I'm fine-

Maybe if I say it enough times it'll be true-

But until then I'd like to avoid any of the lies and excuses I'd tell you-

Honestly I'm fine-

I'm used to what I've been through-

No I don't need to talk or cry through all my issues with you-

I'm fine please stop asking-

I'd hate to lay all my burdens down and have them crush you too-

STOP! I'm fine!

I know you care-

And it's not that I don't trust you-

Sometimes I'd like to go through life solving my own problems without you-

I'm...

I'm tired of your questions-

I'm tired of lying to you-

But I know it will hurt you more if I told you the truth-

Ever heard that expression-

"I'm ok, but not ok" -

Thats what I've been trying to say-

Even though I'm going through hell right now-

I still get up everyday and walk in my own shoes-

So until the day Death carries me away-

I'm fine.

It is not an acronym but a shortened form of my full name: Neha Srivastava. So, you guys could call me Neha if you want :) But, after so many days as @nehasri , it just kind of sounds good. It's my identity as a writer. I love this shortened form for a specific reason, even though that was not it when I started using it - it can be divided into two parts - neha & sri. Neha, my actual name, is derived from the Sanskrit word "sneh" meaning love or affection, thus, in essence it means love or someone who loves. Sri, the suffix I use and which is taken from my surname "srivastava", means Goddess. So essentially, my pen-name means "love-goddess". Hence, in every thing I write, love, in any of its myriad forms, is an important part.

The steam from a hot cup of tea makes for a captivating visual, especially on cold winter mornings. Cupping your hands around the mug and feeling its warmth can sometimes trigger emotions along tangential directions. 

It can summon memories as well as desires.

"Neha, tea is ready! Come, let's have it together!" was my mother giving me a wake-up call on most mornings after I graduated from school. School days were obviously different; and, early. 

Many times, she would simply warm her hands around a steaming hot tumbler of tea and then cup my face or neck in those warm hands to wake me up. 

Waking up looking at her ever-smiling face and then tucking my head into her lap and hugging her tight before I rolled out of bed was a daily ritual. 

And though, most mothers would advise for the hygiene ritual of brushing before I had my tea, my mom was chilled out. As long as I did maintain the ritual, whether I did it before tea or after that was immaterial.

The aroma of tea that filled the house early in the morning and her chirpy voice calling out, are memories that come rushing back to me every time I have the good fortune of getting up early and having a cup of tea. Most of the times, though, I avoid getting up just for the lack of that loving experience.

A mother is irreplaceable but a companion/partner would make for a desirable morning tea as well. 

Sadly, I don't have one yet. 

Hence, while I miss my mom a lot over the morning tea, another thought crossing my mind at the exact same moment is the yearning for a loving partner whom I could trouble with my mindless ramblings early in the morning.

Ahh! That morning cuppa and the love that it evokes!

Picture this:

1988. Boston, Massachusetts, Boston University. 

Thanksgiving Break, Black Friday.

A black third-year Political Science major is planning to go to a reggae bar in Cambridge, called The Western Front, where he's to meet two buddies, Andreas and David. But before heading to the bar, he stops by Christy's Market, where he gets some money from an ATM and plays Galaga.

On the street outside of Christy's, he takes a left and is listening to Bob Marley's '3 o'clock Road Block' (which includes the line, "Hey, Mr. Cop, got no birth certificate on me now", which is soon to be relevant), when a cop car passes in the opposite direction. This car makes a U-turn in the circle it has entered, which the young man notices and figures they are following him. The street he's walking on is connected to Commonwealth Ave. via a bridge and is a one-way, so he checks to see if the cop car goes the wrong way on it and are therefore truly following him. Arriving on Commonwealth Ave, he crosses the street to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Plaza (more irony on this day) to wait for a bus or a cab. It starts raining and while sitting directly across the street from a Chinese restaurant, he notices another cop car sitting in front of the restaurant. As he stands, dodging raindrops, this cop car begins to circle, crossing over the trolley tracks in the middle (an illegal action that is posted as such). The young man now figures that the first car gave this car a call. Since it's raining, the cop is looking at him, and he's unsure of whether a bus or cab will be coming soon, he decides to walk to the bus and cab station to catch a ride from there. While walking, he looks over at a dorm and notices lights are on, possibly left that way for any students who hadn't gone home for Thanksgiving break. He goes to the doors and tries the first set, which don't open. He then tries the second set, which also don't open, so he goes to try the third set. Suddenly, the cop from in front of the restaurant arrives.

