Thursday, October 16, 2014

المطهر

لقد طالت الرحلة...ما ظننت أنه سيحل فى غضون شهور، لم يحل، بل زادت التعقيدات و أصبح- ما يسميه الممثل توم كروز- مهمة المستحيلة. فى بداية الطريق أخترت أن أصدق المقولة "كل شىء ممكن" و لكن مع توالى الأيام أصبحت أدرك أن هذه المقولة الشهيرة هى كذبة كبيرة يتبادلها الناس لأضفاء القليل من الأمل المزيف الى حياة فارغة و مملة. أيقنت أننى كنت أعانى من السذاجة المفرطة و أن تلك القصص التى كانت تقصهاعلى أمى و أنا صغيرة دمرت جزء كبير من خلايا مخى، لدرجة أنى كنت أؤمن بالسحر و عروس البحر و الأشكيف المخيف. فى عقلى الصغير، كل تلك الأشياء أختلطت بالواقع و أصبحت جزء لا يتجزأ مما أتوقعه لنفسى فى الحياة المستقبلية. و أعتقدت أننى عندما أصبح بالغة، سوف أحارب المخلوقات الشريرة كساحرة طيبة وأنقذ الناس من مصائد الساحرات الشريرات بمساعدة قطتى السوداء ذات العيون الخضراء. لم أدرك أن الحياة أكثر تعقيدا من ذلك بكثير و لم أدرك أن عقلى اللا واقعى سوف يوقعنى فى مشاكل لا تحصى.
طالما كنت دخيلة على هذا العالم منذ الصغر، قضيت معظم وقتى فى المدرسة بمفردى أو مع صحبة القطط الضالة، كنت أتشارك طعامى معهم على أمل أن يسمحوا لى باللعب معهم. أدركت فى سن الثامنة أن لا يوجد سحر فى العالم و أن النوع الوحيد الموجود يتطلب التضحية بأصدقائى الوحيدين فى الدنيا و هو عامة سحر أسود يشوه الروح و الجسد. شعرت بخيبة أمل كبيرة و لكننى سرعان ما عدلت من توقعاتى و بعد مشاهدة عدة حلقات من برنامج د. حامد جوهر العلمى "عالم البحار"، قررت أن هدفى سيكون العثور على عروس بحر فى البحر الأحمر و أستكشاف عالم البحار بجانب د.حامد جوهر. للأسف تحطم هذا الهدف عندما قالت لى أمى أن عروس البحر ليس لها وجود فى عالمنا هذا. 
تكرر هذا السيناريو عدة مرات و بأشكال مختلفة حتى يومنا هذا.
حتى بعدما أصبحت أستطيع أن أفرق بين الخيال و الواقع فى سن الحادية عشر وحتى بعد ما بدلت قصص هانز كريستين أندراسون،  بروايات أل.أم.مونتجومرى و عباس العقاد ثم شيكسبير وتوفيق الحكيم. صرت أعانى من الأكتئاب و فقدان الهوية فى سن مبكرة مصاحبة بعدوانية شديدة ضد الاغراب. كنت على يقين أن فى يوم من الأيام سوف أدرك ذاتى و كنت على أستعداد أن أبذل قصارى جهدى لتحقيق ذلك... كان ذلك فى بداية الطريق عندما كان لايزال يوجد بعض من الأمل فى روحى الصغيرة.
لست بضحية و أكره أن أفكر فى نفسى بهذا المنطلق، أننى ألوم نفسى معظم الوقت لأننى لم أدرك حقائق عالمنا هذا فى وقت مبكر و لكن فى نفس الوقت لا تعجبنى هذه الحقائق و أرفضها معظم الوقت و لذلك ترانى أتواجد على هامش الواقع و الخيال، لست أحى فى أى عالم منهما و لكن أتشبث بخصائص من كل واحد فى أنتظار شىء لا أعرفه، المكون الضائع الذى سوف يبرر لى أخيرا سبب وجودى فى تلك الدنيا.
أعتقد أن هذا المكون الضائع لن يجد طريقه الى أبدا و سأبقى فى حالة من حالات الايقين حتى الموت و مع مرور الأيام سوف أفقد شىء من نفسى تدريجيا حتى يبقى جسد خالى من الروح، محتجزا فى ما يطلق عليه بعض الكاثوليك المطهر(purgatory) و لكن فى الدنيا بدلا من الآخرة.  
P.S. :This post goes out to Mahdeto, the second reader of this blog and the one who requested something in Arabic. I don't know why it became so depressing, but it was not intended. I just wrote what came to mind at the time.




