#TheACupRevolution

We think we are not affected by Instagram pictures, filters and captions, but somewhow they are taking over our minds, partially rotting our Brains, leaving us with an identity we are not sure of.

I began my fitness Journey in 2009, because I was never comfortable with my body size. I felt uncomfortable all the time even though I was not a plus size girl. I began purchasing magazines, liking boys and music videos. I was introduced  to a world where size mattered, and it was the type of body with little flesh and a whole lot of bones.

I worked hard at it, I didnt diet, only exercised and made my way to a size zero and a a healthy diet. I began challenging myself to drink more water, work out, do yoga and finally, discard meat from my diet, the rest is history. I feel like if I were to change, I wouldn't be myself....This life makes me happy.

On the Journey, I met people who did not quite understand my lifestyle and I simply explained to giggly faces and the downright ignorant. I never thought once to give up to fit in, because I felt unique and separated from what I thought was a mediocre world.

The journey did not end there, along the way came Miss Kardashian (with the West recently added) and she brought with her a huge butt, full coverage, contouring, small waist and breasts... a whole lot of breasts. There was now a need for bad bitches by young boys and a fat ass by young girls.


Many strive to get the look, and the attention by pushing themselves beyond reality, but I still loved the petite look and feel. I love my vegetarian diet, obsession with the Rastafarian and bohemian culture, no make up face and weird music.

I love this revolution, the A cup revolution, the small breasts, and little, Itsy booty. I love the way I look and feel and want nothing else. I love going braless whenever I feel, simply because bras are not necessary in my world.

I raise my glass of purified water and plate filled with greens and tofu, here's to the #ACupRevolution!  #LoveYourself
**Inspired by cosmopolitan

Beauty is when you can appreciate yourself. When you love yourself, that's when you're most beautiful.

Zoe Kravitz

Departure

Girl's mother dies from a rare genetic illness that her family didn't know she had.


"When I was born, I heard that my mother cried. On Christmas Eve, they felt that I was old enough and we sat on the patterned couch watching my mother scream as I was pulled from her. She cried, and I wasn't sure if it was tears of Joy or the fact that she wasn't going to be able to buy Givenchy any more. My father had a very smug grin.

It was that night that everything changed. I fell asleep to the sound of Otis Redding. It was the cough that woke me up, the sound was hoarse and deep, and I could feel the discomfort of the person. I jumped swiftly from my bed, the sheets tangled around my ankles and I fell on my face. I barely turned the corner before the face on the wall greeted me. The shadow was hunched over, the back raised high and the head moved up and down. I peered through the door and saw her. She coughed into a blood soaked rag. My father was on the phone shouting and I could see the tears glisten on his cheeks. I didn't understand fully, but I knew there would be no opening of presents at four tomorrow morning.

My mother’s eyes were filled with tears and I could feel the pain grip my chest. She fell backwards onto the bed, in such away as though she gave up. My father flung the clothes he had in his arms and grabbed her.

“Dad, No!” I shouted, but it as was though I wasn't there

“You have to sit up!” he shouted and I could feel his anger burn within me, then my father started crying. He leaned on her bosom like a child and sobbed. The sound filled the room and encircled me, then it sounded like a mocking laugh, and even though I didn't really know what was wrong, I started crying too.

My mother only sat on the bed and looked on us; in between tears she rubbed my father’s back.

“Clara, take some clothes from the drawer.” Her voice wasn't her own. It was filled with fear and sickness

“Mama what’s wrong?” I managed to say

“I don’t know baby, I don’t know,” And then she smiled, and I don’t know if that scared me more than the cough.

Father drove like a madman, the hospital was bright and I saw mother’s face.  It was hollow and I could not read her expression. They took her away and I sat alone in my pyjamas, staring at the picture of Jesus with children gathered around him. They were smiling and the light shone bright on his face, making him seem even more beautiful.

