"I think about dying but I don’t want to die, not even close. In fact my problem is the complete opposite. I want to live, I want to escape. I feel trapped and bored and claustrophobic, there’s so much to see and so much to do but I somehow still find myself doing nothing at all. I’m wasting every second, even now I’m writing this when I should be out there. I should be living. I’m still here in this metaphorical bubble of existence and I can’t quite figure out what the hell I’m doing or how to get out."
- (via thegirlwhocould21)

(Source: floweringo, via thegirlwhocould21)

لست عزيزاً على أحد إلا الله

you are not dear to anyone except God

بعد موتك الكل سينساك

after you die, you will be forgotten by everyone

(Source: ittaqillah, via faineemae)

"I’ve been making a list of the things they don’t teach you at school. They don’t teach you how to love somebody. They don’t teach you how to be famous. They don’t teach you how to be rich or how to be poor. They don’t teach you how to walk away from someone you don’t love any longer. They don’t teach you how to know what’s going on in someone else’s mind. They don’t teach you what to say to someone who’s dying. They don’t teach you anything worth knowing."
- Neil GaimanThe Sandman, Vol. 9: The Kindly Ones  (via thegirlwhocould21)

(Source: feellng, via thegirlwhocould21)

Name five random things about yourself and pass it on to your ten favourite follower. I was tagged by qabootri

1. I like listening to a lot of very different genres of music. 

2. When I was six, I ran into a car. 

3. I was the first kid in my class to point out that the night sky was actually purple and not black. I felt like a total badass. 

4. I hate Papayas and bitter gourd. 

5. I like laughing and smiling with my teeth on display. 

 I tag withlove-frompakistan, thegirlwhocould21 , shethoughtso adilhasan and sterolineislove



She noticed it for the first time when she was six. The teacher had been trying to explain to her class how all humans were different. She’d pointed out her and another girl and said, “Look at how Saffia is dark and Amna is fair, but they are both your friends and you treat them all the same.” The term ‘dark’ felt derogatory to the six year old’s brain, like something you’d use for a creepy crawly. She didn’t think that the teacher meant it in a malign way, but the bitter resentment of not being fair soaked a layer or two into her brown skin. 

The second time it happened, she was eleven and had just started middle school, she’d had to bid farewell to all of her old friends and find new ones. You wouldn’t think eleven year olds were that heartless but they were. She waved her hand in the attempt of a hello, flashing a wide smile, putting every crooked tooth on display. They scrunched their noses almost instantly in unison, “She’s soooo black,” She heard them whisper harshly to each other. She wasn’t. At least, not in the street sense of the word, she was a Pakistani like them. She had a dark tan, which would only grow tanner with age and in that moment she hated the skin that enveloped her. Hated not having the golden glow that bounced off those fairer Pakistani girls. She turned away and was faced with a girl of darker complexion, the girl smiled a smile almost as crooked as Saffia’s. They fell into two seats away from the others, almost instantly establishing their friendship on the depth of their colour. Or in South-Asian terms, the lack of it.

The ‘colour’ situation didn’t affect her as much five years later but she took note of the differences that were faced. She noted how the boys only ever dated fair, petite girls. Who were beautiful, yes, she knew. But she liked to believe that there was more to beauty than your skin tone and your width. She liked to believe that beauty laid in words and opinions and expressions and arguments. She hated it when, Fair and Lovely used the whole fairness-is-directly-proportional-to-beauty-and-confidence marketing strategy. As if little girls needed more to worry about. In that moment, she promised herself not to succumb to the colourists. Maybe she didn’t want to be fair and lovely, maybe dark and witty was more her forte.

A few days after her twenty fourth birthday, as she spent her time reading on the swing in the veranda, she heard her grand mother speaking to her mother in a hushed murmur, ‘She’s not going to find a man easily, Shagufta. Tell her to change her look a bit. The girls these days do so much to themselves.’ Good on them, Saffia thought. It was their choice. As for her, she liked the colour on her face and her skin, she liked the faint contrast in the skin that lay in her inner hand and the skin that covered her knuckles. She liked colour in general. The brown that the sun had blessed her with on the Lord’s command, she liked it. She liked herself, she didn’t understand the ‘gora complex’ that almost everyone around her had. As for this supposed man she was to look more presentable for. If he were shallow enough to dislike her or think her beneath him for being dark, she’d rather not have him in her life at all. 

colorism colorist women of color coloured women colourism colourist colored women pakistan brown desi