PurpleFluence

[i feel purple]

[purplefluence]

The Grey Zone

All of my songs are sad,

I know I shouldn’t complain as much as I do.

Ive had a shitty day for years now

seasons change with the yellow-blue.

My anger is silence,

I know you know that,

I hate when you’re quiet,

I’d rather you fight back.

This push and pull is the only way it all tracks

I hate when you’re here

I hate when you’re away

If you can just push through,

I’m begging you to see me,

Through lead walls Ive split

Barbed wire around my guilt,

Are you scared when Im like this?

My body can’t always fight it.

Nobody’s known a love a like mine,

Too scared to want it

Everyone’s had a love like yours,

Easy to find and flaunt it

Desperation is a wordless loss

With love never found nor false

When the silence echos I wonder

If Im even good enough for remorse?

You know I fucking hate you!

Please Dont leave me.

If you can just push through,

Im begging you to see me

Through lead walls Ive split

Barbed wire around my guilt,

Are you scared when Im like this?

Sometimes my body can’t fight it.

I love you.

Please stay here.

I know it must sound so insincere,

Through the lead walls Ive split

Barbed wire around my guilt,

I get scared when Im like this

Sometimes my body can’t fight it.

Sometimes my body can’t fight it.

Sometimes my body can’t fight it.

[lousolversons]

how do you reconcile with liking morally imprehensible content and problematic media?

i dont reconcile w anything bc i dont give a shit thanks for sending me this batshit ask tho

[modernbaseball]

Naming the female razor brand Venus is so personally offensive to me....you think Venus the goddess of love and sex and beauty was shaving her PUSSY? Go kill yourself

[curiousneophyte]

Visit Original Link

[peoplehood-deactivated20211003]

If the beginning of the universe had a sound

[purplefluence]

Touch is so fucking important. How much, how often, where, when and with who. All of it matters. Growing up, everyone was so repulsed by my body. My mom and dad only saw it as a collection of medical symptoms that needed fixing or altering. They never held me or touched me and now it feels foreign and forced when they do.

But my need never went away. I’m making up for so so much lost time. All 21 years of it. I desperately want to be touched. Anywhere & everywhere. I want to be affirmed that my skin, and the body under it, is not disgusting. It is worthy of being touched and held and loved and kissed. I just can’t stop wanting or imagining it. Its the simplest of acceptances. If someone is touching me, I know they like me & want me around them.

I can’t let go of the juvenile parts of myself because I never got to experience it. And I feel so horrible for seeking it out in every kind of relationship that I have.

[purplefluence]

I wish I could appropriately convey the cumulative heartbreak of fat girls everywhere. I know its not interesting or even sympathetic to hear these problems out, I know it because I’m sick of feeling it everyday.

I can’t put into words how devastating it feels to know that people won’t look at you with gentle judgements or a loving glance, because of how you look. I wish I didn’t care. I wish I was one of those girls that chooses not to give other people’s opinions that weight, but the truth is that absolutely everyone does. It’s just easier for the good looking ones not to care, because it’s abundant in their life, and also usually positive. I’m not saying unwanted attention is acceptable, but when I hear how sick & tired my beautiful friends are from being flirted with or asked out randomly, I can do nothing but feign a smile and giggle, praying they won’t work out the depth of jealousy and disgust I feel internally. My physical form, no matter how much of it is my fault, is my downfall. My glowing personality, kind heart, warm voice, anything remotely good about me is sullied by the body in which it exists. But more than anything I wish I wasn’t made to believe in my ugliness from such a young age. From before I even had this body, I was taught to hate it. To view it as a constant ailment or battle I will have to fight everyday.

But what me and a lot of fat people have trouble admitting is that we know we aren’t worthy of your sympathy or even your pity. Cuz we did this to ourselves, right? We’re simply bearing the cross we chose to lift. I don’t want to be one of the girls that thinks her body is a “temple” or a “gift” or a “machine” or “beautiful” or “gorgeous” or anything of the sort. I also don’t want to be the girl that believes her body is too dark, too big, too scarred, too fat, too disgusting to be worthy of loving. I want feel neutral about my body. Not positive not negative, just a nothing feeling about my body.

[purplefluence]

not more than 4

There is such a thing called paralyzing sadness.

It’s when the crack in my curtain parts gently,

and I realize I’ve woken up without ever going to sleep.

It’s when the clock loses its significance,

And warmth is only a symptom.

It’s the realization that you must go this path alone,

 no matter the urge for a hand to hold.

It slams down on me like a grey column of realities, 

Too innocuous to even consider.

The paralysis sets in.

The freeze feels heavy and hazy.

