The stories of a Crazy girl!

There was a time when I had these huge dreams. I wanted to accomplish everything at an young age, I was scared if my dreams would die like that of my parents. I would even think of never getting married because the way I saw, it trapped you. I would write songs and think of having them recorded and even plan a whole music video, imagine it playing on the radios. However I didn't have that kind of money. I wrote novels and imagined getting them published and sold, getting prizes for those. I laugh when I remember I actually even met a lot of publishers by searching the addresses and going there alone, when I was just 18 or less. The thing was, I was so stupidly determined I would do something big, become someone famous at an early age. We've all read biographies where people started at an young age, nobody believed them and they ended up big right? I was determined, that it was my fate to become a famous person like that. But more than that, I was scared, what if I die without

 ( Was filled with the urge of writing this after seeing posts about Swosthani on social medias ) Yes we don't read Swosthani in our house every year. No I'm not an Atheist. I don't know if I qualify as a religious person. I celebrate every festival. I bow down at every temple I see. I pray to God and put tika before exam and flights. But we have never read Swosthani in our home, as far as I remember. I once remember reading Swosthani when I was younger, not aloud though. I didn't worship the cover before reading it, I just put it on my lap and read it. To me, I was just reading another book. I remember there was this Goma of 7 or 17 years who married a 70 years old man. ( I haven't read it ever after that day so I'm not really sure about the facts. ) That part seemed absurd to me, even as a schoolgirl. I imagined myself, around the same age, marrying such an old man; and it scared me! I just put the book aside and never completed it. There are things like

"Will you be fine now? Do you want me to stay?" She slowly unwrapped her arms from around her little brother as he gave her a nod as an answer. "But this hurts, I just realised." He said, with a short shy and guilty glance at his hand. "Of course it does. I will go get some ointment, you stay here." With that, she left the room, taking just one more glance at his arm. Some old and some new, there was hardly any part of the skin on his left forearm and palm not carrying the burden of any scars or cuts. Scars, she had known them too well for too long. She could tell by looking at a scar how much a person had suffered. She could tell which scars were from self-harm and which from suicidal attempts. The numerous, shallow, scary to look at, those ones were from "self-harm". Usually done when a person loathed himself so much that he would want to cause pain, see himself suffering, and fill himself up with physical pain enough to overwrite the actu