Vicky Saini is a well-known Indian singer, Song-writer and Composer. his singing career started in 2021 with “Lattu" song. He was born on May 25, 2003 in Village Sukheri in Gangoh of District Saharanpur, Uttar Pardesh. He belongs to a Saini family and His age 18 year as of 2021. Her height is about 5' 9" inches. His hair colour is black and his eyes color is also black. He did his schooling at R.K Mehta Inter College Gangoh. Later, he attended Institute Management Studies (IMS) College of B.CA Roorkee for graduation. he started giving time to music as well. He has a deep interest in singing and acting from an early age.
Prologue What a life it's been for a little girl named Dorothy. I belong to her, you see. I am her life, her blood, her center of all feeling, and her so-called "symbol of love". I exist in her, and so I am her. Besides me, I'm here to tell you the stories of her life, her ups and downs, and most importantly, how I was the thing that kept her going all the time. We'll start with her chubby years when she could only crawl on her knees and hands instead of walking on her two feet. As I said, she wasn't as slender as she is now, and spent most of her time eating, crying, and sleeping for 10 minutes at a time. These weren't her best years so let's start right in the middle, shall we? Chapter 1 The not darkest of times And so Dorothy was in Fort Worth, TX. Yes, yes, I know, I skipped over quite a bit, but I only have 5,000 characters to share a very interesting life with someone very eager to hear it! As I was saying, Dorothy went from the town of her birth (which should no means be called by any other name) to a much better place that she rather enjoyed compared to, let's just call it, Burth town. Here she could meet new friends, go to a school that would spark her love for writing, and reveal the many other interests she still has today. However, a year is a year, and an apartment is an apartment, and a snobby area is a snobby area, and they were gone. Off to a place called Mansfield TX, a place they hoped would show more diversity and character than the rich neighborhood of Tanglewood Fort Worth. That also concluded in negative ways, but before anything could be done about it, a virus, that has impacted everyone's lives all across the world occurred. They were stuck in Mansfield with nothing to do about it, so they stayed there for another year or so. Anyways, let me tell you about the "not darkest time" in Dorothy's life. The pandemic had hit, and everyone was worried, confused, and out of their minds practically. Not her family, though. Her dad, a tough 40 something-year-old polish man, and her mom, a strong and fun Irish woman, knew just how to handle the situation. This means that Dorothy didn't have that hard of a time not really being able to leave the house for a couple of months. And, considering that they were in Texas, the laws weren't as strict for things to remain closed, so they had no trouble going out for dinner and doing things of such sort. Yes, her family was impacted as well as every other family in the US, but Dorothy had things quite good at the time considering the other events that occurred throughout her life. She spent her time crafting, playing outside, and spending some time on online school. Occasionally, her school was back in person and she was able to see all of her friends again, but you know how the story goes. So she was not in Mansfield Texas anymore. She was on a five-day road trip through New Mexico, Arizona (including the grand canyon and petrified forest), and up through southern California. You guessed it, San Fransisco it was, and all is well so far for the little girl I've spent my time helping keep her warm and happy. It seems I have some room to tell you her previous stories in a short song, so how about I give it a go. Chapter 2 The Darkest of Times: As I mentioned in the chapter before this one, there was a place before Fort Worth Texas that I don't dare speak of. But life is a game of truth or dare so why not. The place is called Odessa Texas, which is nothing like how it might sound. It's a plethora of brown, stucco strip malls, run-down, graffitied buildings, true crime-like stories in the newspaper, and oil. The land was hot and dry, and any green plants there were obviously planted there by humans. It was covered in nothing but oil fields and was right in the heart of west texas, in between Mexico, New Mexico, and the rest of Texas. That should set the scene well enough for you, now I need to hurry on with her life before. Past her chubby stage, she was an alien, a boy, a dinosaur, a raccoon, and an outright wild card. She drew on everything she saw, flipped her nickname backward (to Tod), told everyone she knew she was from the moon and bit people ALOT. After that, she got a tiny bit less crazy but was still only in 1, 2, and 3rd grade, which means she still had an explanation to be wild. She was this way because of the situation she lived in. Poverty is what it was, no good food, no clothes that fit, no proper discipline, and many other things. She was abused in ways she shouldn't have been, but she has come so far, that's what really counts. No more dinners at 10 o'clock, no more boy clothes, no more sugar (and screen) addiction, and no more Burth Town. After all, how would I be here, writing what my heart tells me, and treating it like the utmost past? My story is one to remind you that the pleasures you can't see should be left to your heart to see and to always cherish life now because you never know what might be next for you.