Monday, September 22, 2014

Bald

To my sister, the only reader of this blog and the one who requested a sweet and romantic short story (against my better judgement) to entertain her. 

She exited from the bathroom humming. Her wet hair created a line of squiggly drops as she made her way from the bathroom to the bedroom. She could hear the sound of a keyboard's buttons being gently struck in the other room, and there was an intense smell of coffee. 
"He's working," she thought.
She sat before the credenza and proceeded to brush her hair in long sweeping motions. Her arm soon grew tired. She noticed the clumps of hair falling all round her. She was surrounded by wavy strands of long black hair on the floor. They formed a half circle, like guards protecting her from an unknown danger, A thought came to her. It was of such urgency that she had to rush to the study to divulge the contents of her mind.
"My hair is falling," she announced, standing in the doorway, her hair still dripping.
He looked up from the computer, his glasses on the tip of his nose and looked at her. He laughed.
"You should cut it, you know that," he said with a smile as he took off his glasses and laid them gently on the table. He stretched and yawned like a cat. His hair was flecked with white and his unshaven beard has turned slightly silver. 
"I thought you liked long hair," she paused, "not that I care what you like. I am a strong, independent woman."
"I know," he said.
"Will you still find me attractive when I am bald?" she asked as she twisted a strand of hair on her index finger. There was now a tiny puddle of water next to her feet. The strand of hair soon became a clump that dislocated itself from the rest of its brethren. As she noticed that, she sighed.
"Honey, you are tripping and dripping at the same time."
She glanced down and sighed again. At that, he left his desk, took her hand and led her back to the desk.
"Sit down, please madam," he said in a pleasant tone like a salesman at the beginning of a sales-pitch.
"What are you doing?" 
"Trust me," he whispered in her ear and kissed her neck.
He turned on his computer and after fiddling with the mouse, some tunes started playing. It was swing music of the 30s. Soon, the whole house bounced and swayed to the gentle rhythm of the old songs.
"Oh, I love this music," she gushed.
He went to the cupboard where he kept the coffee machine and started to make a coffee. 
"You need another one, huh?" she said, "you should consider cutting down on your coffee intake."
He then brought the cup and laid it down before her. 
"You know I am not a fan of coffee," she said.
"Trust me," he reiterated.
She took a sip. Her eyes opened wide as she realized the exact type of coffee she was drinking.
"Is that the coffee that I drank in Peru? How did you find it? I searched for days after..." she interrupted her own speech as she took another hurried sip. "Yum," she added. 
"Just close your eyes now and think of nothing but Peru's high mountains and a cool gust of wind tickling your pretty cheeks," he said.
She did just that.
She imagined herself trekking through the lush, green mountains of Peru, but soon her fantasy lulled her into dozing off. The comfortable, leather chair only exacerbated the case and soon she struggled to keep her eyes open. Every now and then, she would resist and open her eyes to see him holding a pair of scissors or a small comb or snipping a strand of hair. 
"Wake up, honey," he said as he shook her awake.
She opened her eyes. "Did you douse my coffee with something?"
"What? No."
He took her hand and led her back to the bedroom. She saw her reflection in the mirror as they walked in and gasped. 
"What? How?" she screamed. Instead of her long, black hair, she now sported a short 1930s bob, one that would could be imagined on a character of a Fitzgerald novel. 
"Remember when we were watching The Great Gatsby? You said that if you were ever brave enough, you would cut your hair like Daisy? I figured now was the opportune moment to do so," he explained.
"But how did you manage it?"
"I took some lessons at that fancy hairdresser's near our building. I showed him the haircut and told him I wanted to be able to cut only this style. I spent weeks practicing on dolls. It was kind of creepy, really," he said scratching his head, "Anyway, he also gave me some products that he told me you would need to manage it."
She remained silent. Something to which he was not accustomed. 
"If you hate it, we can go to the hairdresser's right now," he added.
She still remained silent.
"Honey, you're scaring me. Say something," he said.
She turned around and kissed him. 
"It's lovely," she said with a tear in her eye, "I love it."
They stayed silent for a while, hugging one another.
"But you still haven't answered my initial question, you know," she said, smiling. 

