It doesn’t even begin to describe the culmination of feelings that reside within my heart.

I wish I never fell in love with you.

If only it had been with someone who didn’t care about what their friends thought. Obviously you value your friend’s opinion over your own. You care too much of what others think.

But what about of what we had? I will never forget the moment I told you that I loved you; when we were standing outside my house. I said it because I felt it, pulsating through every fiber of my being. You told me you loved me also. It was a moment of harmony, perfect bliss.

Nonetheless, that’s all it would ever be: a moment. You were too ashamed to bring me in front of your friends; to introduce me to them. So much happened in such a small amount of time.

After I broke up with you, I was in turmoil for so long, having made that mistake. I dropped out of college for a year. I needed time to heal; all the while you were continuing with your life, graduating with honors in 3 years and now having graduated with a masters degree within 4. Obviously whatever had happened between us didn’t matter to you as much as it did to me. And this whole time I still struggle to get my degree within 5.

My only wish is that I never fell for you; that you weren’t my first love. I was ready to give everything that I was at that time for you, but you weren’t.

Even after the two years since we met, since we got to know each other, even after I broke up with you and over time we both accepted being just friends, the fact of the matter is, I still love you; I’ll never be able to hit rewind and take it back. I’ll never be able to feel as fully, as intensely, as intimately as I ever have. Not for any other woman who has struck me, inspired me in such a way as you have.

I realize after so long that time does heal all, that it makes you stronger. But that’s all it does: it heals. It heals and it leaves scars, so you know not to make the same mistake again. But the scars of my past, my past love, they will always remain. I will always feel them. I especially feel it now as I type this note that no one important will ever read, for I will never love them as I did you. If only I could take it back. If only I bode my time. Why did it have to be you?

My heart bleeds, every beat that I exist. Every beat that will ever occur, until I meet someone who inspires me more than you ever have. Until I meet the woman who will more than make me forget you. A woman that will help me move on without my ever knowing it.

Oh, what you have done to me,

Taran Bhullar

P.S.

Next week, I’ll take you out. We’ll have dinner, some drinks, we’ll dance. But that will be it. At the end of the night, I’ll make it clear to you how much you meant to me. I’ll basically reiterate this whole message to you. I can only hope you understand the pain, the damage you’ve caused me. The fact of the matter is, you’ll never find someone like me. You’ll probably never feel for me or anyone else the way I felt for you. Hah, they’re all going to be generic Indian boys who don’t have minds of their own. But will you know any better?

Don’t make the same mistake twice. I sure as hell will not.

I just wish I never made this mistake in the first place, that I wouldn’t have to carry these scars. Especially after I recently met a girl who has inspired me more than you have. I’ve accomplished so much since then, but I will always have my reservations about her, and any other girl in the future, all because I gave myself to you, in entirety.

Fuck me. I’m screwed.

Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.

All I want is to experience certain moments in my life.
Certain moments that are so emotionally overwhelming that they bring tears to my eyes.
Not tears of sorrow or tears of joy even.
Bur tears of hope.

After two long months, I finally made my way back to Sacramento.

I first visited my “real parents.”

They’re not really my parents, they’re family friends. But they’ve been around as far back as I can remember. I recall living with them for some time after we moved back from Reno when I was maybe 4 years old. They’re the only family that my family ever constantly kept in touch with; I was even in the hospital when their son was born. My uncle would always insist that I was their son, that they were my real parents. So after a while, I just went along with it. They might as well be my parents anyways.

I visited them first not only because they lived en route to my actual parent’s place, my childhood home, but because after my accident last week my uncle wasn’t happy that I didn’t get in touch with him and that he had to hear about me getting hit by a car from his kids. He really wanted to come see me. But I told him that I was visiting Sacramento this weekend anyways (because my cousin just came from India and I wanted to spend some time with her and get to know my long lost family member before she got married next month) and that I would go visit him and the “real” family. He made me promise to make it the first thing I did as soon as I reached Sac.

