Forty-Something Years in Ninaland



Photo by Ari He on Unsplash

We are all sitting with our laptops in a row. Some are macs, some are PCs.

We know nothing about what’s going on around us, we are these computers, we have entered them as if they are a world in and of themselves. There is no identity anymore that is separate from our device. There are lovers sitting across from us and we don’t even notice how the man kisses the woman’s shoulder. Because that is not in the realm of our technology.

We are under the delusion that we think for ourselves, but these thinking machines have taken over. They show us pictures and give us the ‘news.’ These machines compute our existence. What does one human being equal if we were to quantify ourselves? Are we all just mathematical problems someone in the universe is trying to solve?

What’s your favorite number? Does it help to add that number up and does it in some way equal you? If you were to divide yourself, how many parts would you have? Does any of this even make sense? But in many ways, we are just numbers and cells and dirt and water. We are nothing more than another thing.

According to grammar, we are a noun, a person, place or thing. According to chemistry, we are a bunch of chemical reactions that have somehow formed matter. According to biology, we are a bunch of cells that make up organs. But what are we really? Are we our brain? Are we our minds? Where exactly is the mind? What exactly is the mind?

And if we are more than just a mind, and we have a spirit, where is that? Where do we keep our spirits? Is it in our every cell? I mean I’d like to see a cell of mine, like have a conversation with it. What are they doing, these cells? Are they dancing, my cells should be dancing, if I had any say in the matter.

I hope they dance.


Random Ramblings About Nothing…


Photo by Jakob Owens on Unsplash

Much Ado About Nothing is a play by Shakespeare. It is funny and it is true, so true that it brings us down to our knees thinking that life is but a ridiculous puzzle with missing pieces that the dog ate and we will forever be searching for.

I wonder sometimes what I should write. What do you want to hear? I could talk about politics and how we may be entering a world war. It’s quite depressing but really true. I could lament about my personal problems like I haven’t lost a pound in a while. Or about my work, I think sometimes I should use bigger words. But if I use a word no one understands, then what’s the point?

What is the point of this I wonder?

I mean you must have better things to do than to read the rantings of this woman you hardly know. But you and me, we are not that different, are we? What do we want out of life? You ever sit around, just wondering what it is you want out of this thing we call life? You know, I’m sitting here at eleven o’clock at night, I have the TV on but muted. I’m watching The Daily Show but listening to some tunes on Spotify. Why do I need all of this stimulation? I have my computer on also, and I periodically check my phone because I’m waiting for a friend to text me.

Why all this song and dance with the technological toys and the muted TV? Don’t you see, it’s late at night and I’m alone. I’m really alone. I’m not lonely, but I’m not, not lonely. I keep all these distractions going so I don’t realize that in the end we will all die alone. How do you distract yourself?

So what am I rambling about? Sometimes I feel like I would be more articulate if I had a British accent. Doesn’t an English accent make people seem more intelligent or should I say intellectual?

Sometimes I think I should have a name like Valarie, or Veronica, I don’t know why with the V’s…It’s just so unique to have a name that starts with V. What’s your favorite letter? I would read the Encyclopedia Brittanica in the letter V section. Like Venezuela, doesn’t it seem like you have to be pretty if you are from Venezuela?

I was looking for the meaning of life the other day. I think I found it. I think we came here to love one another. I know, know, that is a huge revelation. How did I come up with that? But I mean really I don’t think there is much past love, or more than love, or other than love. Everything else is just some kind of game.

Photo by Farhan Siddicq on Unsplash

What are we playing? Have you ever played Cards Against Humanity? It’s a deliberately offensive and hilarious game. I think life is quite similar. The person with the most creative or funny answers wins the game. But what about the unfunny things in life, the ones we are afraid to talk about. The ones that are not hilarious but are just offensive. And what about your hand, how much you want to risk for it?

You’d think there was a point in all of this, all of this that I’m talking about, and maybe in this post itself. I wish I could say I had a grand agenda other than to explore things, say things, be things, be me. I wish I could circle around and make some astounding grandiose statement about our very existence. I got nothing.