Friday, September 19, 2014

Brain freeze

Unlike the onset of the ice-cream induced effect, this brain freeze did not come suddenly or with any searing pain. Instead, it took two heart-wrenching years for it to finally settle in the recesses of his brain. It was a eureka moment when he realized that this agonizing process has begun. He was relieved to know that it was not an illness or that he was about to die. The atrophy that occurred was merely figurative. It was quite ironic that the thing (imagination!) that gave him life was also the thing taking it away.
He knew from the get-go that there would be nothing he could do (nothing he could change) to stop it.  He spent a few days mourning the loss of creativity and the connection he once had with his inner self. He regretted the time he wasted on anything but getting all those thoughts out. Over a stale cup of coffee (and a stale brain), he mulled over all the things he could have done with his former abilities. He teared up as he remembered his former abilities to conjure words from thin air and forge them into beautiful sentences.
They, those who read them, would shiver with emotion, scratch their heads, take a pause to breathe, raise their heads to the heavens and plead. Divine supplication was often uttered as they realized that twist or went through that turn.
He sighed. Oh, how he wasted those precious years of excess to produce so meagerly like an old miser.
And so he let go of all the hopes, dreams and aspirations. Of all the loves, the fails and the losses. Of all the lives created and all the whispers (unsaid, neglected and left to perish). Of all the ones he would have gotten to know and the ones he knew. Of all the pain, agony and labor of creation. Of all the life within him and the one without him.
He waited, like an insomniac waits for a boring film to end (coveting and fearing the last credits).
"Sweet salvation, won't you come to me?"
A birthday. Nice wishes. Smiling faces. Worlds apart, they are. Presents, cupcakes and candles. Gifts, cards and cups. Love, kisses and hugs.
"And to a hundred more."
He could barely think of five more years of this existence, let alone a hundred. It felt more like a curse. In his mind, the wisher became an old hag with drooping breasts and wild hair. A witch, she was, of the Shakespearean kind. The ones who used spit, pee and bleed to make spells, incantations and curses. The ones who gutted chickens and goats (real witches, not the TV kind).
There, another year has passed with an unresponsive mind.
"I am a thief."
He was stealing air, love and supplies from the living. The ones who needed it. A robber of souls, lives and aspirations. He fell from grace, but they were still feeding him Ambrosia. Like a baby, unable to speak (enough!). He wished for the thought police to come and arrest him.
"Do you know how fast your brain was going, sir? It wasn't."
He feared the nights. They all slept, snored and quieted down. Yet, suddenly the morning yawns transformed into nightly energy. Nothing to do, nothing to say. Left alone with a thoughtless brain. Sleep escapes the empty space. It echoes and resounds, hollow like his soul. From a flimsy mind, a divine conversation escapes. An apology, a plea, a prayer and a promise. Divine rejection hurts as well. He remembers the unrequited love of his foolish youth and sighs.
There will be no salvation tonight. Like each and every night. A reverse zombie; he roams the night eating his own brain instead.
The drowsiness multiplies every second until the first glimmer of light shines through. A cat purring by his side. It yawns and stretches, effects of restful sleep. It calls for tuna chunks and loving cuddles. He willingly obeys. The sun now stares him in the face, defying him to stay awake.
He falls, again, with broken limbs and a worn out body. A dead brain ushers him into the listless world of truncated dreams. Running, always running. Out of breath, unable to see, unable to hear, unable to rest. There was nothing sweet, succulent or swimmingly delicious within the dreamworld. His lovers have left it and his enemies have remained. Torture and pain; hate and heat, sweat and tears. Screams, he screams.
Drenched in sweat, he emerges again. The night begins again. His brain is dead again. The words perished again. Tears flow again. Rage ebbs again. The hate swells again.  
Life begins again. The end escapes (him) again.

