My dreams are like my mood swings; a split personality.

Some days, I listen to Sarah Kay and I’m ready with my diary and pen to bleed words out of creativity.

Some days, I read Mahatma Gandhi’s autobiography and all I think about is how to make the world a better place. I (try to) practice non-violence, bury my mom’s pestering with a smile; my friend’s ‘no reply’ into a belief that she was offline before I sent her the message. I come up with out-of- nowhere DIY ideas for non- violence which I proudly record in my diary every night as I sleep.

Some days, thanks to my friends who are in US, Australia, I find my country a “living hell” caught up in a never ending violence and chaos. I weave dreams of being there- posting my after-school job pics in Facebook as I happily munch homemade food lying on my sofa unhappy about going to a college my parents paid money for. I hate the fact that being a part of the “majority” I’m denied the privileges of reservation while I watch news about innocent blacks being killed indifferently.

Most of the days, I wish to be a doctor serving people. I dream about Harvard Medical School and volunteering in MSF. But then, I come up with my dreams of joining a civil service and end up getting nowhere. I’m caught up within myself.
I’m a confusion; a mystery that can never be solved.
I’m a paradox.
If I only knew what I wanted, I wouldn’t vacillate over these momentary inspirations.

Did I mention that I also want to be a writer?