I’m nervous, nervous that I have nothing valuable to share anymore. That there are only a number of things to be said in the universe and they have all been said. Can anyone say anything new? I think so, but what is new? It sometimes seems like it’s all the same story since the beginning of time. We just keep retelling the events as if they mean something different every time.

Sometimes I think every problem in the universe could be solved with chocolate. Yes, I’m serious. If everyone just shut up and took a taste of the brilliance of chocolate, wars might end, people might stop being so cruel to one another if they just shared a little chocolate. Is that inane? A little bit? Come on that is a pretty ridiculous thought and I wrote it down for everyone to read.

It’s raining outside, I love when it rains. It’s so serene as if the sky came down to tell us a story. I don’t like this recent ideology that we are headed towards doomsday. Yes, things are looking kind of ugly, but that doesn’t mean that there isn’t still hope that good things can prevail.

Shakespeare said, “This life…it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

Do you ever wonder if you are the idiot trying to tell the tale of a story that means nothing after all? That we mean nothing after all. That we are mere specks in the universe.

But I can’t, and I won’t believe that. My life means something to me, I mean something to some people. I have to believe that I am something in order to go on. Because if this is all just a song and dance, with no purpose, then I won’t want to sing and dance. Maybe singing and dancing is the purpose of it all, along with some chocolate and a glass of red wine.

I would love to say that that is the answer. But there is no answer is here.

I forgot the question.

I forgot why I came into this room on to this computer to type words you would read. I forget sometimes that I have a face. I forget my hands are moving with my brain’s consent. I forget that this all conjecture.

That nothing and everything matters just as much as it doesn’t matter.

That whether I’m standing or sitting, the world will still spin and rotate. It will do this all without my consent. Without asking me my opinion. Do I want all of this? Do I want a life?

Yes, I say yes.

I’ve said enough, but what about all the things I haven’t said?


Letters to the Editor—Repost


Saturday, July 26, 2014

Letters to the Editor

Image courtesy of iosphere/

Dear CNN:

Stop showing us madness; we have enough in our own minds.  Every time you show us suffering show us peace, we want to see real life not just terror.  We want to see regular citizens living real lives, not just people who are famous or who you think are important.

We would like to see the ‘real’ problems in this world.  We think there are people starving in this world, in a lot of different places in this world, that we do not even know about. There are human rights violations and human trafficking.   Show us the forgotten people sometimes.

Then show us good things also, a blend of good and bad.  You seem like you are currently brainwashing the world that the end is coming.  You chew on the bad news.

I’m a minority.  When is the last time you covered news about Sikhs? Do you even know what a Sikh is?

You are making celebrities out of shooters; they think that if they commit these horrible crimes they will become famous.

Stop it.



Dear World,

Stop being so bad.  I’m serious; we are turning into a bad, bad world.  What happened to human kindness?  Love?  Charity?

What happened to us?  Where exactly did we go wrong?  Why are there so many bad stories to report?

I’m not suggesting we all hold hands and sing ‘Kumbyaa!’  I am suggesting we calm down.

We as a society are creating the rapists, the murderers, and the mass shooters.  Even the terrorists, we are to blame for them.

What are we doing wrong?

Look at our entertainment.  Is art reflecting life or is life reflecting art?  Either way, it’s bad news.  Movies don’t sell without some sort of twisted violence.  We are obsessed with superheroes in comic strips because we cannot handle the reality:  there are no superheroes and the bad guys are winning.

I know you don’t think you are not a bad guy, you who are reading this, but how good are you?  We could all benefit from looking in the mirror and seeing our true nature.  If we were all good there would not be this chaos in the world.



Photo by Álvaro Serrano on Unsplash

Dear god,

What’s up?  You created a monster.  This creature you call a human being is doing horrible things.  If we were created in your image, what does this say about you?  Are you really good or is there this sick twisted side to you as well? If you are everything then you are the bad stuff too.  If there is no opposite of god, then you embody all that is beautiful and all that is terrible.  What’s up with that?

I have to interrogate you as I would interrogate any other being of suspicion.  I’m suspicious of you.  We hear you are made of love, but where did all the love go?

