I Fold and Unfold

December 31,2011

2011 is the year that went by so fast, maybe a little too fast. It's the year your so called friend walks out of your life, and it's the year you realise who the real ones are. It's the year you felt the most pressure to the point where you gave up so many times but you're still learning how to get back up. It's the year you said you were going to accomplish great things yet you felt like you just wasted time. It's the year you cried over too many pointless things, too many times. It's the year look back on all the lifetime memories in which you find yourself missing the people in them. But it's also the year you move on, slowly, and you realize that it's okay.

Couldn't have said it better, Brett. Now you should either marry me or become my gay best friend.

Ruptured Rapture

I'm afraid. Fearful, not fearless. What if you hated me? Please don't. I'm incoherent and irrational. Jumbled thoughts, all of them inappropriate. All around its festivities: laughter, food and smiles, but inside me a storm is raging. I'm conflicted. Sad. Depressed. Insecure. Pressed for time. Immobile. Helpless. Hopeless.
What if I'm not good enough? This feeling has been  invading my peace for months. I don't even know which direction my writing is supposed to head. I'm slurring my words, stumbling over what I want to say. I do know what I want to pen down, its just that my pen can't move fast enough. And by the time I reach where I want to be, the idea doesn't seem as perfect as when it was first conceived. Just empty rusted tins that crackle in the wind.
Why the hell did you go and break the streak? I mean, who does that? No one breaks the streak. No one. Now we have to start all over again. If there even is a such a thing as an all over again. Why are things unraveling so fast? Like pulling at a thread from your favorite sweater only to realize that its falling apart and in the end all you have is one big pile of yarn at your feet. I hate it. I hate everything. I'm whining again. That's what happens to me when I'm depressed. Feel like I'm being wedged in a corner and discriminated against by the entire universe. I know for a fact that the universe has nothing against me. Everything I'm running away from is in my head. There's no way of escaping them. Facing them is no valid option right now, so I'll try my best to sweep them under the carpet to be dealt with at a later date.
This no way to live. I'm letting my life pass me by as I grapple with invisible and non-existent threats.
Run. Run as fast and as hard as I can. Away from this place. Away from all of this. Why is it so hard for me to feel normal? I don't remember even being remotely content in these past few months.
Help me, please. Throw me a lifeline. Somebody, anybody.
Ray, bloody hell, dammit! I miss you, need you now and in dire desperation for a hug.
What are you so afraid of? Tell me, tell me, tell me.
I hate the fact that I bought the dream when they sold me one.

What Kind of Fuckery Is This?

It's that time of the year again. The one thing everybody is talking about. New Years. Personally, I don't see what the fuss is about. It's just another day, like any other ordinary-mundane-unexciting day. The euphoria won't last, for crying out loud. Just because tonight you have a good time and get completely wasted, doesn't mean tomorrow you won't wake up whining about your stupid hangover which you and all your wisdom caused in the first place. The rest of the year is going to be filled with happy days, sad days, sunny and rainy. Not always butterflies, rainbows and unicorns. Let's face it, a new year simply means that maybe you grew up a little, learned something from the mistakes you've made, decide that maybe this coming year you'll do things differently and now you'll be celebrating yet another birthday because after 365 days, it's only logical that you become a year older.
A new year is merely tearing off the last page of the current year's calendar. This would also be the time when we all sit down and come up with nonsensical things conjured with the help of our imaginations, fondly called 'resolutions'. Why do we even bother making this stuff up, when deep down we know we don't intend whatsoever in fulfilling them? Don't bother, seriously. Wait, what is that I hear? You want to lose weight in the coming year? Roflol. You couldn't identify a treadmill even if it was sent to your front door, unwrapped and labelled for you. I know I'm mean. And yes, I'll have the last laugh too. Mean people get to do that sometimes. And all throughout the time you'll be 'making good' on your resolutions, I'd be right next to you laughing my guts out.
I shouldn't be so cynical. 2011 has been a whirlwind of every possible thing. All the events that took place; the people I met and those I lost, the emotions that coursed through me which I never knew possible, the ups and countless downs, friends made my year bearable, new info harvested for my measly store of knowledge, crushed hopes and expectations, and ultimately, the invaluability of it all.
This year was rogue, totally out of my control. It forced a whole bunch of bitter pills down my throat and made me wait and watch while life unfolded. Given the chance, maybe I wouldn't have changed anything after all. The heartache, the tears, the broken dreams, I'd do it all again so that I won't forget how much pain it caused me and that I wouldn't be foolhardy enough to let those things kick me around for a second time.
Out of all the lessons this year has taught me, the most prominent amongst the lot regards the heart. I learned that it is a fickle-minded being. And it is not to be blamed. Never to be blamed for its short-comings. The Arabs have so aptly named it qalb, which means change. It is no big wonder then as to why I feel on top of the world in one moment and completely suicidal in the blink of an eye. Being emotionally shattered and letting myself hope and smile again in the expense of someone else, all within the span of a short time. That explained a lot. Next time I won't be so fast to run my mouth.
Follow the omens. Study the signs. Listen, watch and most importantly: be patient. If it's meant to be, it will be. Have faith. Hope. Dance in the rain. Eat ice cream. Smile at strangers. Read fiction. Squeal when you see a cute guy.
Note to self: be happy.
I'm hopeful that 2012 will be a lot less stubborn that its predecessor. I hope that it will be filled with more hits for me than misses. 2012 has to play nice. Well, if not, I would have no choice but to lock it up in a dank cell and feed it through a hole in the door until it loves me back.

