I went to the market; he had suggested it since I had been frustrated with the constant crying of my newborn child. My husband, eager to help, had taken our son from my arms, and told me to take a break. I hurried along, happy to escape for a while. We were away for one hour, and as we walked back I saw my mother sitting in the balcony enjoying a tiny glass of green tea. I could see my brother playing football with the neighbor’s son on the street, my brother had been screaming “goal” and dancing. He saw us and instantly waved his hands in excitement and just as I started raising my hand to wave back, the shooting stars rained upon us.


Attempting to sit down with a couple of broken ribs was very painful, but I managed. I had to. My dad sat down next to me, wincing because he accidentally moved his broken arm. It wasn’t a comfortable place to sit, but it wasn’t like we had that much of an option. He looked at me with a smile though and hugged me with his other arm. He wouldn’t leave my side; he made sure I came with him even when I begged him to leave me behind, to save himself. We were both a mess, from burns, broken bones, cuts and bruises, but we made it.

Here I’m with my father on top of the rubble, battered as we watched the sky. We sat there in silence as we huddled close, not feeling that much of the pain. Maybe it was the adrenaline coursing through our bodies, at this point it didn’t matter. I sighed and laid my head on my father’s chest; I could hear his heart beating fast. It was very calming. I looked up at the sky, it was dark. I couldn’t see the stars or the moon from all the smoke; I could only see the shooting stars. They were magnificent; they flew with so much grace. Next to me my father shuddered, he was looking down at the rubble of what was once our home. If I looked closely I would still see my husband from where I sat, I smiled at his protective nature. He was covering our four months old child with his body. I could see someone’s arm too, I thought it belonged to my neighbor but I wasn’t sure. My baby brother was crushed by a car nearby. We stayed next to him till he stopped screaming and crying from the pain, till he finally took his last breath. I could hear someone screaming from under the bricks and stones but the agony eventually died out. There were scattered limbs everywhere and even someone’s brain. I had never seen a human brain before; it doesn’t look that different from a cow’s. We couldn’t find my other brothers and my mother, but we knew they didn’t survive. No one did.

I shuddered in fear as the shooting stars neared us, my father held me close. I could feel his arm trembling. He tried to be stoic to what was too come, but death is a hard enemy to face. I like to believe it wasn’t death that scared us, it was the pain. My heart jumped, beating faster; I hid my face into my father’s arm as my body shook violently. The smell of burnt flesh made it difficult to calm my racing heart. I don’t know how long it took, it could have been a second, a minute or an hour but it felt like forever. My eyes were squeezed shut. Anytime now I thought. The earth shook with the impact, I could feel it. I could see it too, behind my eyelids. Bright light pierced through them, I smiled because the shooting stars were giving me a sign that it had begun striking again. I kept my eyes shut, waiting to meet my creator. Everything went quiet and I heard my son crying, and a hand touched my back and as I turned I found my husband crouched down close to me, smiling.

“What took you so long?” he asked as he handed me our son.


I’ll Still Love You

I pity you, because you limit yourself with only your ideals. I pity you, because you’re hardly understood. I pity you, because you choose to blame everything else except yourself. I pity you because you only blame yourself. I pity you for loving me so much that you’ve stopped living your life fully. I pity you, because nothing is ever enough.

I don’t hate you, even though you make me hate myself. I don’t hate you, even though you’ve managed to always make me feel guilty. I don’t hate you, even though I spent my time scared of being like you. I don’t hate you, even though I want to for not being strong enough. I don’t hate you, even though I’m never enough.

I’ve come to love you out of duty rather than out of passion. I’ve come to hate myself for feeling that way. My guilt eats me, as my brain tries to justify it. I only want you to be happy, but you seem to want things that I can’t give you. Every time I pursue my own happiness, you guilt me with every step. You won’t let me fly and fall, you want to clip my wings. You can’t do that though, so instead you guilt me with every step I take. I know you want me to be happy, but on your terms not mine. I wish if you would clip my wings instead, because I know I can fight it, but I can’t fight guilt and disappointed looks.