Monday, September 15, 2014

And in darkness, there is life

If you listen carefully to the rhythm of the city, every now and then, its urban beat would be interrupted by shrieks of frustration. The frustration stemmed from the inability to read, the loss of data, tripping in a puddle of mud or the tragic loss of battery time. Those significantly audible shrieks were frequent especially during the first few weeks, when there was still hope of civilization, technology and light.
Whispers of conspiracy theories would be heard in cafes, restaurants, bus stops and metro stations across the busy metropolitan.
“They are doing this on purpose,” one would hear as they crossed the street with the aid of a flashlight or one of those fancy phones with built-in light. At night, people walking in the street could be identified from the faint bluish lights that led them through the pitch-black city. They seemed like guardian angels perusing the city for escaped demons.
One by one, each citizen stopped shrieking as the darkness became a regular part of their daily life. Slowly and methodically, the darkness lasted longer with every passing week. In a couple of months, after all of the shrieks died and all the protests died, light became a rare commodity. Precious phone calls to loved ones announced the same state in several cities around the world.
Nights became a time when only ghosts, fools and criminals decided to roam the dim streets. Fear and survival instincts prevented the rest from wading through the dark. This meant that days were busier than they have ever been, but quieter and more relaxed. This paradox existed because the lack of technology forced the hurried to slow down and procedures once finished in a few minutes to take days. Streets filled with bikes, skateboards and roller blades.
After the food and medicine ran out, urbanites soon transformed into the people they once dubbed “low-lives”.  Those who wished to remain civil migrated –on foot– to the country. It meant days of endless walking with little or no food and whatever contaminated water they found on the way. It also meant subjecting themselves to unknown perils during the night. Many found the sacrifice worthy so as not to turn into those rabid creatures once known as human beings.

Exploiting others soon became the norm in cities around the world. The lack of commodities with which to trade meant that an able human soon became sellable. Good looks and health became burdens as the freaks, the ugly and the sick were disregarded as worthless. To make for easier filtering, the worthless were marked with a stamp on their foreheads created out of burned flesh and agony.  There was life –for the first time– in rejection. 

Wednesday, May 07, 2014

Standing guard

"Jiggle, jiggle," he thought as the jogger passed him by. He couldn't really see her butt. Not really, on account of the baggy sports trousers she was wearing. He couldn't see her breasts either. They were flattened down somehow. He didn't know how exactly, but whenever he compared joggers' breasts with normal women's breasts, they were always flattened rather than perky. It was strange.
"They must think this makes it better somehow," he thought. In his humble opinion, it didn't; "breasts were meant to be perky. Otherwise, what's the point?"
Every morning, around 5:30 am, the first batch of joggers start to trickle one after the other. They were mostly men, but every now and then, there would be some women. He waited for them. He longed for them. Unlike the rest of his colleagues, he refused to sleep at that time. He knew that if he fell asleep he would miss them. They were, after all, the best perk of this job.
He was 16 when his father died. His uncle came to his mother one day and they had a conversation. Then his uncle took him away. As he left the small, rural village, he could hear his mother ululating and shouting: "my son will be an officer" between jeers and cheers. He took one last look at his seven siblings as the toktok took them further and further away from his home. They went straight to the enlistment camp.
He thought he would be an officer like his mother announced, but then after he was registered he found out, he was to be conscript.
He went up to one of the people in charge. "Ya beh. I was supposed to be an officer," he said naively. The officer responded with a slap that managed to floor him and unhinge two of his teeth from their roots. He spit them out with along with a small puddle of blood. "Clean up your shit, conscript," the officer said as he stepped in the pool of blood and moved away leaving bloody footsteps leading up to his office.
That night he was assigned the cleaning of the entire dinning hall floor. He spent all night scrubbing the floor while his mouth throbbed with pain. He was too afraid to ask for a doctor. All he could do was sob, his tears falling on the floor's muddy surface.
The rest of the year was a series of constant humiliation, abuse and torture. Any kind of thought that had crossed his mind faded away as his body sustained multiple bruises, breaks and bloody lashes.
"Do not think, conscript," they said.
"Obey, conscript," they insisted.
"Push the wall, conscript," they shouted. The wall? How can one literally push a wall? It doesn't matter. Just obey and keep your head down. Those who didn't obey, suffered. No one wanted to suffer. The emotional pain went away after a few months, but the physical pain was always too much to handle. He just didn't want to be hit again and again and again.
He obeyed. It was really his only choice. He could not run away. He wouldn't go anywhere. Whatever money he was given went straight to his uncle. He didn't even see it. He had a bed and three partially hot meals. What else did he want?
Every now and then, they would have to go down in the street "to protect the country".
"Those fucks in the street are fucking terrorists. Your only task is to fuck them. Do you understand, conscripts?" their training officer would say. Every time, they would drill that in their heads.
"Push the wall. They are all walls. Push the wall. Just push the fucking wall," he would remind himself, "then you can go back to sleeping and three meals."
It was on the way to these "missions" that he learned about staring at girls. He saw his fellow conscripts whistling and shouting at girls passing by as they were parked in the street, waiting to be unleashed unto the "terrorists". They sometimes waited for hours, packed in the truck under the sweltering sun. The smell of rotting flesh underneath their heavy suits made the truck reek for miles. The heat was unbearable but no one dared leave the truck, not until they were told. Staring at others was their only mean of entertainment.
He had an inclining that what they were doing was not right, but he also thought it was his right. These people who walked and jogged early morning were trying to lose weight while his whole village were starving. He imagined them stuffing their faces and then going for a run. He despised their ability to choose what to do with themselves; something he lacked.
It was his own way to seek vengeance upon an unfair society. He argued that if people did not want him to look at them, then they should not pass in front of him. After all, they had their fancy clubs to go jog there in peace, but instead they chose the common man's abode. In the street everything was fair game.  