A hand touched me, so cold that it sent shivers up my spine. The hand was a bit too comforting and I felt my armour break. The tears flowed out of me like a stream, and no matter how much I wiped my face, it just poured out of me. The people in the room looked at me, some out of pity, and others I knew saw this so often, they couldn't feel any more.

The hand picked me up and guided me through a dark hall. I heard the moans of despair and retching. I heard my mother’s own voice and felt her pain wrap around me. The cough was distinct; the sighs were like the ones after a long day of cooking. 

My father was sitting in an armchair; the arm placed me beside my mother. Her fingers were cold and sweat washed over her face, I wiped them with my hand. Her eyes were directed towards the ceiling, which had nothing attractive, then she glanced at me and did nothing but stare.

I shifted my gaze to the machine attached to her arm. The liquid dripping into her arm looked like tears and I felt my own starting to form, but I shook my head furiously, for my mother’s sake. We left without mother. She was sleeping, lightly snoring and coughing.

It was Christmas morning. Dad and I sat on the patterned couch listening to the record that mother gave to him last Christmas. When it stopped, we were enveloped in silence and sadness. I glanced at the picture on the wall, the happy us. We were all dressed in red sweaters. Mother’s face was beaming as she held onto my hand, father was not smiling, because he hates taking pictures, but I knew he was happy.

We spent a month at home without mother; the dishes had grease marks and our feet picked up dust. We walked around in pyjamas and ate cereal every day, and father played Otis Redding. We watched the final episode of lost, then out of the blue, father started crying.

I fell asleep to my father’s crying, the phone rang and he shook my shoulders roughly.

“Clara get up!”

“What dad?”

“She’s going, she’s almost gone.” I had to hold my father up, but his weight fell on me and we were both crying. We got there in our pyjamas and tear stained faces, the nurses stared in pity. They lead us through the dark hall once more, this time mother was gone. We held her hands and prayed, father kept trembling. I was stronger and gripped his hands while we shared tears.

Mother had a rare disease that my grandmother had. It was living inside her and we did not know. Maybe it is inside me too, and one day I will cough until I die, then I will see mother again. It was father who I was sorry for."



When you lose a person you love so much, surviving the loss is difficult.

Cristiano Ronaldo

Moonlight Nights

Moonlight dreams soar across the evening skies,

Spreading light, blazing minds.

Hands joined tight and eyes like children,

As they welcome and embrace the  feeling.

She blows; he inhales and laughs a little,

firelight sparks again and they feel a shudder, a startling feeling trailing the spine.

They laugh and ponder, trying to figure the joke,

And laugh again, falling in a heap at the throne.

They are silent for a minute basking in the moonlight night,

drawing sharp breaths and savouring the taste.

She feels alive, and dances in the night,

He pulls her and presses her hand against his lips.

They laugh, and then she cries,

As one she holds dear is left behind.

Unknown to him are those moonlight nights,

where new tastes and feelings come alive.

They sleep, joined as one, with nothing but hot breaths for warmth,

Lips pressed, thoughts exchanged,

And guilt tossed away.

But morning sneaks over the houses, behind corners,

And the sun exposes all their sin.

They run, never looking back at each other.

They wait patiently for another moonlight night.

ReneeJ. All Rights Reserved.

We love life, not because we are used to living but because we are used to loving.

Friedrich Nietzsche

Unusual sadness

Deanna fears her sadness might be taking her over.

The sun penetrates my thighs, soaking deep within and relieving me of the horrid winter in New York. I took a plunge, with money I had saved for my friend’s gift and took a vacation. Selfish, some may say and I wouldn't care, because there is a deep pain in my chest reaching for my heart and pressing against my lungs. It is so cliché in this life, when depression is romanticized, but I still acknowledge the unique sadness that I mask behind open mouth laughs and desk slamming jokes.