You want us to worship you?  What does that say about you?  Maybe it’s just a myth that you want to be worshipped.  I think you just want to be loved.  Like the rest of us, I think sometimes you get lonely.  I don’t think you are so different than us.

Why did you make this mess?  What is the point of it?  Why are we here?

I’ve heard, word on the spiritual street is that we are here to experience love.  That we have to experience its opposite in order to understand it.  I don’t understand why there is such extreme violence and hate: I just don’t get it.  Why did you create that side to us?  It’s getting so bad that there are those living in absolute fear, violence, and misery.  How can we have signed up for this?  Why was this even an option in your creation?

I blame you, for it all, in this way.  This is your show.  The show is taking a turn for the worse.  Is it going to be canceled?

I know you are pure love and truth.  So why all this madness: not the good kind of madness.  Why all the hate and violence?

Is this the eventual result of free will of people whose souls are made of love.  Give love a choice and it will do wrong?  Is that the way it goes?

I don’t understand why I just don’t get it.



Photo by Dương Trần Quốc on Unsplash


Dear nina,

What are you doing with your life?  You were given a good home, good people, good friends, an education, a beautiful body, and soul.  Why are you not living up to your potential?  Do you even know what your potential is?

It’s OK I understand that some things went wrong some of the time, but things go wrong some of the time for everyone.  Now is the time to fix up those things.  Now is the only time to do what you need to do.

You don’t have to have a husband or kids to fulfill yourself.  Your cup should be full, then you can share it with other people.  The greatest people have fallen down many times, it’s time to stand up regardless.

You are doing great.  You could always do better.  Think about your mind, body, and soul and work on all three together.

You are perfect just the way you are.  You are wonderful exactly as you are.

Be happy.



Dear Reader,

Who are you I wonder?  What do you think about?  What do you think about when you read all this weird jargon I spread?

Do you want to express yourself too?  Why don’t you?  Do you give yourself permission to be yourself?

What’s your favorite color?  Your favorite word?  Your favorite person?

Do you think you know me because you’ve read about it?  Do you really think you can read someone and know them?

What is the craziest thing you have ever done?  What is the best thing you have ever done?

Do you wish you could be crazier?  Do you want to be better?

Why do you sit where you sit, why do you stand where you stand?

Do you wish you were kinder and maybe nicer?  Do you wish you were younger and thinner?  Do you ever wish that you weren’t you?

Who would you want to be?  What would you want to be?

Are you sad?  Do you know why you’re sad?

You could be happy.  I promise you that.


Let Your Hair Down


I ask him to wash my hair, my long dark brown curly hair…and in return, I want to shave his face I will shave around the goat-t. We only have buckets, standing in a cramped wooden bathroom in Aurangabad, India. He pours a bucket of water over my head so my hair is thoroughly wet, it feels like a rainfall, a waterfall, it feels like real water. Water has never felt so wet. My hair straightens under the water. I put my head back and feel the hot water race down my back. Neither one of us is dirty, but we are here to clean ourselves.

I want to tell him how important my hair is to me. That it is sacred, like water, falling all around me. It used to be religious, the sacred aspect of my hair. But now it is spiritual, I feel something about my hair as if it communicates with the divine. As if there are receptors in every follicle that do a dance with my spirit.

I want to dance with him in the water, in the puddles on the wooden floor. But he is intent on doing his job. Washing my hair, he is good at what he does, so meticulous. Each brown strand feels like it’s being taken care of with each of his fingers. He rubs my head will all the energy of a man on a mission as the shampoo bubbles around us. He slows down a bit and massages my scalp. I can feel the softness of his fingers mixed with the coconut shampoo. I wish we could all be this clean, in a moment I will shave his face. Will I cut him by accident?

Will I make the man I love bleed? I worry, I worry that I hurt him in my ways, in my deep sick ways. I worry that he is standing next to me, waiting to be cut. His face is so gentle, so pretty and I can’t do it. I can’t take the razor and touch it. Because I know, I know I am full of accidents. I will make a mistake. I have so many questions he still has not answered. If I do this, blood will be the only answer.


It was the year


Photo by Rodion Kutsaev on Unsplash


It was the year I had a panic attack for the first time in my life,

when I thought for a moment that I could not move my legs.