Thursday, April 10, 2014

The realisation of a revelation

A revelation often occurs when least expected. It does not happen to you while you are searching for it or pleading with the invisible gods to send you one. A revelation is often the result of deep thinking and a random event that you witness or experience. It does not have to be a unique event. You might have even experienced it before many times, but it is this one time that the brain chose to create a pattern with that event as the central point. Hence, you start identifying with that event in a different method.

Unlike fictional work, a revelation does not equal an immediate state of relief and/or a known plan for you to execute. In real life, it might take you a long time to actually start putting this revelation into executable steps. While the thought might be ripe in your head, you could find that many internal or external factors hinder you from executing it. Therefore, if neglected, a revelation might continue to swim freely within the confines of your brain without ever seeing the light of day.

An unrealised revelation might be a dangerous thing since it could lead to overthinking, notions of depression and a sense of great failure. On the other hand, the execution of a revelation could lead you nowhere. Unlike fictional work, which tends to provide audience with linear paths of salvation, real life is more convoluted.The execution of this revelation might produce no significant results that you are left as vacant as before you had that revelation. In fact, you might find yourself even more hollowed out that before. This means nothing just as your life means nothing.

To summarise, damned if you do, damned if you don't.

Please consult with your physician before attempting to create or execute a revelation.

Saturday, February 01, 2014

Whole-grain muffins with almonds

I made this the other day and it tasted really good. However, I haven't been eating sugar for a while, so anything remotely sweet tastes good for me. It's definitely not for the sugar-fiends. Since I haven't been posting, I figured this might jog my brain a little. Also, I am not claiming it's healthy or anything, it's just tasty.

Ingredients:
2 1/4 cups whole-grain flour
1 cup warm milk (I used skimmed, but it is up to you)
1/4 cup honey
a pinch of salt
1 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1 small chocolate bar (any kind, I used orange-flavoured sugar free one)
1/4 cup oil (I used corn, just make sure it's a neutral kind of oil, so it doesn't leave an aftertaste)
a handful of almonds (depending on how nutty you want it, you can add more)

Preheat oven to 220C.

1. Pour the honey in the warm milk and stir until dissolved.
2. Combine flour with baking powder and salt, and then add the sweetened milk and oil. Stir well until everything is combined. The whole grain flour sometimes has pockets of air inside it, so make sure everything is well-combined.
3. Chop the the chocolate bar with a knife (it's a very easy process if the bar is at room temperature) and then add to the mixture.
4. Chop the almonds with a knife or by putting them in a kitchen towel and hitting them with a rolling pin (good for exorcising demons).
5. Add almonds to the mixture and give it a final couple of stirs.
6. Divide mixture unto the muffin tins and then put in the oven. Bake for 30 minutes until the top is nice and golden.

This makes 12 according to my old muffin tin. 