I’ll still love you no matter what, you’ve done so much for me. I wish if I could make you happy, I wish I had never told you the truth. I wish I can go back to pretending to be someone that I’m not. I know it might have made you happy, but truth is it wouldn’t have made a difference.

I’ll still love you no matter what, because it’s my duty. I know you love me and no one will ever love me like you do, but your love hurts me so much, I sometimes can’t breathe and yet your love is what helped me survive so far. Your love is what made me who I am. Your love and support is what always made me feel safe.

So I’m sorry for not being enough. I’m sorry for not making you happy. I’m sorry for not expressing my love to you. I’m sorry for not being there the way you want me to be. I’m sorry for wanting to live my life by my own ideals. I’m sorry I could not make you proud. I’m sorry you think I’m lost. I’m sorry for being me, and most importantly I’m sorry for not being able to care anymore.

I want to understand you, to help you. I blame myself for not being able to reach out properly. Believe me, I’ve tried but with every attempt, I face a wall so thick and confusing. You provoke me so easily and guilt me just as quick. I have tried different ways to communicate and with each try I’ve come to fail. Days turned to months and months turned to years and the result was the same. So I’m sorry but I no longer care, I’m tired of trying and always failing. I’m tired of talking to a wall. I’m tired of never being enough.

With your love you’ve managed to suffocate me and push me away. With your love you have turned my passion to duty. With your love you have managed to make me care less about you.


Droplets of water dropped down from the tree leaves as she limped her way through the jungle, she walked down the narrow path that only her trained eyes could see the subtle signs left by tribesmen to help guide the travelers back to their homes. Dense thick trees surrounded Kiera, branches brushing against her, leaving scratch marks all over her body with each step. Her body was raw with exhaustion and her stomach wound oozed more blood with each stride. If it weren’t for the earlier rain, the trail of blood would have led the enemies right to her. Her sword sheathed but her hand never left the handle, her eyes constantly searching and scanning the area for any threat, she was prepared to fight any animal or human.

Birds chirped happily, oblivious to the state she was in. They suddenly flew away, disturbed by the roar of a tiger nearby and the scream of its prey. The sounds of her surroundings didn’t faze her, even when the muddy path seemed endless. Kiera kept walking, but dizzy with exhaustion and blood loss she failed to hear the swoosh of the arrow as it flew and pierced her right shoulder.

Kiera fell to the ground with the impact, but quickly moved to act. She screamed in agony as she broke the arrow then pulled it out of her flesh, and swiftly moved to stand, but it was too late. She was already facing the archer; he had jumped down the tree he hid in, and stood in front of her with a knotted arrow that’s ready to fly. Kiera froze, the only sounds were of her heavy breathing as her assailant stood calmly and quietly in front of her. His eyes were the only thing she could see and they were unreadable, but she knew enough that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill her. She knew with her stomach wound and her newly acquired one, she won’t be able to fight off the archer. Her only option was to get him close enough to just touch him with her ring, one prick and the poison would kill him instantly. All she had to do was avoid his flying arrows and get close enough. As she gritted her teeth to bear the pain and prepared to move, the archer’s eyes fell on the tiger shaped amulet hanging on her right forearm, his eyes widened in recognition, yet he didn’t drop his bow and arrow.

         “Did you succeed?” he gruffly asked.

  She stayed silent, trying to buy time; if he was a betrayer of their cause, her answer could lead to her death.

“Who are you? And which tribe do you belong to?” she asked instead.

“I think it would be wise if you answered my simple question, warrior.” He said, “I wish you no harm, but you shall not pass untill I get my answer.”

He gestured with his eyes to Kiera’s wounded shoulder and said, “I don’t miss, this was merely a warning shot”

Angry at his ways, “I will answer nothing; unless I know who you are and what tribe you belong too.”

The archer quirked an eyebrow in surprise, she was in no place or state to negotiate yet here she was: stoic in the face of death. He was impressed and he inclined his head in respect, which was not what she expected.