Purpose is long gone.

I melt into my surroundings, unmoving.

A forced observer.

The moon rises and dips with a disdained predictability.

The freeze eventually melts away, and I can try to sleep again.

Its okay. It’s only 4 am.

[houdadraws]

Masks 🎭

[infriga]

Tilth.

[purplefluence]

coffee and me

I was anxious and like a person who is anxious, I didn’t know what to do. So, I decided to do my dishes. I picked up as many as I could carry in my hands and I walked over to the sink. I plugged in my earbuds, hit shuffle on a playlist and started mindlessly washing.

That went on for about 20 minutes. I would say it was a relatively successful endeavor.

But as I picked up my favourite cup to wash it, I noticed there were coffee stains in it. Really deep coffee stands. They didn’t smell bad and they didn’t look bad, But they were just there. I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, but the stains didn’t fade. Now, determined to return my favourite mug to her original glory, I set out on a mission. First, I poured a vinegar and salt solution into the mug and let it soak for 20 minutes. Then, I scrubbed. The stains were still there. Annoyed, I took an old toothbrush dipped it in a soap solution and started scrubbing again. The stains remained resolute. After about an hour of BuzzFeed inspired failed attempts, I gave up and retired my coffee mug. I thought back to how long ago I had poured out the coffee from that mug, and it couldn’t have been more than three days.

As I came back and started stacking the clean-ish dishes in my room, I thought about how many people are my coffee stains. They might not have been here very long, but they woke me up and sure as hell left a bitter taste in my mouth, But they were present nonetheless. They were there. I can scrub and scrub and scrub, but those coffee stains are not going to leave. I can soak myself music and poetry but that only deepens the stains. I can steep my mind in cheap vodka and marijuana, but once the haze clears, the stains reappear. I can distract with myself with sex and insomnia, but when I’m thirsty - I’ll still need a clean cup to pour my water in. I realized that those stains are here to stay. Try as I will, they will not leave. The ochre brown tinges are now a part of the cup itself.

But that being said, that cup is still my favourite coffee cup. Stains and all. She’s still the first one I reach for.

So I think maybe, just maybe even though I have my own coffee stains, I can probably still hold all that is poured into me.

[purplefluence]

bandaging your right hand

I mean obviously, that title doesn’t make sense unless you’re hurt, or you know, left-handed. Anyway, now that that’s out of the way. 

You’re doing something fun. Something you like, you put all your effort into it, you spend all your time doing it. Oftentimes, you even ignore the things you should be doing because of this thing. Most of your actions, consciously or unconsciously, are built around this thing. A huge part of your life is this thing. Slowly, instead of you defining the thing, the thing begins defining you. Now, you don’t know whether or not this is good, but you’re in so deep, even if you wanted to, you couldn’t stop it. 

But, like you expected, like everyone warned you before they left, it cuts you. Deep. Right where it hurts. It cuts you someplace you can’t do without, something like, say, your right hand. (or left, man, I don’t know y’all are like the elite 10%)

It bleeds profusely, and whatever you do, you can’t seem to stop it. You run water over it. You put all the pressure you can on it. You hold it above your head. Nothing. The wound still gapes at you. 

You look around, for help, for the thing, for anything. But it seems pretty quiet.

With no other choice, you scrape together some cotton and tape, to cover the wound so it doesn’t worsen. You start to bandage your right hand. First, you place the cotton on the wound, while inelegantly trying to wrap it in tape. But you can’t, your coordination is terrible, and by the time the tape decides to bend to your will, the cotton is soaked through. Start again.

You try again, but you forgot where you put the tape. The cotton soaks through again. Start again.

You scream out for help while holding the cotton down, nothing. It soaks red. Start again.

You put your incredible mind to use and build your makeshift band-aid first. You lay down a strip of tape place the cotton on it and rotate your hand into it, rather than the other way around. The tape twists in on itself. Start again.

You now have exactly enough tape to go around your hand once, and just enough cotton enough to cover the wound. The stakes have never been higher. Start for the last time. You use all your previous knowledge and after several long minutes of strange contortions and wriggling, you finally do it. You look at the arguably mediocre job you’ve done with what you had and a swell of pride takes over you. You’ve done it. All alone. You bandaged your own right hand.

And that’s how you self heal.

[purplefluence]

It’s a new dawn. It’s a new day. It’s a new life.

What a year.

So many firsts and so many lasts. The promise of a new beginning and both, painful and happy finalities. The year I fell in and out of love. The year I spent remolding so much of myself, I can barely recognize who I was a year ago. The year I finally made some good friends.