“ What makes you a Shell of yourself?” Well you see it's its all but too simple to ignore the question and continue on until you're too old to have memory of anything you've done that morning earlier, let alone what was asked of you here today. You'll do like most us with little too much to say and a lot too much on our minds. I'm not quite keen on how your story begins but I can give you a glimpse of insight of mine. I grew up special, from a young age I was years above my time but smart enough to let adults play adults and know my place as a child, I was observant, passive but clueless and assertive. I blamed myself for realizing my mother had a drug addiction when I wished I stayed oblivious to it all because as I was then what was the point of knowing of something that I couldn't help erase from the boards of her life or mine let alone be tall enough to clean each diameter of it. I watched the family fall apart like it was a game of tug of war yet it was me against every demon who held us captive. I stayed strong for everyone , never cried, complained or voiced my thoughts.That was it, there was when it started. I must've been so good at being strong that I was gifted a fake smile and laugh to accompany it. So I used those gifts to the fullest from the day I was separated from my twin brother to my mother going to jail and leaving me to grow alone to the day my grandma had to say her last goodbye to this life...and that day was really hard I almost thought the gift would be taken away. I eventually received a new gift and this one even greater than the last, it was another me except it did everything for me while I sat back and watched. Now I'd make friends who I knew everything about but knew nothing about me, here I'd gain new siblings who I rarely knew how to interact with, here I'd waste so much of hours worrying what family and the church would think instead of what Shamai wanted. After years of the same cycle I knew I wanted change I wanted to return the gifts and live for myself to find out who myself even was. Id reach my 18th birthday and 6 days later lose my mother to those same very demons. I extended the return policy for my gifts again back to square one and lost a second time but when things seem to all fall apart that's when the man upstairs so everyone calls him starts to intervene , he gave me the most beautiful gift I could've even and never would've thought of, Shane. He gave me something warm, kind,genuine,forgiving, patient and loving .. the tenderest gift of love and someone to share it with. This gift was so amazing I didn't even realize I had forgotten about the other ones I had received before. So the me now years later of growing and finding me I have had rough times not mentioned and times I've stored away, memories made on my own and memories shared with my gift.I never realized how close I came to being completely empty but not from the inside out but the outside in , truly I could've grown old to being just a shell within myself.
What is destiny? Though I have pondered for a long time, I am still finding out myself. I have always been a top student. Ever since I can remember, I was always receiving the best marks and the greatest praise from my teachers, albeit I was known to be a bit of a talker in class. But there is no way to stay a student forever, even if it felt like it. I knew that. I did not know what I was going to do afterwards. I tried my hand at every activity outside of school I could think of; I played on every team my town could scrape together, I joined every camp that wasn't hundreds of dollars, and I explored every option that seemed open to me. If all the options I tried were open doors, they seemed to slam in my face. I could not find an activity I could see myself doing for the rest of my life. I tried not to let my failures deter me. I clung to Thomas Edison's quote, “I have not failed. I've just found ten thousand ways that won't work,” like my life depended on it during those times. I kept pushing to find my version of this ‘destiny' people talk so much about. One day, about a year or so ago, I joined a wood working class. If you were wondering, this was not my destiny. On the final day, when everybody seemed more able than they were when they started, I struggled. I cut my wood slanted, angered my teacher, and was so unsure of myself that I did not want to finish the class. I left the class in a frustrated huff. This had not been my worst failure; I did not retain any injuries, nor did I have to pay for any property damage. However, I had reached what people like to call my “last straw.” I did not understand what really happens when you reach your breaking point until this moment. In my mind, people usually leave angry and work off their frustration in some other way, as I would normally do in a situation such as this. I did not realize that what takes place, at least in my case, is probably a lot more mentally deteriorating. I was, at first, incredibly angry; after all, wasn't a destiny supposed to come naturally to a person? If no talent came naturally to me, maybe my destiny was, in fact, to work in a cubicle with a boss I hate. This thinking gave way to an overwhelming feeling of sadness and hopelessness. Once I got home, I crawled into my bed and sobbed into my pillow for hours on end. I fell into a fitful and nightmare ridden sleep and, for the first time in my life, woke up with the same burden on my heart. Sleep, which was my usual defence, had failed to work