On my way to Sacramento, I shot him a text letting him know that I was a few hours away. As soon as I drove up to their home, I could see him walking his two little pups(they really remind me of Chewbacca and I unoffically named the first one Chewie the first time I met the little guy. The other one was named Nike, I’m not particularly fond of that one). I got out of the car, walked up to him and gave him a big hug. We walked in the house where I was surprised to see my aunty, his wife. I always assumed she was working whenever she wasn’t throwing parties for her friends and family, but there she was, and I was so glad. I embraced her, told her she looked more beautiful than ever (she really did) and we proceeded to lounge in their atrium while their son, who had his friends over, was playing basketball in the backyard; their daughter was at the movies. Uncle and I had a few beers, he forced them on me, but I wasn’t one to complain. We proceeded to catch up. After a while, we drove to get some pizza and I told them about my situation over the last few years. I told them about how everything seemed normal on the surface but I had been dealing with depression and had been in turmoil for a very very long time without ever fully realizing it. And about the day I broke down in front of my parents when they came to visit a year ago and asked them to be understanding and for their support.

Since the break-down I had turned my life around, a complete 180, a slow one. But everything had changed for the better. I’m did well in school, I was more productive, and I even had a job I enjoyed (because I loved my coworkers) since then. I had been in a few relationships in the last year also, but I had always known that they would never last, so I never got too attached.

I told my “real parents” about how much I respected them, and why. It wasn’t because they were so nice, and always there for me; it was because they were always there for their children. They spoiled them rotten, but those two children grew, matured(the daughter much more quickly than their son). Their kids were active, got good grades, had great social lives, and got along well enough with their parents. I never resented them for this, I admired that family, and I still do.

I told them that while my parents were never around and always working to make money so we’d have a secure future, I never had anyone I could count on. I suppose that’s why I was always so introspective as a child, always trying to figure it out. What it was that I was trying to figure out, I had no clue. I still don’t. My uncle tried to explain to me that my parents were working hard for both me and my sister, so we’d never worry about money in the future. I had already come to that conclusion a long time ago. I explained to my uncle that for the price of money, my parents sacrificed my childhood. They would often come home from work in a bad mood and exhausted. If ever a mistake was made, or for some reason they were upset, they would take it out on me (not on my sister because she’s a girl and that’s wrong, but for some reason beating on your son isn’t… and I recall many incidents when my sister would do something that would result in me getting beat up). I remember hiding the leather belts under sofa cushions and leaving my plastic belt out in the open because it didn’t hurt as much. But anyways…

My “real parents” weren’t like that, they never laid a hand on their children, even when they were brats. But they turned out just fine. All while I walk around damaged, with the scars of my past haunting me at times. My resentment towards my father and his vicious beatings went away because of something he did for me in the past, but that’s a whole other story. After telling my uncle and aunt that they were great parents, and to keep it up, and that I loved them, and would always be there for them, I left their place and went home.

No one was home, and all the doors were locked, I don’t know the last time I even had a key to the place. So I sat and waited in my car and they showed up shortly after. I immediately went to my actual uncle’s new place, a house my parents bought for him and his family. It was no more than five minutes away. It was nice, a great improvement from their last digs. I was so excited to see my grandparents. I hugged my grandmother and didn’t want to let go. Then I met my aforementioned cousin. My recall of her from my childhood wasn’t great at all, but I was happy to be graced with her presence nonetheless. And we made a deal that if she helped me get over my issue of speaking Punjabi (I will only properly speak it with my grandparents or people I’m really really comfortable around, which is virtually no one) while I helped her not be too shy to speak English.

My mom, my sister, and I went back home. My father was getting ready to sleep but offered to make me something fresh, but I told him I already ate and that I was fine. As I walked into my room, I found one of my sister’s old beds sitting a few feet away from mine. Her old bed was a twin while mine was a queen. My father was sleeping in the twin and left me my old bed to sleep in (my parents don’t sleep together, I gave up trying to understand why not a long time ago). It killed me to see him sleep in the small bed while my sister took refuge in the guest bedroom even though she had her own room which she would have nothing to do with, and wouldn’t let us do anything about. So whenever I came to visit, my dad would get the short end of the stick and sleep on the couch or use a memory foam topper to sleep on the ground. I need my room to be cold in order to fall asleep but he wasn’t down. He went to my mother’s room, the master bedroom, and put his mattress topper on one side of the room and fell asleep there.