My blood pressure went up so high, I thought I would die.

Apparently thinking that you will die is not a valid cause of death.

And when I told the handsome Middle Eastern doctor what had happened,

he guessed that it had happened before.

He didn’t give me a prescription guaranteeing it wouldn’t happen again.

Men will exploit you, they will harm you, my mother told me that night under the yellow light of the kitchen table.

I remember the light on her face, her skin looked so yellow when she said this.

It was the year I talked in abstractions about real things

and talked real about abstractions.

It was the year my dreams died of a disease.

They vanquished and reality spray painted its hue into

graffiti on my soul, in a language I have yet to learn.

It was the year there were those who would say long sentences to me

and I would not remember their words but only the shapes their lips formed.

I could taste the spit on their tongues.

I never cut myself, threw up food, or took too many pills like some girls I knew.

I just sat there sometimes and didn’t move, not even to breathe.

Although apparently breathing was happening without my written consent or a prescription from the doctor

who wrote me the script for chill pills.

I took the chilling seriously, really seriously.

It became my job, my profession, no my career, to chill.

For a while, I did nothing else.

This is the year I woke up from a deep slumber.

I had put myself to sleep, not with drugs, but the sedative of a sanctuary.

My bed had become my home, I needed to nest there for a while.

This is the moment I look back at my journey

and realize that the world is going on here with or without me participating.

It is the year I decide there is no time

I have not lost anything, time is not something we own

time is a vessel through which we see that we are existing

but it is not the measurement of that existence.

It is only a window.

It was about time I opened that window.

Who knew there was so much air to breathe?

It was the year or was it the lifetime, that I forgot I existed.

This is the moment, I remember.


Manic Sunday


Photo by Blake Lisk on Unsplash

Ok, so it’s Sunday. My fun day. You may be reading this on Monday.

This day didn’t start out fun, I slept five hours in the last two days. My fitted sheet on my mattress keeps coming off because I have no mattress pad and I mean to get one but I mean to do a lot of things in my life. More important things like I’ve needed to change my toothbrush for three days now. Then I realized something as I was trying to physically fit my sheet back on the mattress. I am cat sitting for a friend who has three cats. I realized I may or may not have given the cats dog food. In my defense, there was no clear demarcation. I could not find even a picture of a cat or dog on the bag so I took a wild guess.

She apparently sent me a text prior to this clarifying which bag was appropriate for the cats, she took the dog with her on vacation. It’s kind of like if a dude takes Midol. What’s the worst that can happen? Actually, now that I think about it, what does happen? Hmmm. I know, I know, google it. It’s one of the stupid questions I will never get around to googling.

Photo by Damian Zaleski on Unsplash

Sometimes I feel like my keyboard is like a piano, I like to think I’m making music. It feels more poetic when I think of it that way.

I usually listen to music when my muse is really present. What is the muse, you ask? What inspires me? I don’t know, everything and nothing, all simultaneously.

Music is much harder to make than putting words together I think. I’m not musically inclined. I’m very bad at it in fact. I definitely don’t have that ear. I played trumpet in middle school, only because all the other girls picked the flute. I was so bad at the trumpet my parents sat me down and asked me to stop practicing in the basement. However, before this they had bought me the trumpet, I still have it. Do you want to buy it? Anyways, they were so pissed at this useless purchase than when it was my sisters turn they rented a flute for seven years as she became an expert. I didn’t get the song gene.

Anyways, I’m lonely today. I feel not really sad, but alone. But life goes on, doesn’t it? Long after the thrill of living is gone. You get lonely. You get upset and hurt. Then someone makes you laugh. Hilarity usually solves most problems I find. Now I would normally follow up that statement with a hilarious story, but I’m not sure I have one today.

There is something about today, it’s not a normal day. I don’t feel normal. I know that I’m not generally what you would call normal as it is, but today it’s especially off. I wonder if I have ever been happy. I have been, deeply happy. Many times, for long periods of time in fact.