You're Just a Line in a Song

Hope
Dangles on a string
Like slow-spinning redemption

I was ready to be depressed 'til the 6th of February. And when that given date came, I figured that only then would I hit the panic button. Or the ultra-depressed one. Which ever seemed appropriate.
Over-thinking is like a natural-born talent of mine. I do it oh-so-effortlessly that most of the time I am able to manifest my phantasms in the form of dreams. I should stop bothering to wonder why I feel so deprived of sleep. The answer is already grinning like a rabid dog before my eyes, prancing around stark naked in front of me, trying to gain my attention as I try my best not to be swayed. It's a hopeless battle, one that I know I won't win even if I tried to move mountains.
I suppose I could have squeezed my eyes shut, gritted my teeth and prayed that it would be as painless as possible and that I'd still have a chance of coming out alive. But I guess that every now and then the best things come for those who wait for it.
I can't even describe what transpired. The memory is all there, it's just that whenever I think about it, my heart beats like it's fit to burst in the cavity of my chest, my tummy gets all tingly, a rush of blood surges to my head and I realize that I'm smiling like a maniac all at once. Oh yeah, and I also lose the ability to sit still. Wow. I miss being an idiot.
Out of all the things that took place over the span of fourteen weeks, I never could have asked for a better end. That smile was totally worth it. I hope I get to see you again. It'll be such a crying shame if you liked someone else. Please don't.
You know that feeling, when you feel hopeless but hopeful at the same time? A fine line separates the two and you don't really know which is which. They're intertwined, intermingled; and all you know is that you feel like crying but you don't really know the reason. Is it because you're sad? Or is it because you're happy?
Funny thing is, the one thing I remember quite clearly is the curve of your back in that blue shirt I've come to adore so, so much.

And you ask me what I want this year
And I try to make it kind and clear
Just a chance that maybe we'll find better days

The Science of Sarcasm

I'm grateful for being blessed with a sense of humor, meagre and inadequate as it is. Life is as bad as it comes, without it I sincerely wouldn't know how I'd get by. Cheap thrills are sweet while they last.
I knew it from the very beginning, but I was just too proud to acknowledge what they were verbally trying to make me see. Ego aside, it's about time I fessed up.

Oh, Gwen. You made me laugh so hard listening to you on my drive home. The other drivers probably thought I'd lost my marbles. Oh well.

Third Time's the Charm

I won't fall in love the same way I did the first time, 
but I will fall in love again. 

Hello, worthless.