Says the cop, named Officer Lindy, "What are you doing? You're acting very suspicious."

"I'm a student at Boston University and I'm going into the dorm to use a phone. I'm going to the Western Front to meet some friends at a reggae bar and thought I'd call a cab to pick me up here."

"What are you doing in this area?" the cop repeats. "You're looking and acting very suspicious."

Before he can answer again, the second cop car arrives and this cop, by the name of Officer Cabral, says, "Yeah, that's him. Saw him over by Christy's." To the young man, he asks, "What were you doing? Singing?"

The young man thinks, 'Was it that bad that you had to stop me?' but remains silent.

Officer Cabral, seemingly mimicking the other cop, asks, "What are you doing in this area? You're looking and acting very suspicious."

The young man responds, for the second time, "I'm a student at Boston University. I live at (address from a couple of blocks away) and am on way to meet friends at The Western Front and was trying to use a phone to call a cab."

Just then, a cab pulls up and the young man goes to get in it, but is stopped.

Officer Cabral says, "If you're trying to catch a cab, you should know to go to Kenmore Square if you live at (address)."

After 3-4 mins of the young man and cops looking at each other, the young man decides to oblige them, so he turns to head towards Kenmore Square. But as he turns, Officer Lindy grabs his left arm. As he's originally from Chicago, our young man knows not to resist arrest from police, but since he's not actually under arrest, he's also not up for having hands laid on him, so he snatches his arm back and says, "Hey, what are you doing?"

The cops then grab him up, twist his arms behind his back, put him up against a light pole and say, "That's it, buddy, you're busted for assault and battery of a police officer." Bending the young man over the nearest cop car, Officer Cabral begins to search our young man's pants, to which the young man says, "Sir, there are no drugs."

Officer Cabral says, "We're not looking for drugs, we're looking for weapons."

Pulling out the young man's wallet and ID, the officer throws him in the back of the car and, leaving his car in front of the dorm, gets in the passenger seat, with Officer Lindy taking the wheel, and they begin to pull away. After running his ID, Officer Cabral says, "(Name), oh yeah, you ARE a Boston University student."

So our friend figures he is good; because there is a police station on campus for students, he thinks he is ok and that they're headed to the campus police station. But after a block, he notices that they're going in wrong direction. Our young man is now in worry mode, as he knows what officers do to young black men in Boston.

"So, if you see that I'm a Boston University student and I told you why I was at the door of the dorm, then why not just let me go?"

"If you hadn't have gotten smart, then we wouldn't be in this situation... If you're a Boston University student, why don't you have a Boston University ID?"

"Because I have a bursar problem."

The cops don't respond, but instead continue driving in the opposite direction of the student police station. At this point, our young man begins to panic even more. He begins to think of everything he read in the autobiography of Malcolm X and is seriously concerned...

Our young black man is soon delivered to the police station without incident, where he is brought before the desk clerk. His personal belongings are taken and he's told his bail is $20. Knowing he only has $19, he tells the desk clerk everything he told the officers, in the hopes of receiving leniency in terms of the bond. He is told 'no', but is allowed one phone call. Since he'd just left a buddy who would've had the money on-hand, he calls the friend, but since the pal was with his girlfriend - as our young man was afraid would be the case - the phone is answered and immediately dropped. So he calls another friend and that friend agrees to come down and post the bail. The bail is posted at 12 midnight, but the young man doesn't find out about it until 3am. Well, Christmas came early, because though it's the holiday weekend, the bail-bondsman, who ironically is named 'Mr. Christmas' happens to come by for another client and is told that the young man is in lock-up; he therefore fills out the required paperwork and the young man is released.