In fact, I’m so out of whack today I realized, I do have a kind of funny story. So I don’t know if you remember but a while ago U2 released a free song on iTunes. Well along with the song, for some reason or another, every time I started my car, a picture from that song of two men standing almost naked in front of each other about to do something erotic shows up on my phone. Well we hooked up my mom’s phone to the car, and I’m driving and all of a sudden the picture for some reason pops up on her phone.

She’s like, “What is this Nina? What is this dirty…”

My face turned bright red, she was sitting in the back. I pretended to not know what she was talking about. “What are you talking about mom?”

“It is two nude men…”

“What??” I say as if I’m astounded and have no idea what she is talking about. “It’s probably spam mom, where did that come from?”

“It came from your car,” she spits out.

“What are you talking about? Somebody must have sent you that! It’s spam!.” She doesn’t really know how phones work. She’s a doctor but has yet to truly understand the iPhone.

“OH, Shani what is this?” she asks my dad.

“Rana, I think all these people get your email address and they can send you bad things,” he said. He understands phones better, but not completely.

“Has anyone ever sent you porn?” I asked and immediately regretted that I just said the word ‘porn’ in front of my parents. Luckily they are slightly hard of hearing and weren’t paying attention to me.

“What is going on in your car? I don’t like this!” she said and fiddled with her phone. She is smarter than I give her credit for. Although I didn’t put that picture up on her phone or mine, I knew exactly how weird it was and what she was talking about, but if I told her that, she would think I was into some kinky stuff.

So it totally makes all three of us uncomfortable so I start changing the subject to how the Internet is terrible. She has no idea, how terrible. It’s not a lie, in fact, I’m telling the truth. The interwebs just put a picture of two almost naked men on my mom’s phone! A seventy-year-old very religious modest woman. The next day I somehow managed to remove the picture from my phone with the help of a friend.

It wasn’t really the homoerotic nature of the photo that made this situation uncomfortable as much as the erotic element. My parents are in their seventies from India. It’s as if they were born in the early 1900’s of the US, they are not thinking the same way as regular Americans. Immigrants are not as comfortable with their sexuality as born citizens.

Tragedy in suburbia averted.

The real tragedy in suburbia is my flowers. I basically made a corpse of two hanging plants. I would take a picture and show you but I’m embarrassed I did that to a living thing. Trust and believe it’s sad. But you know I’ve done worse things than killing a plant or two, much worse.

On that note, I will end this day synopsis here.

p.s. I’ve decided to just be happy. So I’m happy now. I’ll keep you posted on how that goes.


Zindagee (Life)


Photo by Dan Gold on Unsplash

Have you ever been sitting around a frozen yogurt shop trying to find the best pieces of Oreo bits you can to put on as a topping over your pistachio and wedding cake flavored yogurt, and had an existential crisis? Do you ever wonder about the meaning of life in these moments when you are doing the most mundane tasks and your life all of a sudden seems like it really is just about finding the perfect Reese’s Pieces bits to top the peanut butter sauce you put on your yogurt sundae?

You realize as you hog the chocolate toppings there is no purpose to your life and you should have just gone for the ice cream because you put enough toppings on there to fill Willy Wonka’s candy store.

Do you ever wonder what you are doing with your life as you monotonously chew on bits of fake chocolate chips they call Caribou Chips? I often think I’m writing in the wrong language like I should pick an Indian language. I often think I should eat real chocolate chips. I often think I’m in the wrong body, one that is much curvier than I would like.  But I’m here, not making the situation better by eating so much sugar. As you may have guessed. Maybe I’m lost at sea, but actually, I’m on land. I realize this is not Moby Dick, It’s just a blog, but I think you may get me.

Do you ever wonder what the point of life is as you try to sit on what they call ‘modern’ furniture that is basically really small plastic orange half ass chairs? NOT because you want to die, but seriously why are we alive?  And why is this furniture so low to the ground? We cannot just be alive to eat frozen fucking yogurt sitting on what ostensibly seems like kids toy furniture.  Is this a game, a dream, what is this? And by the way, who is running the show? It can’t be the lady behind the counter at the yogurt shop biting her light pink nails.

Do you think life can just be? Like maybe we just exist? Like sands through the hour glass, or like yogurt through the frozen yogurt dispenser?

