Letters to Preethi

These are excerpts from letters I meant to send to Preethi. They come from failed letters that tumblr deleted cuz it's bittersweet or I had fallen asleep before finishing. Either way, the moment had already passed for her. Here's a taste of what you're missing out on, all you people who aren't awesome Indian girls who were born in Pennsylvania and live in Texas and yearn to be some sort of anarchist but still enjoy living life as a super-smart teenager who with a few months of practice has become a phenomenal artist and likes to play the piano to free her soul and makes possibly damning jokes that rely on turning religions into puns. Just imagine you're that sort of person when you read these bits and pieces.

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Dreams are terrifying. They're projections of your thoughts, wants, and secret wishes. They show what you love and what you fear, without the censoring of conscious thinking. They're also hard to forget. Dreams are worse than thoughts or words or actions; you know what you do and say and feel, but you can always justify, explain, correct, apologize. You have no control over your dreams, and yet, you are still held accountable for them. They always come from a real and true part of you, whether you like it or not.

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This whole weekend, I've been thinking about how I feel so alone when it comes to the males in my life. I don't hardly have any guy friends here, whereas in Texas, I had boys I talked to when the teacher wasn't looking at church, boys who dated my friends, the other boy in guard who talked and sang to me on the sides, the boy who learned Taylor Swift for my birthday, boys who applauded me in English, boys whose rivalries with me grew into decent respect, boys that I met online or through texts, boys I danced with, the boys that somehow ended up in the Wannabeatniks, my dearest gay friend, and a best friend who became a boyfriend. Here, I have the great joy of being friends through association with boys who know my name and, if I'm lucky, my grade, a boy who mostly wants to talk to me whenever his awkward and possibly angry girlfriend is around, and the only boy I've ever been on a date, a sophomore I had to ask.

I'm tired of waiting for a guy to step up, to ask me out or eat lunch with me or give me a cookie. I'm tired of sitting and feeling like I've got "loser" stamped across my forehead whenever a boy talks to me. I'm tired of seeing all my friends and cousins' perfect proms and dates and friends, while only getting to dream of my own.

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On another note, the band played at a Memorial Day service, which was so beautiful and great. A Presbyterian pastor gave the most poetic and gracious prayer I've ever heard, a man talked about how he can still remember a great-uncle who died fighting that he never met, and they read the names of those who fought and died from this area since WWI. I got to actually conduct for the first time, and the sound just filled the room like a teapot of warm feelings and teary eyes.

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My mom told me today that her love for root beer was real love and that her sisters’ love for caffeinated sodas was only lust, a chemical reaction and addiction. I asked her to stop talking cuz it was sufficiently creepy.