But it’s also been a year of pain and loss and healing. The year that showed me, with immense clarity, that I know nothing about anything. The year that taught me sometimes it’s okay to lose and you don’t have to be 100% all the time. A year that made me intensely hate myself, and a year in which I achieved more than I could’ve dreamt.

I’ve never understood the hype behind New Years. This assumption that a clock striking 12 again means any change to you as a person or coming events made no sense to me. But, I fully understand the enhancement people find in new beginnings. It’s that small rush you get when you write on a brand new notebook or enter a new house for the first time, except the whole world is feeling it with you. There’s a certain purity in starting over and there is hope or at least an illusion of it. Now I’m not here to say “hold on to that hope for 2018” or “shove it up ass nothing means anything anyway”, I just want to remark at the circularity of it all.

It’s like the starting point of Monopoly. It may be awesome or you may want flip over a table and flip off your siblings. Who knows what’s going to happen? But only one thing’s for sure, you will pass through here again; the parts of you that you left behind last time around will greet you.

But for now, collect $200 and go.

[purplefluence]

Building My Walls Back Up

I’m posting this against my better judgment. A friend of mine convinced me.

—————————————----------------------

I know I shouldn’t feel this way.

But I do.

I want him to think of me the way I think of him.

The pit in my stomach isn’t leaving. I want it to. So much.

But look at me. Look at him.

He’s a god.

I’m a mere mortal.

We know what happens when mortals and gods mix.

But I can’t help it.

I can’t help thinking of what could be.

Our hands fit perfectly.

Your body towers over mine in a protective way.

I’ve never felt safer.

I feel this disgusting dependency for you.

I’ve always been an independent woman.

I’m strong and smart.

Made of mettle.

But when you leave I’m lost.

But I can’t do anything if you don’t feel the same way.

I was taught to wait for Prince Charming.

I am.

I am.

I wait every day.

I feel this desperation.

This longing.

For a person, I’ve never met.

For a place, I haven’t been.

But in your eyes, I find them.

I find it all.

And I don’t know what I’ll do without it.

[purplefluence]

Lighthouse

All my life I’ve lived by this one rule – “The ones crazy enough to think they can change the world are most often the ones who do.”

When I was 8 years old, I would sneak into my parent’s room and I would wear ma’s sarees, lipstick, heels and stare in the mirror for hours. I loved looking at myself dressed like that. One day dada caught me, it was the worst day. He hit me in front of ma and pa screaming

“What are you doing??!? You are a boy! You cannot do this! What will people think, Karan?!??”

They never let me into that room again. I never dared to go anyway. I spent most of my childhood life knowing I was different. I’ve always felt it and I always known it, but it wasn’t until I was 13 or 14 years old that I really understood what I was. I was gay.

My best friend since I was about 6 years old was Abhay. He and I grew up in the same colony and went to the same school, so we grew really close over the years. I really loved spending time with him. He understood all my problems, helped me with homework and always made me laugh when I was feeling down, but I daren’t tell him how I really felt about him or he would definitely tell his or worse MY parents and I couldn’t imagine the havoc that would wreak.

The first time the thought went into my head that I might be gay was when I was 9, playing with all of my friends. I tripped over a deep crack in the road and scraped my knee, at the time it hurt me very badly and I had a low threshold for pain so, I started crying. While the other boys laughed at me for crying over a small graze ; Abhay walked to me, wrapped me in his warm arms, took me home and tended to my wound. It was then that I knew I felt about boys – differently.

It took me a very long time to come to grips with who I was. I watched every “Coming Out” video on the internet, and wept after every single one of them. They all talked about how they found the courage to tell the world who they were. I didn’t know what to do - because I already had the courage. I wanted to scream it at the top of my lungs from every mountaintop. I wanted EVERYONE to know. But, in my life with my parents and in the society I was born into; it seemed impossible.

I wept every night in the bathtub. I felt lost. Hopeless. There was no way I could be truly who I was in this environment. So, I made a decision ; The only one that made sense to me – to run away. But, before I did, I wrote a small letter -

‘Dear ma and pa,I love you with all my heart, but I am running away. I am not who you think I am. I am gay. I know you are not accepting of this lifestyle but I can’t change who I am because of it. Love is love and I believe I should be able to love whoever I want without being afraid of what other people may think. All my life I’ve been living in the shadow of fear, doubt and embarrassment. I can’t anymore, I don’t want to hide who I am from the world. I hope one day you can accept me, and see this from my point of view. I love you.