The whole time, I was in a state of mental disarray. My mother had given me one of my dad’s vicodin to help me deal with the back spasms I was getting (ever since I got hit by a car while crossing the street last Tuesday night, I haven’t had a solid night’s sleep; I would wake up frequently, my back ebbing with pain on one side or the other). I didn’t end up taking my dad’s vicodin, fearing that if he was ever in pain (recently he had been experiencing severe headaches), I didn’t want to deprive him of any chance for relief. I could take the back pain, but never bear seeing him in pain.

I felt so bad about how every time I visited, he would end up sleeping somewhere like the sofa or on the ground, and he would never make a fuss, saying that he enjoyed it. But I didn’t. I couldn’t sleep after he left the room. I didn’t know what to do, knowing that he would be adamant about passing out on the ground.

I thought to myself that I should convince my parents to sell this house, move into a smaller one, away from all the bad memories. But I didn’t see how that would solve the problem. Eventually it occurred to me that if there was anything I could do, it was seva.

Seva is one of the duties of Sikhism, the religion I was blessed to be raised in (though I’m not at all religious). Seva means selfless service. As a child, on days my father came home tired but not mad, he would ask me to koot(to press or hit, in this case press) his feet, step on his back and legs; basically give his worn body a massage. And as a child, I would mostly hate doing it, because he would always want me to press harder but as a child I wasn’t strong enough. And as the years went by and I got older, I stopped doing his seva. Even recently, when I was back over winter break my father gave me a foot-rub. But where was I for him?

I convinced myself that the solution of doing seva for him is what would help me stop being distraught and let me sleep. I thought that I would do it tomorrow, but the possibility of forgetting the next morning had occurred to me. So I manned up, got out of bed and decided I would do it at that very moment.

I went to my mom’s room and found him lying on his mattess foam topper on the other end of the room. My mom was already in her bed, ready to sleep. She assumed I walked in there to give her a hug and readied herself for my embrace. I walked straight to my father instead and sat it his feet. For a long time I koot his feet. Memories came flooding back how badly they would ache when he got home from working all day, standing on his feet. As a child I hated doing this form of seva because I didn’t like feet, and always thought that he should keep them to himself, I especially hated having to take his white, hole-ridden tube-socks off his feet every day. But at that present moment, I would have given anything to go back in time and press with all my might, to take care of my father, who was only trying his hardest to take care of his family. Tears began swelling up in my eyes, just as they are now as I finish writing this. After a while he told me to stop, give him a hug and lay next to him, like old times, like those few good moments we had as father and son and I was filled with emotion. I kissed him on the cheek, got up, and left the room.

I promise myself tonight that every day I’m in his presence, I will do seva for my father. When granted the opportunity to serve my community, I will gladly volunteer to help others, to serve others in need.

Seva, selfless service. A service which is performed without any expectation of reward for the person performing it. Only in my case there is a reward, it helps me sleep at night.

g0rillainatie:

this is probably the greatest thing i’ve seen all day

universalflowers:

twoblokesandafuckloadofcutlery:

sch00lgirlq:

yassanova:

athousandwords-forlove:

infinity-on-highh:

“How come he don’t want me, man?”

From what I’ve heard, Will Smith’s father actually left him. This wasn’t entirely scripted. Will went off on his own rant, and the hug at the end was genuine.

His character was just supposed to shrug off his dad leaving again and he starts to but then Will goes off script. That whole speech is coming entirely from him. The hug at the end is also genuine, actor to actor not character to character.

forever reblog.

reblog every fucking time

One of the few genuine moments of television history, and one of the few moments that really get to me.

Forever reblog

One of the most believable and brilliant pieces of television ever

this always makes me tear up

I will meet you one day. We will hang out, get to know each other. We will get close, then closer. Then one night I will tell you that I love you, and love for you is all I will ever have.

But one day I will meet someone else. We will hang out, get to know each other, get closer, then closer.

And I’ll begin to love her as well.

But I will love you too.

Unfair, isn’t it? That we live in a world where we’re only “allowed” to choose one?

I will let the world know now: I am not capable of falling and staying in love with only one woman. My heart was meant to love more than one person.

And that it will.

As it always has.

-Taranjit Singh Bhullar