Toubib Or Not To Be

Cursed is the neck that carries the silver medal. Before one is to proclaim that, well, the silver medalist is indeed a winner, one must pause…ponder. One must walk upon a metaphorical red carpet, wait behind the bronze medalist to climb that metaphorical podium, and waste away as every member of this accursed metaphorical arena announces you the first loser. I am not an athlete, nor am I ever inclined to be one. My physical prowess is limited to running after buses and away from the rain; however, I can proudly admit that I have been a silver medalist on many occasions in my life. As a matter of fact, so has every person I have ever met. In truth, we have all carried that mantle. So allow me to paint you a picture. You are ten when you are diagnosed: gifted. That’s what they call you, that’s what they are going to continuously whisper behind your back before you inevitably plummet, an Icarus who burned out too close to the overachieving sun. But I digress, you are gifted, and whether ...

Society craves isolation; it requires it. Man is not proficient enough if man is always aching for another. Companies preach all they want about team building, yet they pluck out each one of us and plant us in cubicles dusted in ashy gray, tasting of regret and longing, and hope that by 5 PM sharp, one fades away into that wall. They commend individualism when one is creating a project, not when one’s project is themselves. Governments hold their breath for the fiftieth person to walk into a room before they smack a request for a permit on your front and tell you to disperse. Yes, man wants to be a social animal. No, man may not be one. Late-stage capitalism decrees as much. Truth is, loneliness sells. You get an employee, you breed into them fear of authority and respect for the soul-stripping madness that is a 9-to-5, you teach them work culture, you make sure that work haunts their breaks, haunts their commutes back home, haunts their holidays, haunts their PTO. Thus, they do your...

I want to be emaciated, not of flesh but of need. My hands are so cold. I keep wondering if they will ever learn warmth, as if warmth were something earned, something the body could retain. Everywhere you touch me, my skin ignites. Flames, sudden and violent, as if I mistake burning for salvation. I confuse your warmth with interest, with care, with something that belongs to me. But it doesn’t. It never did. It is warmth I borrow, pressed briefly against my chest before it fades. Intimacy gives the illusion of belonging. It tells me I am held when I am only close. Each kiss feels like survival, like I’m siphoning life from your mouth to nourish what’s starving in me. When it fails, when nothing inside me wakes up, I kiss you again, believing insistence might become resurrection. You touch me and the desire to disappear loosens. This is easier than repairing what’s broken. For a moment, the void quiets. For a moment, I hate myself less. When our fingers intertwine, I want you endlessly....

Parents are forgotten gods. My first act of worship was not a prayer but irrevocable love for my parents. It was easy to cast parents as gods when they were your eyes to a new life. The slow movement of your mouth as your teeth grind food, the small steps that you take confidently in a stride now, the smile that goes too wide because there is no shame in showing a moment of joy: all of my parents’ teachings live through me. I was their New Testament, their Vedas, their Torah, and so were they to me. Their voices wrestled in my head at every decision. What would my parents do? In moments of fear, I reached for the safe blanket of parental security to take cover in. Their ideas seemed so big and inconceivable. My inexperience ascended them to the pedestal of gods. I sought their blessing as earnestly as any believer. Heaven was the small smile of approval. Hell was the disappointment concealed behind indifference. It was important to maintain this balance, albeit impossible; my brain fou...

Most people don’t spend a lot of time thinking about poetry, paintings, or films. Most people don’t spend a lot of time thinking at all. Maybe because it’s easier that way, easier not to wonder why certain sunsets make our throat tighten, or why an old song can feel like a memory we never knew we’d buried. They’re busy living, or trying to, so they’re not really concerned with Plath’s or Dickinson’s poems, or anybody’s poems. Poetry is for dreamers, a hobby for people with empty calendars. Artists eat dreams for breakfast, but they don’t. So they stay on the surface, filling the hours with meaningless conversations and repetitive tasks, letting their hearts sink in the familiar numbness that’s been running their lives for far too long. So no, if you ask them, human creativity doesn't matter, or maybe it does to those who still remember how to feel . Until, one day, their mom dies, they lose a friend, their home doesn’t feel like home anymore, somebody breaks their heart , they don’...

A large ceremonial tent planted in the middle of a dark, crowded street; it's a wedding, a love celebration, I couldn't help but wonder whether the people inside truly feel happy. It raises a deeper question: Is happiness something we show to others, or something we feel within ourselves? Marriage is a happy day, a simple, sacred moment, a bond shared between two people and witnessed by family, friends, and neighbors. It used to be a communal blessing, not a competition. Weddings nowadays have slowly turned into showcases: who invites more people, who spends more money, who looks wealthier, who appears happier. The meaning has shifted from forming a partnership to displaying a performance. And then there’s the tent itself, a massive structure blocking a narrow street, separating those inside from the rest of the neighborhood. It creates a temporary world where the couple and their guests are visually shielded from reality. Yet behind that elaborate fabric, many are stressed...