on this particular problem. As you can imagine, this realization was not great for my mental health. I fell into a spiralling depression, unsure of why I should go on. Looking back on my behavior now, I realize that I was being a tad dramatic. However, it was as if all rational thinking had left me. Depression is a disease; the simplest problems are distorted until they seem too big to get past. I retracted into my own mind. I quit whatever sports teams I participated in at that point, and pulled so far away from my friends that they hardly ever saw me. I was already a few months into school, so I could not avoid my friends completely. They noticed my change in attitude, and wanted to help. I pushed them away. I figured I could claw myself out of the hole I dug, and it seemed like too much effort to tell them anything anyways. I decided that I would never tell another soul the way I felt until it was behind me. However, everybody needs an outlet. I chose writing. I wrote down every thought that crossed my mind, every failure I had ever experienced, and even branched into writing about my happiest memories. In the beginning, my writing was horrendous. I was neither good with words, nor did I have a spectacular imagination. However, I never reread what I wrote. I just wrote the way I felt, and moved on with my day. Eventually, after months of debated suicide, writing gave me the peace I needed to let my parents in. They reacted in the way I feared that they would; confusion, hurt. I didn't want them to make my depression about themselves, and soon believed it to be a mistake to tell them about it. However, they were able to get me the help I needed. I was given medication and regularly saw a therapist. This therapist, naturally, wanted to know everything. I was thankful that I had written myself down. I had five full notebooks in total; three composition and two spirals. After reading over them, my therapist informed me that I “have a gift.” She encouraged me to share my story with the world. She asked me to search for writing competitions to enter. So here I am. This is my story. What is destiny? It is an experience that you make the best out of. It is the light side of the darkness. Destiny is not a path, but what we make of the one we have already chosen.
As an Asian-American, I've always been very in touch with my heritage and culture. This means that I've always felt more comfortable with my Chinese side. Possibly a side-effect from racism I've faced in America, this is something that I not only have tried to hide, but also try to suppress. Maybe it's just because I'm in the middle of my high school career, when people go through a period of growth and mistakes. Maybe it's because I'm scared that I won't grow if I show that I'm different. Maybe it's simply a mistake. The end result is that I have done all I can to suppress my Asian culture and background. Being an art enthusiast, I decided to help out at a children's camp this summer, and foster their appreciation of art through a program I created. My goal was to unite everyone through a universal language. It was during the second class when I saw there was a little girl sitting in the corner of the room, intently watching the other kids making the project for that day—shaving cream greeting cards. She was the only Asian, and I assumed she felt awkward with the other children because of that. I understood how she felt, but I put on a smile and approached the timid girl. “Hi!” I said, “Would you like to make the project for today?” Slowly, she nodded her head, and I led her towards the craft station. As I led her there, I could feel the energy change. The kids shifted away from her slightly, their body language closed and unwelcoming. It was a moment of heartache and bitterness. I felt bitter towards these kids because they treated her like people treated me. I tightened my grip on her hand, because I remember that she began trembling—like a volcano on the verge of erupting…only it couldn't because it knew what would happen to everything below it. I knew, because I had felt that volcano every day I walked into school. Firmly, I pulled her away and said, “Those kids may seem like the whole world to you right now, but I promise that you'll find people that appreciate you for who you are, and they will become your world. Don't let them bring you down, and keep your head held high. Okay?” She smiled, and the trembling seemed to stop. As I saw her jut her chin out and walk past the other kids with her hands swinging wildly at her sides, I couldn't help but smile. I wished that someone could've done that for me when I was her age. Maybe then I wouldn't have turned out so judgmental of myself. Only then did I realize how hypocritical I was. My advice should've stood true not only for her, but for me as well. How could I tell others to have faith in themselves if I couldn't even do that for myself? So, for once in my life, I told my friends what I was really like. I posted on my Instagram about K-pop and how I loved Asian Dramas. The response I got was incredible. I mean—I received the unavoidable negative feedback, but I didn't care. It was because the positive energy outweighed the negatives, and I got so much support for being myself. The one quote I'll stand by today was spoken by Japanese internment camp survivor, Fred Korematsu. “If you have the feeling that something is wrong, don't be afraid to speak up.” I believe that could change so many lives, if we all just speak up.