Arraignment is set for Monday, the day the young man has a Business Law midterm, which he now cannot attend. Come Monday, he calls his professor and explains the situation and is assured not to worry about the midterm; he is also given the number for an attorney he may call.

At the arraignment, he is met by Sargent Devlin of the Boston University police, who says, "They told me they had one of our boys down here. We can make this thing go away, you just have to plead 'No Contest'". The young man, being quite intelligent, thinks, 'Hmmm, that sounds like admitting to something I didn't do, which is not going to happen since I plan to go to law school.' He verifies this information with his public defender.

Later, in front of the black judge, when asked by the black D.A. how he pleads, he answers, "Not guilty," to which the D.A. says, "If the young man wants to waste the court's time, then he can pay his public defender fees."

The judge says, "We agree with the state and you will have to pay your public defender fees."

At this point, the young man thinks the whole world has gone berserk, because if an administrator of the law can say "public defender" and "pay" in the same sentence, then the world must be crazy. Fortunately, the public defender, obviously a true-blue guy, says he'd never heard of such a thing and that the young man shouldn't worry about it.

Months later, on the day of the trial, our young man arrives at court and finds that the only officer in court is Officer Cabral, who wasn't even there for the initial stop and questioning. The officer proceeds to testify as to how he observed the young man walk up to the doors of the dorm and begin to pull violently upon them. He also indicates that the young man became verbally abusive, as well as physically assaulting him "about his face and chest".

The young man writhes in his chair at the alternate facts being given, but is reassured by his public defender that he'll have his chance to tell his side.

The judge in the case is an 80-yr-old white Boston Irishman, who is falling asleep during testimony. So when the young man begins to tell his tale, he is concerned that he'll either be a victim of stereotypical Boston prejudice or that the judge will sleep through his testimony, just to wake up and give a verdict of "Guilty" just because. It is of note that part of his story includes the question, "Why would I assault an officer of the law when I'm planning to go to law school?"

However, fate, common sense, and truth win the day, as the judge wakes up, proclaims the young man "Not Guilty", and the young man is released. As he is leaving the courtroom, Officer Cabral waves a hand and says, "Good luck in law school." At this moment, the young man realizes he'd seen the officer somewhere else before and it takes him a few weeks to recall that Officer Cabral is a security guard at Boston University's Rich campus, as well as a police officer for the Boston University police. Also, he recalls that Officer Cabral was working one night when he attended a party with some young white ladies. So he then begins to believe that his arrest, detention, and aggravation was caused as much by racial profiling by the police as racial attitudes in general in regards to relationships between blacks and whites.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The young man in question, now 51-years-old, DID finish Law School, and when my S.O. tells me, as well as others, his tale, he always gets visibly upset. And so it goes, that indeed, the effect of some experiences truly do never fully abate.

**As a point of note, the same thing occurred twenty years later, in 2008, to Dr. Henry Louis Gates, who was arrested after returning to his home and finding he had no key, thereby causing him to break into his own home, at which point the police were called. Even after presenting his ID with the same address as where he was standing, he was taken to jail.

I've been on Prose for less than a week - a major newb, *lol* - but so far, I've loved being here.

For one thing, I'm totally addicted to Facebook, so the format of Prose is perfect for me. I also really like the Portals. But the best things, I think, are (1) the actual feedback from others; like a few others have mentioned, I too have put my writings on facebook, but they rarely get attention and even when I monologue via Newsfeed, they get scant attention. It also seems to be difficult to really make a name for oneself on blogging sites. Here, though, almost everything I've written has had feedback. So far, it's all been positive, but I'm certainly open to constructive criticism; I'm currently working on a novel for young people - which I will not be posting here, lest it gets turned down from publishers for that reason - so I really like getting a feel for how people take to my writing. It lets me know if there are things about my writing I may need to work on when it comes to my novel.