“I’m Kahlil son of Ghashis of the Tiger Tribe.” He finally answered.

She recognized both names, and he could sense it, and he carefully slid down his bow and arrow.

“Did you succeed, warrior?” he asked again.

Kiera stared at him as she forced her body to relax, “No, I didn’t.”

She knew the penalty, if she failed then she must be killed. Her body screamed in agony as she dropped to her knees. He was the son of the tribe’s chief and he can deliver the message to his father and warn their people.

“I know the penalty, and I ask you for only one thing before you execute me.” She begged, “I want you to deliver a message to Chief Ghashis.”

Kahlil’s eyes were cold, but he nodded his consent. He dropped his bow to the ground and unsheathed his sword as he walked towards her, “Relay your message, warrior.”

“The emperor knew of the attacks!” she blurted out in anger and relief, “It was he who sanctioned it, the slaughter of our elders, children and women was sanctioned by him. He wishes to end our existence. “

Kahlil stared at her in shock, “It cannot be, why would he kill his own people? His own blood?!”

Kiera flinched in pain as she moved her left hand to touch her amulet with both her index and middle finger, “I swear it on my life and on everything I hold dear. The emperor told us himself, before he ordered our deaths, it was a trap. There will be no support from him, our only choice is to find allies among our own people and tribes and create our own united army.”

Kiera took a deep shuddering breath and bowed her head in prayer, as she readied her soul and body for the deathly blow. Kahlil stood frozen, angry at the state of his country and what his emperor had become. It didn’t take him long to make a decision, Kahlil sheathed his sword and pulled Kiera to her feet, “Let’s go, you must meet father.”

He bent to pick his bow and arrow; she looked at him in shock, this was not the way of their people.

“What are you doing?” she asked

Ignoring her question, “The tribe is a one day walk from here, but in your state it will take us two days. I shall take you to a safe area for you to rest, I’ll hurry to the tribe to deliver the news and find you a mage to heal your wounds. Till then the healing salve I carry, will lessen your pain and keep infections away.”

“I have failed my mission, you must kill me or shame will follow me!” Kiera exclaimed.

The archer pulled down the cloth covering his face, fierce determination set in, “You’ve not failed us, warrior. It is the emperor who has done so. We are going to war and we need every warrior we can find. There’s no time for this, let’s move.”

Unable to reply, and her body screaming for rest and peace, Kiera finally let exhaustion takeover and let Kahlil lead the way. She was content and baffled with the results; her mission to inform the emperor of the massacres occurring was a failure, since he was the main cause of those attacks, but her personal mission of warning the tribe of his betrayal was a success, her fellow warriors’ lives were not lost for nothing. She sent a simple prayer for their souls, thanking them for their sacrifice and hoping they had found peace.

Lack of Patriotisim

I have expressed my dislike to my country more than once, and it took me a while to realize why. The answer was very simple: it no longer feels like home. How can it be home when all I feel is unsafe? How can it be home when I’m scared from a simple task as walking down the streets? How can it be safe when everyone treats each other horribly? How can I feel safe when lack of decency is the norm? How can I feel safe when my country’s police and government is so corrupted that there is no justice? Yet, part of me still loves it, but sometimes it’s difficult to do so. Maybe I should start acting and treating others the way I wish to be treated. Maybe I can help change things to the better, and maybe not. I should still try.


Every society forces people to live according to the norms and rules that they deem is appropriate, forcing people with different ideas and thoughts to wear masks. Unfortunately, no matter how much you deny this, but you do care about what people say or think about you. You are always worried that you are being judged, till you reach a point were you don’t care anymore. You reach a point were you grab every mask that you’ve worn and tear it apart, and you reach a point were you are done being fake and untrue to the most important person in the world and that is yourself.

Most of the time you don’t realize you are wearing a mask, you actually believe this is you. You believe that these are your idea, your thoughts and your personality, so you don’t bother with questioning yourself. Everything you are, is what society, parents, friends, neighbors and acquaintances told you to be. You’ve been shaped the way they desired and according to their own beliefs – which does not necessarily have to be bad, but doubt will either change you and make you stronger or just make you stronger because you found that you are already on the right path.