I lay on the hardwood floor, propping my chin up with my fists. I had crawled over to the hallway's sliver of light shining beneath the door. The shaft of light illuminated the worn cover. Edges were scuffed, pages were torn, this book had been bought used at a garage sale for a dollar. Helen Keller's "The Story of My Life" invited me to explore its truth. Little did I know this long deceased, blind, deaf girl would teach me, able-bodied and blessed, how to truly see. Helen Keller, the daughter of a Confederate general, stricken with blindness and deafness before the age of two, struggling, and then succeeding at shattering the blackness that engulfed her. Then me, born a century later. Living in the age of convenience and technology with impeccable sight and hearing, yet in a blackness of my own. Two women, both blinded, seemingly worlds apart. I found a friend in Helen Keller. I poured over her words, I had felt a glimpse of the light she found, and I wanted it for myself. I now followed along, book in hand, illuminating my way like a flashlight. A decade ago is when my light turned off. I grappled along walls, trying to find the switch, but to no avail. I have an older brother Colby. My parents adopted him before I was born. His birth mother also lived in the dark and tried to remedy that with drugs. Colby, to no fault of his own, was born with fetal alcohol syndrome, addicted to the liquor. The toxins had warped his developing brain, and he was left to become a toxin to those around him. When I was eight the unthinkable happened. Colby entered and left my room in the dead of night, leaving behind a broken girl and a list of threats. It severed my trust with men and it isolated me from the rest of humanity. I was left alone, searching for a match in a wet, inky world. I searched and pried Helen for an answer, turning page after page looking for the source of her light. I found it on page 97. “I remember that I was sorry for them. I felt vaguely that they could not be good even if they wished to, because no one seemed willing to help them or give them a fair chance. Even now I cannot find it in my heart to condemn them utterly. There are moments when I feel that the Shylocks, the Judases, and even the Devil, are broken spokes in the great wheel of good which shall in due time be made whole” (97). Forgiveness. That was the missing piece, the black shroud that dampened my life. I wrestled with it for a while. Logically I could understand Helen's argument but emotionally her empathy felt like a betrayal. How could she condone that type of behavior, that type of hurt? I had to detach myself from the situation. Had I been born in Colby's body, with Colby's chemistry and make up and experiences, who's to say I would not be floundering, struggling to stay afloat amid his crises. Condoning the wrongs committed was not the conclusion. Understanding and forgiving them was. “As time went on my thoughtless optimism was transmuted into that deeper faith that weighs the ugly facts of the world yet hopes for better things and keeps on working for them even in the face of defeat” (29). Forgiveness was not a switch. The light switch I had so desperately been grappling for did not exist. It took hours and days and weeks of feeling the emotions. Of allowing myself to immerse deep in the sorrow, to feel every last drop of trauma. To soak in it and let it pass. Of letting myself be angrier than I have ever been, fierce and on fire with emotion, and letting the blaze burn itself out. And finally, to let the soothing calm settle in. To exhale and feel the tenderness of my mother's hug, of my girlfriend's touch, my twin brother's smile. The light did not flicker on immediately. It came as a gradual glow over the horizon. Sometimes it grew so drowsily I worried it had stopped all together, that I was beginning to fall backwards. Even now a misty cloud may roll by, obscuring my sun, so I fall back on Helen's words: “Sometimes, it is true, a sense of isolation enfolds me like a cold mist and I sit alone and wait at life's shut gate. Beyond there is light, and music, and sweet companionship; but I may not enter…. So I try to make the light in others' eyes my sun, the music in others' ears my symphony, the smile on others' lips my happiness” (109). Works Cited Keller, Helen, et al. The Story of My Life: Helen Keller. Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1954.