Also, (2) I love, love, love reading what others have written. I have so many books at home, I could near'bouts open a bookstore or library and as much as I love reading those books, there's something even more wonderful about reading the work of others like myself. Whether amateur or pro, I can FEEL the love of writing that my peers have. Obviously, authors love it, too, but their works are so complete and polished by the time they hit the shelves that it's sometimes hard to get that from someone like Steven King or Dean Koontz (two of my faves, obviously). Also, since many of these writings are true stories, I get way more emotional here than reading any novel (even the Twilight series, *lol*); I can actually sympathize and empathize and I greatly treasure this feeling of community.

Lastly, I LOVE the challenges! I actually found this site because I was searching Google for "free writing contests" and I've looked nowhere else since I found Prose. Even though very few of the challenges I've seen have cash (or "juice") prizes, that's ok, as I enjoy the...uh...challenges (*giggle*) that they involve, as I'm sure they're helping me to sharpen my writing skills, the better for completing my novel. Plus, they're just plain fun! And so creative! I love nothing better than to have a good idea that I can run with. Prose is like a gym for writing muscles!

And did I mention that I LOVE reading what others have written? :-D

I know I should probably add something negative, as well, but I've got nothing. Maybe because I'm still in the honeymoon phase, here, *lol* <3

The pen will always listen.

The page won't turn away.

Even a sky full of clouds I could turn to a sunny day were I to ink it to the page, or be inspired. 

I write because I found out my mind was a liar, and I needed a way to hold it accountable.

I write because every single syllable actually means something, and i know too little truth in this world.

Yet the first reason,

Since I could hold a pen,

Was that, 

I write because I was 

a lonely little girl, 

in a world who couldn't care less. 

-a little quote from Me. Probably one of my favorite jokes I came up with in response to when people can't get my attention due to my attention deficit..... Charlie Chaplin once said, "True comedy is when you can take your pain, and play with it." So i suppose I do that, in a sense...

It feels like I have won a piece of youth back! Through all of this you'll find at the corner of my eye sometimes, tears of joy that I hold back. I am simply blown away at how much better I feel. After this much time out of the hospital I know this feeling is real, and the euphoric feeling that follows could only be coined happiness.

Having lived through such an expierience i am ravenous for life! To live and thrive as I've promised myself I'd do, after I decided if i really hate myself I'd never kill me. The reason being I'd make myself live and suffer. That was in some of the first years of the pain. I feel I've regained the ability to be fully aware, and awake, and i maintain that I won't end me but now it is for a different reason.

i have foumd hope again, and I'm going to take this as an opportunity to be even truer to me than ever before (with the rest of the world still considered of course) and throw myself into a period of self development. I am relevant and plan to make my actions match that truth.

I'll be the proof..... just, please, don't call me puddin'.....

From a schoolyard row over a classroom scowl.

To the touch of arousal in hidden rooms of adolescent carousal.

To a plane dropping bombs on fanatics citing psalms.

To a monk gaining light after a lifetime's dark fight.

Some say ying,

Some say yang.

Some say joy,

Some say pain.

But the battle never stops.

And balance be the judge.

And grey be the king.

Whilst acceptance the key.

To the path in light drenched in peace.

Upholding the law we always knew to be true.

A drum so maternal,

Eternal,

Yet lost in our youth,

To hear its beating once more,

To bust down the door.

For come seek the tribal call.

Come inhale the smouldering lie,

Of a world sick on death.

For in us are kings,

Queens of this dirt.

For we are the future.

Yet we are the hurt.

Locked shores, horns,

Sands soaked in blood.

Forgive us our brothers.

As we redeem our sin.

Forgive me young you as we venture within.

We see it.

Me you.

We lead unto harmony.

We feel it.

You me.

There's an atom in our armoury,

Too.