I don’t know, that’s kind of stupid and pointless, I’m not a nihilist or an existentialist. If there is no meaning to life, I will make meaning. I should have had a kid. Who am I kidding? I’M A KID.

I was at this yogurt place which will remain unnamed, I kind of want to call it out, I’m such an idiot. I don’t have the guts to name this stupid useless chain of a yogurt shop. But what happened next was not really the establishment’s fault but more the employee’s.

So here’s the story: There was a heavy set black man wearing a nice leather jacket, khakis, and a gold chain. He was with a Hispanic woman buying yogurt in front of me, she was remotely pretty with rather full lips. He, by the way, didn’t resemble a thug. I’m not the most familiar with thugs, but I think I’d know one if I saw one.

The man bought both yogurts and the cashier distinctly and definitely asked to see his ID when he gave her his credit card. It was like eight dollars, total. I’ve bought 300 dollars worth of shit at Walmart and no one has ever asked to see my ID in this town. He did not seem visibly perturbed at all. He smiled at the cashier. Was I in a movie?

I went up to the counter next, this skinny girl with mousy hair took my credit card, mine was also eight dollars total. I have to watch those toppings, I can’t get enough of those cookie dough pieces. I wasn’t really paying attention until after I gave her my credit card. I noticed she never asked to see my ID. Me, I was eating double the amount of toppings of the both of them, I’m the suspect one.

I can’t be a good guy in this situation, card me. I’ve used my father’s credit card on more than one occasion in this town, and have never, ever, been caught. People are used to middle-class Indians in this town. I once used my friend’s member ship card to get into Lifetime Fitness, I clearly don’t look like my friend, but the man at the counter let me in because ‘you don’t look like you’re playing me.’ That guy behind the counter was Black.

What’s happening? What is going on if I can’t say something to the bitch at the yogurt store? She was like 17 or 20 or some immature age like that. I’m a proper woman, let’s be real, I’m middle aged.

I was supposed to do something at this moment. Please help me out here, what was I supposed to do? Cause a scene? Like the time they would not accept my blind father’s state ID because he didn’t have a driver’s license, at the grocery store. I caused a ruckus when I was sixteen, so much so the manager had to calm me down. Was I young then? Brave then?

Maybe I still had that fire under my ass. Where did it go? I stood there frozen as my yogurt melted.

Why was this different than the situation with my dad? Retrospectively I have no delusions that I’m Wonder Woman and I was going to swoop down to the mousy stupid kid at the yogurt counter and do a ‘Citizens Arrest.’ That I would put my fake handcuffs on her that I carry around to yogurt places in case there are spontaneous kinky sexual options on the menu.

I’m sorry, let’s be serious. I am not an actual kid. This little girl, this stupid, racist bitch was…wrong. I’m a teacher, a professor. Why could I not find the words? Why can I still not find the words to say something to her? I once told a Black professor of mine about a racist relative of mine who was White. My professor told me to try to understand the overall societal reason this relative was racist. My professor was not mad. I’m mad. I’m obviously not Rosa Parks mad. Would I have been more or less upset if I was Black?

The Black man and the Hispanic woman were long gone by the time I registered what was happening at the scene of the crime. A crime was committed, people. Someone’s decency and integrity were questioned because of the color of their skin.

They left, the Black guy never knew that I cared. Maybe he knew that everywhere he walks in this tid bit of a  suburban town, whether it be Somerset Mall, or fucking McDonald’s, people don’t trust him. Maybe he doesn’t even give a shit. He just wants to eat his yogurt with cookie dough pieces as a topping in peace.

I mean I say he doesn’t give a shit, but he does. He’s sick of this. What is this?

What’s the existential point of life? Fuck meaning. I know this is a delayed response. But I finally said something, to someone. Right here, this is how I say things. This is happening. My father said, “You should have called the police.” It’s not illegal to be racist I said. Wow repeat after me: It’s not illegal to be racist in this country. He wanted me to call the police?

The police….The police…

I didn’t know what to do, but as I learned in my Women’s Studies class at U of M, never trust a man with a gun.

What would you have done?