One year on, she stares at the mirror of her dressing table, taking in the reflection staring back at her. Getting lost in the depths of her brown eyes, she knows she's grown up a great deal. She knows that somehow she's not the same person she used to be. Was it for the better? Or for worse? She couldn't tell. The lines that defined her face, they've increased too. Pimples that have made her once smooth skin their temporary residence. The bags under her eyes that never quite go away, no matter how many hours she clocks sleeping. The mess of black curls that on most days seems to have a mind of their own. Her nose, never quite satisfactory in shape, but she'd learn to live with it. Her dimpled chin protruding from her sharp jaw-line. She'd always liked that feature. She likes the fact that every time her fingers stray to her chin, she would be able run her forefinger down the middle.
The sunlight catches her eyes and she squints momentarily, still staring at the mirror. Her eye color was beautiful, different. Just like the rest of her family, it was subtly distinct. Her eyes travel down the length of her arms that were resting on the dresser. Skinny. She almost looked malnourished. Her lips curl upward in slight amusement. Waist-down was a whole different scenario, she though ironically.
She notices her smile. A feeble attempt but a smile nonetheless. Pathetic. Broken. It reflected what she was feeling on the inside. For months now she had been dogged by this unexplainable emptiness, like she'll never know the feeling of happiness again. It was a sad thought, to not be able to embrace something you once knew so well, even if it was for a short period of time. Life was beating her with remarkable forcefulness and she knew she was wounded and bleeding. The life force flowing through her veins wasn't as pure and raw as it was before. Not long ago it felt like a dam had broken inside of her, full of joy and hope. Now, it felt like a trickling stream making its way through a forest, barely there, just holding on. Life had brought her to her knees. It was a shame, to feel like this, to admit defeat. She was still so young. A whole world to be explored and new things to be discovered. Was there a possibilty that that could be jeopardised? She honestly didn't know the answer to that question. She was a brilliant girl, it would be heartbreaking to live a life without accomplishing anything significant.
At times like these she realizes that there were not many people she could depend on. The people who have the gall to call themselves her friends were not really friends if they couldn't be there for her when she needed them the most. Then there were those who blatantly laugh in her face when she tries to tell them about her fears. She knows, they can't relate to what she feels, but all she wants was to be heard. That was all she was asking for. Sometimes they pretend to be deaf, just to block her out. They think she's faking it, that she'll be fine. She feels scared and her fears are very real to her. It was like drowning in ice cold water. Her whole body feels numb but she's still trying to keep her head up from going under, feeling the oxygen being physically squeezed from her lungs, thrashing frantically while others take seats by the water's edge to see how long until she succumbs.
She was a good actress, or she would like to believe so. She didn't know if other people could tell that her back was breaking from the heavy heart she was carrying  around in her chest. Looking back, she thinks she's got it down to a science: laughing at jokes, poking fun at others, paying attention when required, saying what needs to be heard. But happiness was fleeting and illusive. In the palms of her hands in one moment, gone like vapor in the next. Recognizing that as a fact inherent in her life, it was depressing. She needed an anchor of comfort and finding that said anchor wasn't going to be a walk in the park.
She wishes for many things. Many, many things. She feels little, insignificant and fragile; shreddable by a gust of wind. She's tried, time and again to find an ounce of edible comfort by telling herself that this feeling won't be a permanent feature in her life, that there will be days that she would be dancing in the rain with a genuine smile on her face, laughing out loud, not bothering herself with the troubles of the world. When will those days that she spends hours dreaming about finally materialize?
Only two things were definitive to her. When she grows up, she wants to be happy and she doesn't want to be alone. A fairly simple ideology. Execution would prove to be tricky and she could already feel it in her bones. But she would die trying, she promised herself. If everyone else could have happy endings, why not she? What was it that didn't qualify her to have the same outcome? The principle of equality would not deprive her of her rights.
Re-establishing her focus on the mirror in front of her, she looks herself up and down. Not beautiful, not attractive, not anything. Nothing significant. She leans forward to get a closer look at her self. She remains in that position for a few moments longer, until she accepts that there's nothing she could really do about it.
Last year, at this moment in time, things were different. Probably not better, just different. Pulling away from the reflective glass, she thinks to herself, "Will this matter a year from today?"

Brewed Beauty

You should date a girl who reads.
Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.
Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a secondhand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn.
She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.
Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry and in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.
She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who read understand that all things must come to end, but that you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.
If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.
You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.
Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Rosemarie Urquico (via hustle-rose)

Papercuts

I can't tell the difference anymore. Between my dreams and reality; what's real and what's not. It's scary, to wake up from my stupor and not knowing wether what just flashed in front of my eyes was concocted by my over-achieving imagination or the real deal.
I can't take it. The never-ending workload, the pressure that doggedly follows me everywhere. Sucks. I sincerely hope my marks make up for all the crap I'm going through. And most importantly, I don't want to repeat any of the wretched subjects for a second time. I'd rather shoot myself in the face.
The dreaded pre-reg has come and gone. Lo and behold, the number of subjects I managed to register is no where near what I spent so many hours fantasizing about. Real life sucks big time. No kidding. Next step, repeating the whole dreaded process of manually registering for my subjects. Like old times. Just the thought of it is making my state of mind border on suicidal. Urgh.
Look lively. Tomorrow's Monday. Monday is History. History is joy. (Or so I hope.)

Please let it be a case of mistaken identity. Please.