- Yours truly, Karan’

That night I packed my bags with everything I need. Clothes, food, some money and a family picture of mama, papa, dada and I. I left after everyone slept and walked away from my colony. I had no direction and I had no idea where I was going. I walked, and walked and walked till I reached a familiar junction, I pass by it everyday when I go to school. People sleep on the pavements and work in the small stores in around the locality. They have their own sense of community. That, being my only option I set my bag there and laid down. After a long time, I finally had a peaceful sleep. The open streets gave me more warmth and security than my blankets ever could.

I lived on that junction for nearly 2 months. I made some friends who are all accepting of who I am. I work with them, honorably. I earn my bread, but I still miss home. I never once heard from anyone. I was heartbroken, but I knew that they would’ve read my letter. The following week when I was working in the nearby restaurant with Ali, one of my friends I found a “Missing Person” flyer being pasted on the restaurant wall. I walked outside to see who it was . A reflection greeted me. It read –

“Missing Boy.

Name – Karan Amol Bhagchi

Age – 16

Hair – Black

Eye colour – Brown

Height – 5’11’’

Last seen wearing an orange shirt and black shorts. If found please contact the undersigned.

Mr.Bagchi, 984568035”

I was utterly bewildered. I was not “missing”. I left by my own choice. I didn’t understand what was happening and I wanted answers. So, I took all my bags and went to the only place that could give them to me – Home. I took a bus back and all the while, I was worried as to what was going to happen.

As, I was nearing my house a sudden wave of panic hit me and I couldn’t breathe for a minute. I was completely still. My limbs refused to move, I was stuck where I was ; And simultaneously every negative thought I ever had flooded me. I was paralyzed in fear and anxiety, my feet were giving way and I collapsed on the road in a flood of tears. Everyone around gave me strange looks, but not one came to my aid.

It was in that very moment that I fully understood what the words ‘lonely’ and ‘independent’ meant. I willed myself against my body to get up. To face my destiny as no one else will. To take the bull by the horns and return triumphant. I walked up to my front door and with every ounce of energy I had left I knocked. The moments that followed were anguish. I wanted to run. Far, far away. But, I didn’t. Because if not now, when? And if not me, who?

The door opened and I was greeted by my mother who seemed like she had endured many a sleepless night. Her face being pulled down by horrible eyes bags, awfully aging her. As, I walked in I saw my dad on the couch, casually sipping tea and watching TV. I had no idea what was about to happen.

I looked in his direction and feebly said “pa…” and his raised his eyes from their original position to meet mine. The second it did, he fell into a manic rage. He smashed his teacup on the floor and walked up to me with the intimidation of a giant. He slapped me and bellowed

“YOU STUPID SELFISH GOOD FOR NOTHING CREATURE!! I RAISED YOU. PUT EVERY HARD EARNED PENNY I’VE EVER MADE TOWARDS YOUR BETTERMENT AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME?!! YOU DISGUSTING UNGRATEFUL SWINE!!!”

He screamed profanities and insults as he hit me over and over again knocking me to the ground. I had neither the strength nor the will to fight back, so I took it. My mom flung herself over me, trying to protect me, but she ended up facing collateral damage. My dad pulled her by the hair and literally threw her across the drawing room, and that. That changed something in me. To see the woman I love most being treated like that infuriated me.

Next to me was the newspaper stand , as he was swung his arm again, I lifted it and threw it at him. It hit him in the shoulder and he fell back. I stood up from the floor as a new empowered being. With a feeling of hard earned success.

I walked to where ma was lying, sobbing bitterly. I gently held her as Abhay once did for me and took her to the kitchen, where I tended to her wounds. There she told me that, once they had found the letter the first thing dada and papa did was burn it, so no would know the truth. They then put out the “Missing Person” report to silence the neighbors and relatives. They had NO intention of actually finding me.

I told her what I had been doing and she said that she was proud of me and loved me no matter what. After cleaning her up, she went to her room and packed her suitcase. She came back down, held my hand in hers and walked out the door. But before we left, she went to my father – who was now cleaning his wounds and said “I respect no man who doesn’t respect me” , threw her ring in the sink and came back out. We both left that horrid house and went to the train station. Ma took a ticket to her native place and we both lived with her parents for the next 3 years.

Here I am, 11 years later. Settled in Los Angles, working as an activist for LGBTQ rights with 350+ organizations, mostly based in South Asian countries. I am Married to a wonderful man – Jason with a beautiful child we adopted from Mexico – Sophie Khuranna. Whose last name I took from my late mother – Anurima Khuranna.

I remember in the very first speech I gave as an activist I said something, which Jason always tells me was the moment he knew he loved me. He’s a hopeless romantic. I said

“No matter how alone you may feel. No matter how vast, frightening and rough the sea may be ; If you look hard enough, you will find a lighthouse.”

-by,Megha.R