   

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Chance meeting

At first, you are not really sure that you have in fact glanced it. It is out of the corner of your eye...the left one. Yet, your brain instantly matches the face with a memory and something lights up. The person walking in the street, about to cross your path, is someone you know. Perhaps an acquaintance or a distant relative because your first reaction is to duck or run. It is too late to cross the street and so you jump behind a tree that proves to be too willowy for your pudgy frame.
Yet, they see you and instantly smile. They approach you with that smile. You know that the coming five minutes of your life will be completely wasted. You pray to a higher force to rescue you somehow, but they refuse to grant you that wish. The hug you. Your insides get squished. You haven't seen them in a long while and so they seem to believe the hug has to be a long one. You start choking and their hair is all over your face. You don't want to eat hair.
They finally let you go. The physical torture has ended, now comes the social or rather mental torture. They ask you a series of questions about your life to which you have to present an answer that is two sentences or less. Think of it as a pop quiz, only you do not know the answers to those profound questions even though you have been searching your whole life. You have to condense your whole existence in a paragraph to satisfy a mere acquaintance who you will never (hopefully) see again.
It's a harrowing exercise, especially when they ask you if you are happy. As if I am going to gush to a mere stranger about my joy in life. Oh, wait, that is what people do now. I am just not in on it. My bad.
They are always very "happy" to see me. Strange because I wouldn't be happy to see me. I am always left to wonder how happiness has become such an empty word. I don't think people know what it should stand for anymore. It is so overused that it has lost its value. Soon it will join its sister "love" in an untimely death.
The good thing about the chance encounter is that it ends, always, well at least if you are lucky. Then, you go about your business and thank the universe that you remembered to brush your hair that day. 

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

If

If we suppose that we were randomly created out of a spark somewhere in the vast, seemingly black universe. From this spark, emerged the earth, people, plants, animals, and all those other things. If we suppose that no one made the decision of creating us, that there is no one beneath or above us. If we suppose that we live suspended between two imaginary ideas.

Then, all our faults are our own, heaven and hell are on earth and we become responsible for everything. The randomness of the universe becomes a factor in the equation, but not a dominating one. Then, we stop seeking truth and all the rules we created become meaningless, insofar as the after. Then, only the now persists and nothing else.

Then, why becomes obsolete and how takes its place.

It also means that neither good gets rewarded nor evil gets punished. There is no guardian. Suddenly, the thoughts and conversations you have in your head echoes, unheard and unknown. Then, there is no one laughing with you or keeping you together. When you walk down that dark street, jiggling your keys, singing out loud and looking left and right, no one is looking with you.

You become truly and completely alone. The heavens become a dark, empty space in which nothing resides. When you look up, no one looks back at you, and when you shout, your voice dissolves within the layers of darkness above. Existence ceases to matter, and is surpassed by survival. The glory is all in the now and the more you wait, the less you get. Ambition is no longer contemptible, but admirable, or even sought after.  

We are the universe and it is us. 

Monday, September 09, 2013

On getting older

I am at that age... where people my age are celebrating their children's (more than one child) birthdays. Those younger than me are getting married, some are even pregnant.

However, that is not the point. When you are outside the trending curve, it becomes hard to set a perimeter for yourself. Add to this the fact that you haven't really decided on your life's path yet or even found a career to which you may eternally dedicate yourself. However, with all of these thoughts floating away in your head, at one point in your existence, a kid calls you "aunt" and it dawns on you. There is a 20-year difference between me and that tiny person. That is a whole other human life. In fact, between me and that small individual, there are many other humans. 

Yes, I am getting old, but not in a negative sense, just in the sense that years are in fact passing. Despite the fact that I have achieved some things in my life, they don't really seem substantial or more specifically relevant. The things I have achieved have not enabled me to get closer to the answers I seek. In fact, I may be as distant as I first started. I doubt I even left square one. I may be running in circles inside the square. 

It is a huge square. I don't think I can even see the outlines of it.

I have been doing the same thing over and over again. Like the definition of a madman, I have been expecting different results. However, I cannot -for the life of me- find a break in the loop. Everything I do is similar to something I have done in the past. I am stuck.

Also, I feel like I have squandered my youth away. I have barely done anything, really. I mean I just worked and studied during most of the past years. It's depressing.

I find myself jealous of any young person who has already found their passion or ideal career or whatever. It's sad, but true.

Yet, I can't blame anyone but myself. The country I live in is a hard place, but there are others making something out of themselves in that same place. Everyday, I walk in the street and I hate myself and the people around me, but it is not the worst street in which you can walk. There are both better and worse streets. Lamenting how bad the street is won't change anything about it.