Hellogoodbye

If I had a way to see this straight, I'd run away. 

Sniffles and Sneakers

So I found out that it's normal to feel broken sometimes. But like I said, sometimes, not all the damn time. Confession: I feel down most of the time, and I may or may not show it, either intentionally or otherwise.  Then there's this faint ray of light that bravely cuts through the storm and the rain clouds, giving me fresh hope and a rationed dose of happiness. And these moments have a nasty habit of being short-lived. Then back I go, lost at sea, rendered helpless on my little dinghy, being mercilessly beaten and tossed around by the waves of my insecurities, darkness and despair.
What happened to me? At what point in life did I lose myself? Okay so my life isn't totally spiralling out of control, it's just that I don't feel anchored. There's not one exact thing that I can hold on to, to know deep down that when I need it, it'll be there for me. Well, maybe not a something; a someone. Logically, a thing wouldn't be of much use since it's lifeless and all.
I need a someone to hold me by the arms and sit me down when I go crazy. To look me in the eye and know just what to say to calm me down, to reassure me that everything is going to be alright and that this shit pile in front of me isn't so big after all.
And after slight deliberation, I've come to a conclusion that there is no such thing as good grief. The person who coined the term must have been a real moron. Yes, it would be either that or his permanent address is in Lala-Land. That would explain a lot. I mean, think about it. No one is happy when they're sad. Maybe my theory isn't universal and can't be applied all the time, given. But almost all the time it would fit the situation. There's only bad grief, come to think of it. Say and think whatever, it doesn't change the fact that it's true.
At least one thing went right today. Norshahrul's picture came out in the newspaper, kissing his awards. *melts* Supermokh sial! Gomo, Kelate, gomo!
I want to start over. A new name, new address, new identity, new life.
Good God, I need to be rescued.  :(

Infinitesimally, por favor.

Where ever you are,

whoever you might be,

 I just thought
I should let you know that
I'm here.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Come quick. Be safe.
My prayers be with you.

To guard you
and keep you warm.

I need a hug.

I think I'm in love.

The Kid with a Thorn in His Side

You say that you love rain,

But you open your umbrella when it does.

You say you love the sun,

But you find a shadow spot when the sun shines.

You say you love the wind,

But you close your window when the wind blows.
That's why I am afraid, you say you love me too.

We? Oui.

"I think he likes you."
I most certainly hope so. I can't stand the stolen glances, sloppy hidden smiles, the slight fear in your eyes, the rigidity of your body and the language it conveys when I hit your radar. I'd like to believe that I'm making things up. It's almost like a cruel joke that seems to drag on infinitesimally. I'm not laughing. Well, sometimes I can't help myself so I do. On rare occasions.
Time is running out, like the grains of sand that beach-goers pick up and hold vainly in their hands, hoping to get a minute feel of stability and majesty but hoping otherwise at the same time. In the end the sand spills from between their fingers, to be carried away with the melody of the wind, to settle back down on the ground, only to be kicked up and scattered by passers-by.

 I tried to give you up but I'm addicted.

You're  something beautiful, a contradiction.

I'd never dream of faking this fixation.

The hands of the clock are incessant, persistant, stubborn. Another page is about to be ripped off from the face of the calendar, leaving it bare naked with only a solitary piece of paper for company to last for 31 days.
How time plays tricks on you. How it carefully and artistically deceives you, lulling you into false security, whispering little assurances when needed. A small word here, a graceful peck there and you're under it's spell. Good luck getting out from it's sticky web of lies. All those times spent with the people that hold paint brushes and color your life with their effortless strokes of happiness, working together on the potrait with furious intensity until one day you wake up and BAM! They're gone. Just like that. No, actually they're out there somewhere, just out of your reach and jurisdiction to make them be at your beck and call again. Then you start over, painstakingly. Strangers at square one. And you realize that all the hard work put into that masterpiece accounts for nothing because the potrait is only half-finished.
Deep down I realize that nothing might transpire. And this might only be this, nothing further, nothing else to fill. But I wish differently. An envious-conniving little bitch, that's what time is. And what is up with never-ending holidays that conveniently fall on Mondays? I may not see you again after December. And there's no point thinking the opposite, given the gargantuan proportions of the campus and the impossible class schedules. What are the odds that we'd be stuck in the same class again? Let's see: ZERO. Le sigh.
But in my dark corner of isolation, I'm silently praying for a miracle.

