Acceptance

This was an essay I wrote in answer to the question - What major issue do you notice in your community? 

I wrote it keeping in mind mostly the teenagers I meet or observe on a regular basis around me or online. I edited it here and there to make a bit more relevant to this blog which is why the ending looks a bit off, I might take care of that later. I hope you like it.

I believe acceptance can be applied to the root of almost every problem in our community, or the lack thereof. Whether it be with one’s own self or towards other, I think lack of acceptance in our society stems a lot of difficulties in the bigger picture.
Lack of acceptance within one’s own self gives rise to self-hatred and unnecessary self-pity. it is popularly known that both these vices not only cause a distorted view of our own self image but also of others. Those with hatred and feeling of helplessness inside themselves see it manifesting itself into everything they see around them.
we cannot struggle with reality. we have to learn to accept it. Acceptance does not mean that you are happy with the way things are, it means you are at peace with it and willing to change it for the better if you can. Self acceptance leads to a new life with new possibilities that did not exist before.
Social acceptance is accepting others as they are, including their varying personal beliefs, ethnic backgrounds, religions, and political standpoints. Problem with lack of social acceptance is that most people fail to recognize that not everyone will abide by them in their personal ideals.
When society lacks acceptance, it gives rise to wars, spats, discrimination, racism and other negative factors.
The only way to tackle this problem is by chanhing the people themselves. This can only be done with the help of education and byraising awareness.  Education eliminates ignorance, which helps us too see the world and everyone in it with different eyes and appreciate things we never did before.

Awareness, like education, will also make people distinguish between what is true and false. 

Vivid dreams

I have been having extremely strange and vivid dreams and it has only begun in the past few months. They are often repetitive. Often I have such intense dreams, it feels like I'm watching a movie and I can also remember them for a long time afterwards. The book I'm working on is a spin-off of an extremely imaginative and interesting dream I had. I even made a painting out of some kind of a design I saw in my dream once.
I also experience a surge of emotions in my dreams. I see new people and places everyday, and I literally mean everyday. In real life, I'm mostly dead, emotionless and sociopath-ish all day so it's a nice change.

A guy kept shouting "por favor" at me in my dream today.

Someone call Sigmund Freud.

Rhonda Jones (Short Story)

I always knew there was something strange going on with Rhonda. Maybe it was the ever present distant look in her eyes that made me ponder so or maybe it was her frequent absences from school.  Nevertheless, it came as a shock to everyone when she blew out her brains with her dad's .44 Magnum.  She did always talk about going out with a bang. 

I never could have thought of taking it in the literal sense, of course. 

The signs are often laid out in plain sight, demanding to be heard, but not a soul pays heed.

Rhonda Jones wasn’t a goth or a punk, she didn’t have a disarrayed family and she wasn’t a lonely nerd. Rhonda Jones was the charismatic, beautiful all-round achieving girl that people think only exist in movies or in dreams. Which is why people stared unbelievingly when they first heard of her suicide.

She used to live 2 blocks down the street from me. We'd been together since the time she moved into our neighbourhood with her family from Nottingham when she was six. Though, we failed to preserve the close bond we had as kids as we grew older. Before anyone could notice, our frequent playdates that used to ultimately stretch to sleepovers transitioned into rare hello's in the school hallways.

I still remember the sound of the bullet shooting out from the gun when she pulled the trigger.

I still hear the bang in my nightmares and watch myself running to the source all the while thinking how good of a story it would be to tell Rhonda.

I still am struck with flashbacks of the sirens of the ambulance, the shriek of her mother, the silent sobs of her father and the curious prying eyes of the neighbours.

And I still invariably shudder when I remember myself standing under the oak tree that stands in front of Rhonda’s room, wishing with all my might that it wasn’t what I expected, that it wasn’t whom I expected.

Silently, I shook violently as I saw the plight of her body lying lifelessly on a stretcher, blood still pouring out of numerous indiscernible sources - her nose, her head, her mouth. Even her eyes seemed to be crying tears of blood.

That image has been stuck with me forever. Not a day has passed, when I don’t suddenly remember it. every minute I spend laughing with others, I spend in guilt when I'm alone. Thinking and pondering on what-ifs. 

What if I had done something sooner?

What if I had tried to make an effort to salvage our relationship earlier?

What if I had acted upon those signs instead of playfully dismissing them? 

What if I had paid more attention, tried to rise my head up from my ceaseless self-absorption?

I don't know why she killed herself and I never will. All I can hold on to are the summer days we spent under her oak tree when we were children. When we didn't and couldn't care, living in a place stuck in spring with blooming flowers and exquisitely coloured butterflies.

Rhonda Jones dissipated the pain and turmoil by dividing and distributing it to three other people to carry.

Her parents and me.