The thing is I can't pinpoint the wrong and neither can I pinpoint the right when it comes to my own life. I don't know why. It is a strange trend, because with everything else, I can tell you exactly what's wrong and what's right. My lack of knowledge to the possibilities and path of my life has become a persistent symptom of an unknown disease. I am sick of it.

The one thing I can assuredly tell you is that no one can fix your life. You have to do it yourself and most of the time, you don't have a clue. I entertain doubts about everything and even though that might be my problem, I find it hard to be certain about anything. Well, except coffee.

My mother tells me that she never really thought about life, but just lived it. I think she is Hamlet senior and I am Hamlet. She is the person who does things and I am the one who over-thinks everything and gets six other characters dead instead of one. I think that reading this play at an early might have messed me up.

In my defense, my thoughts are quite convincing.

I wonder what it would have been like if I was bubbly and thoughtless.

Of all the lives I have lived (I am an ancient soul), I believe this might be the most boring one.  

So, I think I should do different things. I don't have a clue what these things are, but I know that I need to travel more and stop caring about making sense.

This seems appropriate:


Thursday, March 14, 2013

Living in the moment

For years, people have been giving me the same piece of advice: live in the moment. I never really got it. How was I supposed to do that? Recently, I kind of began to understand it. It is the same as yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery and today is a present. You know, just let go of things. I get it, sometimes I try to do that. However, my question is what if the moment sucks?

I think the whole point is getting past that moment which sucks and into one that does not suck. I know, so lame. Anyway, I do not have some great wisdom to impart upon you. I think you should live however you want, but the one thing that you really should avoid is stress. It's a killer, and I mean literally. It messes with everything in your body and mind, and I think if you persist in being stressed out, you get used to it. Then, you can not let it go. It rather sticks to you. So, the point is get mad, then get even (lol), no, then get past it. It is not glamorous and it does not feel great, but afterwards you are sort of in peace. I think striving for peace is a good quest.

Also, self-loathing is very much on my mind these days. I am starting to attempt to move away from that. I have been a customer of self-loathing since my pre-teens, and I can tell you it gets you nowhere. So, I am trying to change that image. I think it helps if you become really honest with yourself and vocal with others. Do not let other people's problems fog your thinking process. If someone tells you something you do not like, immediately tell them to back down. It helps. Also, trying to face yourself. For instance, if you don't like looking at yourself in the mirror, do that. If you hate spending time alone, do that. If you seek out distractions so you don't think about yourself, stop distracting yourself. Another thing is to do something you love whether it's a sport or a hobby or just playing with your cat. Be honest about what you like and do that. Then the last thing is if you do not feel like sharing with people or you do not feel like you want something that others want, do not freak out. Do not think that it makes you bad or wrong to just be different. Often we fake our interests to fit in and I think it's one of the worst things you can do to your psyche.

At the end, just make the best out of awkward or bad situations. 

Sunday, February 03, 2013

History, on repeat

My sister comes back from the club. Laughing, she tells me: "You wouldn't believe what I saw."
I am definitely intrigued, so I sit up and ask. My sisters have this quality about them that make their stories irresistible to me. I think it stems from my early childhood when I wouldn't agree to go to sleep unless they tell me a story. They used to take turns, telling me bedtime stories, sometimes of their own creation and sometimes from books (they used to change sad endings so I wouldn't fall asleep unhappy). I loved hearing stories especially about the famous duck, Batboota and her offspring. Batboota had many intriguing adventures.

Anyway my sister tells me: "I saw two young girls, riding their bikes. The older girl was riding a normal bike and the younger one was riding one with training wheels. The older girl was riding the bike really fast, while the younger one was struggling with her slow bike. So, she is trying to catch up with her sister, shouting: 'Sara, wait for me' and then I realized history repeats itself. We used to do the same thing."

It's true, I spent many days trying to catch up with my sisters while struggling with my eerily slow bike, begging them to wait for me, which they -of course- ignored. It was never a happy moment when I would finally reach them only to find out that they were going to race all the way back. Like Sisyphus, I was forced to push the literal bike instead of the metaphorical rock.

Yet, when I remember it now, I can't help but smile.

 

Sunday, January 13, 2013

Malls and other things

I have become incapable of writing. I have no reason for that except maybe the lack of life? I don't really know. It's not like I had a life before. I never really did.

