11.2

11:

One of my favorite numbers.

It’s probably because in elementary school, when we were assigned a class number, I was #11 for multiple years.

It was also the number of people in a group with whom I thought I’d be friends with forever.

11… 

More than 10, but less than 12.

There was something “odd” about it (no pun intended).

But this is probably another reason why this is one of my favorite numbers because I always felt like the odd one out.

2:

Not one of my favorite numbers, but I can appreciate it.

After all, they say two is better than one.

Two peas in a pod.

Two halves to a whole.

A lot of things come in pairs.

If we take the 1’s in 11 & add them, well, 1 + 1 = 2.

2 makes us feel complete.

2 tells us we get a second chance at life.

But when we add 11 & 2…

11 + 2 = 13

13:

The unlucky number & quite conveniently, my karmic debt number.

12 is considered universally perfect; it represents harmony & all good things.

But 13?

13 tells us that we took things one step too far, & now harmony has turned into discord.

13 causes us to look back & try to figure out where we misstepped.

Did we do too much just to receive so little?

We try to go back to the very beginning.

And that’s exactly what I did.

I made it back to the very beginning with a sad smile on my face.

But as I scrolled through the archived messages on my desktop, the system crashed.

Perhaps it was a sign that I wasn’t supposed to be looking.

If we take 11.2 & turn it around, it becomes 2.11.

And I see it as 2, 1, 1, as if I am nearing the end of a countdown to something big, but I am afraid to say “zero” because I fear becoming nothing. 

I’m counting down the days to my showcase, to my graduation, to moving back home, to my MCAT.

I’m counting the days I spend time with people, & the ones that pass where I wish I could renew a friendship.

I’m counting the days of my hair growing back, while hoping that the stress I’m feeling won’t cause it to thin again.

I close my eyes & count to 10, hoping this is all just a bad dream.

Because I’m terrified by the numbers.

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Razor.

I was feeling too rushed, too frantic, to pay any mind to the razor at the back of my makeup drawer.

I always thought I was smart, but I guess the blade was smarter, & instantaneously the blood started to gush from my middle finger.

Under pressure, it did not stop; little spots of blood leaked through the poor excuse of a cover-up called a bandage & the annoying, throbbing pain stayed with me for over 24 hours.

It wasn’t until I dipped the digit into a solution of salt water that the bleeding ceased.

But the process took many tries, and I wondered how such a small cut could be so damn persistent & hurt so damn much.

Why did it have to be exposed & put through pain in order to heal?

Yet, this is not where my story ends:

Just when I thought all was well, of course, I get an infection…

Now the healing process has become more tedious & I am poking & prodding at different areas in hopes that this little disease to go away.

F*ck you, razor, for meeting my flesh when I least expected it, when I least needed it. 

It is quite possible, however, that my misfortune was a consequence born of carelessness.

 

Why I Write.

I am not usually one to share my writing to anyone, lest it be posted on this blog or for a school assignment, blah blah. But just recently, I had a friend of mine read a piece from the notebook I started keeping. He asked me if what I wrote was inspired by things I actually experienced in my life.

I thought about it and the answer to that question is “yes.”

I write because I can never properly formulate the words to exit my lips as elegantly as I am able to do so on paper. Though the sword cuts through the body and spews blood across the land, it is by the pen that the tragedy of war is remembered. If it were not written, then it could be more easily forgotten. For the blood is eventually washed away by the rain. And it is the pen that tattoos the soul with awe of how we are all connected.

For when I am in the moment, I cannot describe what I feel. But when I close my eyes and twirl the ink rod between my fingertips, it becomes an enchanted wand that allows me to repaint the memories and live again, whether in pleasure or in pain.

To feel.

And to understand.

That is why I write.

Local Anesthetic.

Let me be the one to numb the pain.

Take you under, have you paralyzed, unaware of the magic going on around you.

It is true that I do not control everything transforming inside you.

But I can give you breath & shock your nerves with but a gentle touch.

And when that higher power has decided that His work is through, I will be there to wake you to a better & a brighter world than the one you knew before.