I understand the fear of taking the step of doubt, it’s earth shattering; it’s like walking through a storm as you search for your home. It is a necessary evil though because the result is exquisite, because you are finally free of the chains everyone has been forcing upon you and the chains you have forced upon yourself. You are free to be who you are, and you realize that you no longer care about being judged.


She was old. Too old. Her beauty lost among wrinkles. Her body crouched low as if broken from years of work and loneliness, she sat on the couch believing she was home, yet when she saw the strangers who claim they were her family, she knew she wasn’t. She knew her memory was getting worse, so she no longer threw fits.

She was coddled like a child, spoken to like one and spoon-fed by one of her children. She knew she was cared for and safe but she still hated every single moment. She hated being a burden and hated that she needed a babysitter.

She looked around the room and saw no one nearby, and then she begged and pleaded with her creator to die. She cried and begged and pleaded for him to save her from this life, for she found no purpose, her body was weak and she cried out with every move. Her memory was not as it used to be, and so was her sight. She only desired death but the reaper never came to claim her soul.

She thought no one could hear her anguish, but everyone did. Her children cried next to her, incapable of helping her find peace. They wanted nothing but to help the mother who sacrificed everything for their happiness. Strange is this world, you are born into it needing help till you find your independence then that is taken away by age and you are back to being a baby that needs help.

The Day I Killed Hypocrisy

As a Muslim I have been forced to do things and react to things in a certain way. The worst part is that it’s not because the religion is oppressive but because people are. In any society you learn at an early age that you must fit in or else you’ll be in one way or another considered an outsider.  When you are born, in any society, everything is chosen and readily planned for you, they choose your name, your religion, and your identity, and eventually they’ll shape your thoughts. They set the criteria and you are expected to stay within it.

I decided to wear the veil at the age of twelve; I was expected to cover my hair and body the moment I reached puberty. To many it may sound bizarre, but this was part of our religion. Many would also think it is oppressive, but anything in life is a choice and people, including parents, tend to take that choice away. I was one of the lucky ones; my parents didn’t like the idea of me wearing the veil at such a young age. They even refused when I suggested it, telling me I had to be more religiously responsible to take such a step. I never understood that, but I decided I will start with the basic everyday five prayers, which caught my parents’ attention and by the age of twelve, they agreed to let me wear it. My mom’s eyes watered with pride and my father called me from abroad, simply, to tell me how proud he was and to give me advice on how to handle myself from that point on. I was so convinced and truly believed that it was the right path, who would have known I would take it off eight years later.

I have always been too mature and philosophical for my age, I wanted to grow up so quickly and take as many responsibilities as possible. My parents would travel and leave my brothers for me to supervise and care for, and that built, I guess, my maternal instincts. My brothers don’t just look at me as a sister but also as a mother, which I take great pride in. I was an introvert, preferred to stay indoors and only socialized with my family members. I had only two friends and that was perfectly fine by me. I would huddle in my room and read book after book, losing myself to the worlds they showed me. I lived my life through these books. I was a princess, an elf, a man, a joker, a knight, a wolf, a vampire, or anything I wished to be. I could go anywhere I want to, it was like the door to limitless and different worlds. Even though most of my readings were of novels, but they taught me so much and one of them was the reason I started on this journey.

The way people spoke of God was in a very fearful way, they speak of Him as if He were the boogeyman. The way I portrayed God was that He knew nothing but destruction, if I sinned his wrath will find me and I will be cursed for life. I will be thrown in the deep pits of hell and burn over and over again. So I became so scared of life and living, I mean why should I when everything has a possibility to anger God or could be considered a sin. Strangely, this train of thought led me to start doubting God’s existence, which when I voiced, of course, was told that these thoughts were whispers of the devil. It was the devil trying to pull me to the wrongful path and doubt. This made my life a bit more complicated, I stopped voicing my questions because the replies were always the same, I would have been happier if people and my family told me that they didn’t know the answers. It would have made much more sense then, however, this was not the reason I have stopped believing in God.