Would He?


Photo by Artem Kovalev on Unsplash

We sat on the living room sofa

the cream colored leather wrinkled slightly as I moved my hands to reach for the red blanket.

I listened closely as my father told my sister on the telephone, a landline,

“We really did like your boyfriend. He seems good. He’s good.”

“But I have to ask you a question,” he continued.

“Would he die for you?” I stopped staring at CNN on the T.V.

Wolf Blitzer’s hair, well he doesn’t have much hair, his head was taking over the screen.

I put my finger in my mouth. I don’t know what she said on the other end of the line.

But I thought to myself, “Would he die for you?” over and over again.

“Your mom asked me that the other day and I said yes, absolutely yes,” my father continued.

“Would he die for you?” I asked myself again and again.

If you don’t know, does that mean no?

If you just are starting to get to know someone, can they die for you?

How dramatic are we being? Or are we being true?

Ask yourself, “Would he die for you?”

You don’t want him to die, and this isn’t a Bollywood film.

This isn’t even Hollywood, this emphatically and truly no movie.

This is us, the way we are when we dream about love.

We dream that people must die, in order for love to truly exist.

I asked myself this, “Would he live for me?”


Empty Space


Photo by Daniele Levis Pelusi on Unsplash


I walk on air. In a room with no wind.

There is only one of me and a thousand things I could be.

I am precisely none of those things.

Forms, what form will I take when I am essentially made of nothing?

I am none of this. I’m the paper before you write on it.

The canvas before you paint. Simple, I am flat.

I rearrange myself so I can fit into your sentences.

Between your words.

I am the thing the moment before breath.

The other thing, the non-breath.

There are ceilings with my name on them.

Bare Ceilings and white walls in this room that say my story.

The ceiling in this room has some cracks in it.

That is where I live, in the cracks.

You drew a picture of me with your hands.

They slipped and my image faded.

Remember the hieroglyphics on pyramid walls.

You wanted me to be something.

But I told you, I am all that is not.

No, I’m not a goddess, I just don’t look like one.


Narcissistic Interview—Repost



I  promise I’m not totally narcissistic. The following is an interview of me by me. I ask the questions, I answer the questions. I wrote this so my readers could get to know me a little better. This blog is my play, my puppets, my stories. I would like you to see the hand behind the curtain.

Interview With Myself

“Why do you write?”

For several reasons. First and foremost because there is something burning inside me. I have this passion that overwhelms me to write, to say something, to express myself. Sometimes I can’t stop, like today. I don’t even know why I’m writing in the middle of the night tonight. I’ve been writing all day. It’s a sickness, a beautiful illness. I don’t want to get better.

Some people say it is a calling. A talent. A gift. I don’t know. I know it’s hard work. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Why do I put myself through it? I have to. I must.

Secondly. I write because I can. If I could sing, I love music as much as words, I would be a singer. Unfortunately, even with the fabulous acoustics in my shower, I’m no Adele. I have the ability to do this, and I’m not even sure what I’m doing exactly. I’m putting a bunch of symbols together to create meaning. I don’t use big words. I don’t know, I just don’t. I love them, those words, all of them. I’m a logophile, a lover of words.

I’m sometimes insecure about my writing. Some of my best work I have feared is no good. Sometimes I have no way of judging how good or bad any given piece of writing is. Sometimes I know it’s great, and I’m so proud of it.  I’m experimenting right now and it’s going well, I don’t want anything to thwart my creative process. I know when I actually start to get published outside of my own blog, there will be editors and more editors. For now, I’m letting myself be me. They will try to change me.

Yes, I need approval. Maybe I write because I need attention. I like to be the life of the party, I do. This work is my party, and I’ll cry if I want to.

Honestly, I don’t like the sound of English that much. I want t,o learn Hindi. It is so beautiful sounding, the poetry, the music, the cadence of the phonetic words. There is a song in that language.

I’m getting bored with English, but it is all I know and it happens to be the universal language now of the world. Whether that’s good, bad or ugly is neither here nor there. English has power in this world, and if I want to say something. I should probably say it in English.