#

When I met him, I was astonished; surprised that he chose me out of the throng of caramels and full chests. He called me ‘beautiful,’ a word I heard from many, but it slipped from their loose lips and fell on the cold, Gray concrete with a heavy thud. He said it, carefully pronouncing the letters and with a tone so foreign that I stared at his hazel eyes, looking deeply for a hint of deception, but they were like clear water, the type you had to travel far to find. He stayed around, peppered me with unusual compliments (gave himself some too), and then left me on the black couch one night with a blanket drawn over my entire body and a rose at my feet.

"Deanna," the note said, with the ‘a’ gone way too far. “I have to go back to my wife, because she said the bed is cold without me.” I didn't cry at first, but somehow the lie of a relationship we had did not faze me. “Sorry, Khalil.” I laughed at the word sorry. I should have known it wouldn't last when he called himself superman when we lay underneath the navy blue sheets with his face pressed close to mine and eyes closed tight. I stayed in the dark for awhile with the scent of his body and ego all around me. His voice permeated constantly throughout my house and stayed within the walls, I called my work, told them I was sick. I didn't lie because then began the disease of unusual melancholy.

I tried to erase him with liquid in dark bottles, ones that burned and lingered in the body. My friends encouraged the eventful nights and chugging, and I gladly held back my head and consumed the remedy. I would wake up on Sunday mornings, a day set for breakfast on the balcony, watching the cars race along the New York streets, a moment for light sweaters in the cool spring and colourful nail polish. But I was bending over the toilet emptying myself of retail, short lived happiness, leaving my stomach and heart empty, with vomit in my hair.

I started walking through the streets with my head down and my hair blowing about my face. I embraced the onset of fall and felt a strange desire to layer even more. I grabbed my coats with glee and wound scarves around my face. I watched as others embraced, tickled and snuggled against each other in the cold. I stared at faces plastered with smiles and wondered if they had any sadness, even a little bit.

I told my friend I wanted to die, she laughed. “Deanna, you are sure crazy, you light up my days.” Her compliment wasn't what I needed and I sat gazing at her blowing cigarette smoke in the cold air and watched it wrap around her, and the lipstick stain on the lung destroyer.

“Nash, you shouldn't smoke, it doesn't suit you.” she glared at me and then laughed, a cackle like a wild animal.

“You are so sad.”

“I know,” and the conversation ended there. I ignored her calls and battled with losing her. I gave her up, but felt deep pain and anxiety when she stopped calling. I wanted her to reach out for me, to crave my attention and company, but every call was an intern who did not know how to use the photocopying machine.

I started spending time with my sister. We sat in cafes and hugged the warm mugs, relieving our hands of the bitter outdoors. I stared at her high cheeks and small eyes, her glowing skin that wasn't given to her by water. My hands reached up and touched my blemished plain face. She smiled at me, in a sort of pitiful way. “Your skin is clearing up.” I gave a small grin and bent my head, staring at the brown liquid in the cup.

“I met a guy,” she whispered, although no one was close to us. I glanced up and propped myself up on my elbows. She started talking, her eyes getting bigger and her nostrils flared. I watched the movement of her lips and the words tumbling out on the table, but I didn't hear a word she said. Most guys would stare as she walked with confidence and I dragged behind with my head down. Some stopped her while I awkwardly stood behind, and they would politely smile at me.

“That’s your sister!?” some said in the most outrageous manner, and I stared gravely as they marvelled in her beauty and at me in an enigmatic way, trying to make the connection that we were somehow related.

I studied myself in the mirror and questioned my face, eyes and smiled. Sometimes I felt good, but nobody seemed to appreciate it. I bathed myself in sorrow and pushed through the snowy days. The misery continued to creep and take over and I feared it would take me. I booked the ticket, and hoped for the best, for healing and freedom, but mostly relief from mental fatigue.

##

I watch girls pass in bathing suits, toned and bold. The guys made howling calls and grinned with each other. But they all passed without even glancing at the lone figure on the lounge chair and I still felt lost and misplaced in world of sun and incredible warmth.

I've cried, and you'd think I'd be better for it, but the sadness just sleeps, and it stays in my spine the rest of my life.

Conor Oberst

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