One day I went to a bookstore with two of my cousins, and as we were paying at the cashier a book caught my attention. It was a tiny one and could be easily overlooked, but for some reason the title interested me. The book was called “What on Earth Am I Here For?” by Rick Warren and it was a religious Christian book. As I decided to buy that tiny booklet, one of my cousins told me that I shouldn’t read such a book that it will make me doubt my beliefs. I didn’t care though, and bought the book anyway. I understand why people are so scared of the truth, scared of doubting their beliefs and thoughts. The booklet was, at the time, my book of hope and answers. Even though I got what I desired, it invoked so many more new questions. I felt conflicted and mostly scared. My thoughts were evil and I truly believed that I was blasphemous and would burn in hell. It didn’t get any better, the more I read the more confused and scared I became.

I rarely voiced my thoughts, there was no point really. I was a hypocrite; I would speak of religion and pretend to be a true Muslim, when in reality my thoughts were full of doubts. I don’t know if I was aware at that point, I think I was in denial. I couldn’t face my contemplations, and with every passing day my mind would scream with confusion and fear. I felt lost and cursed with every question or contemplation that crossed my mind. We were told that our brains were one of God’s miracles, but I felt like it was a curse. I wanted to stop thinking, to stop observing and analyzing every single detail around me. With each passing day I wore the veil and identified as Muslim, the more I hated myself. I felt fake and dirty as my fear controlled me. I reached a point where I felt like I was suffocating, like this body I lived in was not my own. I reached a point where my body itched and all I wanted was to peel my skin away.

My fear eventually turned partially into anger and hate towards Him, I was filled with rage at how unfair He was. By then I had read of almost every religion possible that both currently existed or once did. I saw the beauty in them, even though some things were bizarre to me, just like the veil is bizarre to you. It didn’t matter because I came to realize it wasn’t God’s fault. My anger towards Islam and eventually other faiths was not any religion’s fault. It is the realization that people have a tendency to twist things to suit their needs and wants. I have come to realize that God is not a child, nor is He a man. It didn’t make sense that I’m capable of mercy, when God cannot. It didn’t make sense that parents have supported and loved their own children despite their sins, and God cannot. I had come to realize that God is not pathetic like us humans, who have managed to destroy everything around us including each other; God is so much more than we will ever fathom.

Yet I took off the veil after eight years of hypocrisy. For over four years I have not cried once, which I, later, realized was due to depression, but I have broken down twice in front of my parents by the end of the year. At the time I didn’t truly grasp why I was such a mess, till I made my choice and finally took the first step. I went and spoke to my father and mother and told them what I wanted to do and surprisingly they were very supportive. I pushed my luck in a couple of months and I went and told them that I no longer believed in their religion and announced I was atheist. That, though, did not go so well. My mother chose to blame herself, she tried to speak to me and lecture me. I wouldn’t have it; I couldn’t listen to anything at that point. My father did not say much, he understood and gave me my space, but throughout the year he pushed me to choose a religion. He really didn’t care which. My parents feared for my life, which is a bit extreme and understandable, and they were a bit disappointed in me but they never stopped supporting me nor did they stop loving me.

As I was writing today I realized that I have never stopped reading and searching for God. I no longer wish to have a title for who I am, because it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter if I chose to be Muslim, Hindus, Sikh, Christian, Jew..etc. What matters is that I find Him, and this is the path I have come to choose. The path to find my God.

So I killed my hypocrite self, and I have managed to break a huge part of my fears and walls. I dwelt beyond my comfort zone in many ways to better myself, and to finally live. Most importantly I no longer have to pretend to be someone else either, well most of the time. There are some necessary masks that one must wear for certain people. I respect every religion out there, including Islam. It is not my intention to offend; I simply wished to share my chain of thoughts throughout the years that led me to the path I am on now. It is people who oppress; it is neither religion nor God who do so, because by the end of the day everything is a choice.