I also write because it’s like this food for my soul, I’m full when I write. Sometimes I feel empty when I don’t write. I don’t feel whole or real when I’m not writing.

It makes me happy.

I’m inspired.

And I almost forgot. I have something to say. About everything.

“Why do you stop writing so often?”

It is exhausting. It’s one-thirty in the morning, and I woke up at five this morning. I can’t sleep because I have this energy about me. It’s a high. I think I know why Michael Jackson could not sleep. I’m not suggesting I’m the Michael Jackson of writing.

It is heart-wrenching. It hurts, it feels good, it’s a rollercoaster ride. It’s literally crazy. You have to be crazy to really write. You cannot be normal. I love normal people, I envy them their consistency and security and sensibility. If I want to really write, sometimes that all goes out the window.

Sometimes when I don’t write I am not alive, really. I’m sleep walking or something. I’m a robot, I’m just doing, just existing, not understanding the meaning of why.

I stop in order to breathe. Then I get caught up in the world and forget and get on the treadmill of life, and keep running and getting nowhere. I forget who I am or why I’m alive.

I’m trying to get better at forcing myself to write no matter what.

“What is it like to be crazy or in other words have Bipolar Disorder?”

It is ecstatic and horrific, sometimes it is other worldly. Sometimes it is mean, maybe even evil if there is such a thing. What does ecstasy feel like? It feels like never ending bliss, like freedom, like happiness. When things are bad, it feels like you want to die. You might as well be dead but you are in so much pain. The pain, you can feel it mostly in your heart.

Sometimes you think you have entered another world. Maybe it’s heaven, maybe it’s hell, maybe it’s another dimension or realm. Trust me they exist, these places.

I’m a horrible human being when I’m truly manic. I’ve lost friends, insulted family members, made people cry, made people yell. I have never been violent. I’m not sure why not. There is something inherently non-nina about physical violence. I can’t stand it, I can’t do it.

Depressive states are more stable. I have been sad and slept a lot. But I never attempted suicide or really focused on that. I will thank god for that one.

“You wrote a post about how you thought god had spoken to you. Do you think that was a psychotic or manic episode? Why or why not?”

I can’t actually “prove” anything. I felt like an entity we call god was speaking to me, through me, with me, in me. The voice told me to love myself…usually psychotic voices are negative. Yes, I felt high, I felt a bliss, a love towards all. This is similar to mania. However, mania is interrupted by crying spells, anger, and agitation. I did not have any of those negative experiences.

God speaks to everyone by the way. Usually through feeling or experience. Words are the last resort. Here is my post about that if you missed it: Dear nina…it’s me god.

“How can you put your personal life and all of it’s grimy, shady, and dirty little details on the INTERNET! Don’t you have the need for privacy? Don’t you have any respect for yourself?”

The nature of my job is revealing myself. I don’t just write fiction, I write personal narratives. Stories, some are true, some are fiction. Sometimes I write poetry. Writers by nature expose themselves. The Internet is just another forum to get the words out there. You wouldn’t judge them so harshly if they were in a book or magazine. It’s time to respect that Internet for some of its contents.

Also, regarding my respect for myself: I have a deep respect for my inner world and outer experiences. As surprising as it may sound there is much I don’t reveal, it only seems as though I’m revealing my secrets. I have secrets just like anyone else that I won’t even write in a diary because I know people will read it when I die. It’s interesting because some of my best stories cannot be put on the page, they play in my heart.

“You have given details of other people in your life. Do you feel like you have violated their privacy?”

Maybe. It’s hard being around a writer or a comedian. You can very easily become material. That must be very difficult for my family and friends. I’m sorry. It is one of the casualties of my profession. I expose myself and others. I will try to protect you the best I can. Again I’m sorry that I have to do this. I would not be doing this if I didn’t have to. I am possessed to write. And many stories about people I love I do not write about because that would not be appropriate. However, if I write about you, I will hide your identity the best I can and please take in a flattering way. I love your stories as much as my own.

“How do you get ideas for what to write about?”

I think a lot. I think about past experiences. I peruse the Internet for stories that are happening right now. I read books. I listen to music. I meditate. I meditate. I meditate.

Meditation is my muse.