I hate malls. I really do hate malls. I used to tolerate them in the past, especially when I had some fake friends with whom I had fake outings and a fake love-interest. It was a very fake time of life. I never liked them though. My relationship with malls was kind of a summer affair, it happened just because of availability and it ended when it served its purpose. There is no depth in a summer affair, not if you do it right.

Yet, lately, I have come to hate them so much that being in a mall causes an acute case of depression that only coffee and a night at home can fix. I think what I hate about malls is the people in them and how they go about life being very normal. These are the bourgeoisie, right? The ones who are neither too shallow to waste life, but not to deep to shun it. They are just in the comfy middle part, where life moves in a brisk pace and there are always many things to do. They are the ones who are always busy because they just don't have the time. They are also the ones who have steady jobs and families that contains children. They push their toddlers in strollers, thus eliminating the toddling (yes, that's a word) involved. They go to the movies and eat popcorn while genuinely laughing at some mediocre comic sketch of a life they don't understand. They even laugh in melodramatic movies and eccentric films, while asking "what are they doing?" in an obnoxiously loud voice. They are not self-aware, and they don't usually respect personal space. They are always looking for a bargain and would trample on you to get to it. They live for the latest gadgets and usually spend their money on things they don't need to make themselves feel "relevant". They are the ones that empty a shop of all its clothes when the word "sale" is written.

There is nothing particularly wrong with them, not really. They are, in fact, very good at life. They are the ones who are admired by parents for being sensible, reasonable and family-people. They are not eccentric and they actually like to socialize. They usually marry at a young age and spend the rest of their lives raising their children. They work at high-paying multinationals and love fast food because it is, after all, "fast" and they have no time, remember?

They are nice, well-adjusted people. They are well-adjusted to society's expectations and society loves them. They have a relationship with the community that makes them the envy of the shunned and the unfortunate.

I don't want to be like them, but they do remind me how I suck at life so much, and for that I resent them and hate malls.  

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Life

Arrogance, we all suffer from it and we all have it.

It's true. Somehow, superiority is written within our DNA. You can try to deny it, but then you will be lying to yourself. You can be arrogant in different ways. For instance, you feel like you are morally superior to your peers, or have a better physical appearance or maybe smarter or more accomplished. Whatever it is, there is always something that makes you feel like you are just a couple of steps ahead of everyone else. In the race of life, you are one of the firsts.

And you love it.

Who wouldn't? We live in a world where superiority is celebrated and in some instances, rewarded. First world vs. third world; upper class vs. lower class, religious vs. atheist, etc... Yeah, yeah, we all repeat the phrases that make us "accepted" in the overly generalized eyes of the collective: "we are all equal"; "God treats us all the same", etc..

Let's face it, God does not treat us all the same. Even in the eyes of the law, those who have connections and leverage win and even unfortunate people treat other unfortunate people like crap. The only reason people want to stand out is to have leverage over others.We are a race that values superiority, well, until it goes against us, that is.When we are inferior, the world becomes unbearable.

No one wants to finish last in the race even when are all headed towards the same ending. Imagine running and running towards the finish line, glancing behind and seeing everyone else tripping and you grin. Then you cross the finish line to trip into a giant pit.

Well, that's life for you.




Tuesday, November 20, 2012

A Good Thing

I am going to start this post with a sort of citation of one of the theorists I am using in my thesis. It's not a quotation, but just a rewording of what he wrote. I am not doing this for the sake of showing off my information, but I think it's relevant to what I am going to write.

Basically, John Stuart Mill said that a right action induces happiness and a wrong action induces sadness (or something to that effect). I am not going to discuss all of what he wrote or whether I agree with it or not. I am just going to take this sentence out of context and use it for my own sake.

According to the previous statement when a good thing happens, one should be happy, which is the best thing in the world, and Mill actually tied it with morality. The point is good thing= happiness. I think we can all agree on that.

So, what is a good thing?
  1. If you want something, and you get it.
  2. When you achieve something you have been working on for a long time.
  3. Surprise experiences that prove worthy.
  4. Traveling 
  5. Books
  6. Good movies
  7. Awesome music
  8. Friends
  9. Hobbies
  10. A nice compliment from a stranger
  11. A walk in cloudy weather
  12. An ART MUSEUM!
  13. Rain
Of course, there are more good things in the world, probably some of those things cannot really be put down into words. The point is when something good happens, you should be happy.

So, my question to John Stuart Mill, What is wrong with me? Huh?



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