~~Her eyes glance to the SonyPMW that glares a red LED light. She exaggerates a moan as her bottom lip tucks under her bite. 5-digit imprints begin to welt and ecchymosis starts to surface. He thrashes her body into the Kingsdown cushion.~~ My body hosts a habitat for not just one, but two. Beyond my classic blonde ringlets and wide blue eyes lurks a predator. I call her Vixen. She is a lecherous creature infested in my mind. I cannot rid her. We share the same body, but she deludes my cognition. She is the entity of our illness that resides in our ventral striatum. The conflict between us does not cease until I swallow the colored beads engraved with a systematic arrangement of numerical and alphabetical configurations and close my eyes. My mind disintegrates into a trance. Peace―finally, until REM generates its own unconscious version of Vixen, for Vixen has no regard for serenity. In fact, she preys on calmness. I have wild conversations and battles with voices in my head. The relationship among us is hardly fathomable. The only means I have to express the delusion and insanity that unfolds inside my cranium is through abstract metaphors. And even then, oftentimes I lose myself in the psychobabble and pronouns. There are too many identities. Is my nonsense merely a figment of my distorted reality, or is it true? I don't know. I am not her. She is not me. We drive the same car and run on the same fuel, but there is only one wheel. For some months she used her bondage to leave me tied and helpless in the trunk. Vixen drove me down unpaved roads and scuffed our tires. I persisted to plead for a break, but one of Vixen's chief qualities is her apathy. After months of intense therapy and rehab, I finally escaped the trunk. I shifted from the passenger and back seats, contingent on how much time could elapse before the car required a refuel. After innumerous efforts to achieve 30-day abstinence, Vixen took the passenger seat. I hesitated to touch the wheel―afraid I would wreck both of us. I had not forgotten how to drive, but I forgot the traffic rules. Simple guiding principles like stoplights were difficult to realign myself to conform to. The only light in Vixen's world signaled “go;” even red meant “keep going”. It seemed unnatural to stop and “yield” did not exist in Vixen's vocabulary. My folly was a recipe for relapse. Lest our psychosis lost you, allow me to elaborate. I am a recovering sex addict. In order to grasp a clue at who controls my behaviors, I compartmentalize. As such, I personified the part of my mind that is plagued with an illness. She, Vixen, is like an escape artist. She's mastered the skills to escape what is real and deny what is true. She abducts our body into her alternative universe and I return with black and blue and welted evidence of our travels. My unadulterated self is impaired with shame and disgust. I see Vixen's graffiti plastered on my body's canvas and it reminds me of her grueling obsessions and masochism. Not that I would ever desire to, but even if forced, I could never escape to the places Vixen is so familiar with. It is her realm, not mine. Thus, I struggle with dissonance and impulses on a daily basis. Dissonance is a frustrating state that devours my energy and cognition. Denial worms its way into my head despite my efforts to banish it. Rationalization, minimization, ritualization, manipulation and crazy-making are only a handful of potent enablers. The constant questions of “who” and “what” confuse even the simplest of ideas, hence the medication to keep me functional―if you would even call us that. Despite failures, I can now intellectualize my behaviors, but whether that belongs on my excuse list or my sobriety strategies: I do not know. But I do understand that ignoring Vixen only intensifies her outbursts, like the one I endured prior to my first lapse―the prerequisite to a relapse: Salty, fiery tears streamed down my cheeks and collected in a damp puddle underneath my bed. I clung onto the metal framework, hiding from voices that echoed off the innards of my skull. White noise screeched in the background like nails on a chalkboard. I am amazed that my neck did not snap while I tucked my head into myself like an isopod crustacean. I gasped for air as if I were being water-boarded by my own tears. I felt like an ant being tortured under a scorching microscopic light with malicious eyes watching its every movement. I could not help but wonder if death was the only escape. My fingers type anxiously as I complete this work. I have so many voices to speak for, but such little language to communicate with. Delusion skews my vision of reality. As I prepare to close my thoughts, Vixen insists to secure the last word, but no. Patrick Carnes' are the words I want to conclude my piece. “Addiction is an illness of escape….it cripples the core ability to know what is real because…rationalizations and delusions make it impossible to cope with details.”