life in a glass house.


For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been fascinated by glass houses. Two spaces exist side by side and are visible to each other, yet disconnected. It is an illusion that personal space is a reality because every occurrence is up for public display. It is a spectacle, this life we lead, an empty form of entertainment for strangers who are foolish enough to believe they know us because they think they see us. They think they know our secrets because the walls are transparent.


We go about our daily lives pretending to have full autonomy on our every move and decision, pretending we don’t notice the scrutiny. The glass walls that separate us from the masses lead us to believe that our life is a show, free-of-charge. We are performers under their judgmental eyes, and we play our roles perfectly to a tee; strut this way, speak that way, glam and live it up. Don’t let your guard down, smile for the camera.

The glass house is an illusion of families that go about their every day lives behind the watchful eyes of society who are so quick to judge. They think they know us because they’ve seen our good sides; so put together and cohesive as a unit. Will they, could they, believe a dark side exists – where and how could we possibly have hidden any of the dark matter when the house is made of glass, isn’t it? They watch us like hungry hawks.


A glass house is a prison, its occupants are hostages and the worse secret is this farce we live in.


Another argument. Another bombshell dropped. Another thunderous bang.

For 45 minutes the glass house reverberated to the shouts, curses, sometimes tears, but always – devastating truth.

Don’t even think of taking back your words.


“You are insensitive to everyone but your mother.” 

Your mother. Your mother. Your mother.

Our mother, you fool.


“I don’t care if you’re like this to me, to us – we’re used to you. But she isn’t. Ever since you’re back, there’s not a day the group thread isn’t quiet. You lack tact, you’re insensitive and rude to everyone but your mother. Unlike you, she’s not used to any of this. Why can’t you think of others?”

“I accept that, where my shortcomings are. But what do you expect? What is it that you’re trying to hide her from – us? Why? At the end of the day, it’s whether she feels okay, she feels comfortable, she feels this. She feels that. We’ve never been normal. Why should we pretend to, to appease her?” 

Fuck this. You give me so much shit about how marriage is like, how I don’t understand because I’m not there. I’m not even interested dude, so save your breath. Here’s a memo, since you obviously think you’re now the guru in this: you don’t just marry the person you love – you marry the goddamn family that comes with the person. Gee I’m sorry she’s stuck with us, so different from the perfect capsule she’s always used to but you know, suck it up. We’re not going to fit into that damn mold you want us to because we’ve never been normal. We’ve never been functional and cohesive in the way that her family is. Should I apologize for this? Why? She needs to learn to fucking bend.


“All happy families are alike;
each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

― Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina


Fact: We are not playing charades.

Fact: We are not fucking actors in this make-believe play you think you’re writing, this beautiful illusion you want to keep up because it doesn’t disrupt your perfect little bubble where things happen according to your plan and people act exactly the way you want them to.


“It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched for they are full of the truthless ideal which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real, they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by the necessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness, prepare them for an unreal life. They must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they have been told are lies, lies, lies; and each discovery is another nail driven into the body on the cross of life.”
— W. Somerset Maugham, Of Human Bondage


This house is poison and we’re all fucking broken, but you know what: So what? 

I have no shame – not for myself, not for us, not for how we turned out. I am not ashamed of us, because we’re making the best of it, every single day for the past fifteen years. In your logical world where there is no space for us because we don’t play along to this script you’re writing, you need to learn to fucking bend too. We will never fit in this mold called normal. Life will always be difficult, a struggle, and people will act as they believe is best for them.

People are dynamic and emotional and complex. People are human beings with autonomy, willpower and desires. People are broken and ugly and flawed. People are illogical, imperfect and difficult. People are a disruption to a perfectly structured system, standing out like a sore thumb.

Just what kind of reality do you think you’re living in? Wake up from your illusion.


Adulthood is a land mine where no one gets out unscathed.

Home is a myriad of messy emotions, broken souls, and elephants in the room.

Real life is a war zone in which we have to fight for the life that we want. Let me tell you this: I will fight for the life I believe I deserve without condemning my past and background. I will earn my place amid the chaos and imperfections and disruptive systems and temporary happiness and inevitable struggles, you know why?

Every inch of this – this is reality.


I’ve no time for your bullshit.


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