Taking Flight

Hi. I'd like to start by saying that I have a ginormous crush on you. It's uncomprehensible, unexplainable, and just outright baffling. I know, and it's almost unethical. All hormones, any which way you look at it.
You make me feel damned. Yes, sometimes you do. Half the time I spend in my waking hours is smiling like a complete and utter lunatic. A raving one at that. I don't really know the reason behind those smiles. All I know is I'm subdued by my flights of fancy. There's no logical explaination for it. Not one. None. Absolutely non-existent. Everything seems to be illogically convenient. But not really.
I wish I could just confirm my suspicions. Maybe put my mind at ease by finding out that you have a girlfriend or something. That would be for the best. But there's that little beacon of hope just refuses to go away. That sucks.
"He definitely has a reaction to you."
A positive one, I hope. What's going on? I'd like to know. Maybe I wouldn't. Which one would hurt less? Or would they garner the same amount of hurt? Life. That's what happens to the unsuspecting. I wish something amazing would miraculously happen. I always get what I want but somehow, in this department, I seem to fall short. Great.
Everyone else is happy. Everyone else is content. Everyone else is smiling. I want to be everyone else. How do some people get things effortlessly? Apparently I'm not some people or everyone else. I'm me. Good at times, bad at others.
I should be happy. But the heart yearns and and the heart hopes. The heart is dangerous. Volatile, indecisive.

It is a risk to love.

What if it doesn't work out?

Ah, but what if it does.

Peter McWilliams

In any case, will you be my Kurta Baby? <3

Just Shoot Me Already

You know that feeling?

When you're just waiting.

Waiting to go home to your room,

close the door, fall into bed,

and just let everything out that you've kept in all day.

That feeling of both relief and desperation.

Nothing is wrong.

But nothing is right either.

And you're tired.

Tired of everything, tired of nothing.

And you just want someone to be there

and tell you it's okay.

But no one's going to be there.

And you know you have to be strong for yourself,

because no one can fix you.

But you're tired of waiting.

Tired of having to be the one to fix yourself and everyone else.

Tired of being strong.

And for once, you just want it to be easy.

To be simple. To be helped. To be saved.

But you know you won't be.

But you're still hoping.

And you're still wishing.

And you're still staying strong and fighting.

With tears in your eyes,

you're fighting.

Fuck yeah Monday!

Keep quiet. Nothing comes as easy as you.

Can I lay in your bed all day?

I'll be your best kept secret and your biggest mistake.

The hand behind this pen relives a failure everyday.

Eyelash Wishes

Sometimes I wish I could read minds. Sometimes I wish I knew how a person was feeling. Sometimes I just wish I knew things. Certain things. And not all the time. Just when I want to, or else life wouldn't be fun.
I don't want to stay home, but I don't feel like going back to college either. Some people I just dread meeting, some things that I just don't want to do. Ever. Since when did life get so complicated? I vaguely remember evenings I spent at the playground, hogging the swing and see-saw like I owned the joint, buying cheap ice-cream from some Indonesian guy on a motorbike, spending almost all my waking hours at McDonald's on Jalan Telawi. Dammit. Where did those days go?
I read into things too much. It will be my biggest downfall.
I want a banana chocolate chip muffin, hot chocolate, a nice, warm blanket, perfectly puffed pillows, a comforting storybook and a rainy day. Just to hear the steady patter on the window panes, to be in a sweatshirt and hotpants, that would be enough.
No, actually, I'm pretty darn sure that I'm not sure about what I want. Maybe I should sit by the roadside counting cars as they pass me by. Maybe I should run around the block to ease my mind. Maybe I should resort to painting. Maybe I should start coloring my Barney book. Maybe I should finish my sewing. Maybe. Maybe not.
Smiling. Yeah. A very rare twist of fate.The smallest and most randomest things can make me float a few inches off the ground for hours on end. Thank you stranger, for making my day. When I see you on campus, I might just give you a hug and a peck on the cheek. You deserve it. My unexpected hero. Because of you, I'll be sleeping with a smile on my face tonight.

Yellow and the Shades In Between

Okay. So. One week of holidays. Mid-semester break, it seems. Filled with anxiety of the up-coming week after the holidays, with mid-term exams, results and the dreaded History presentation, my life is in shambles. No kidding. Fuck.
On the up side however, where sunlight touches even the most darkest of places; she finally said yes! Means a lot. Thank you, your approval is highly appreciated. Head high, shoulders back, chin up, smile and definitely no slouching. Hello, world. I've arrived. Again.
And yes, I know you missed me cos I've missed you too. Had a feeling. And you texted, which made it all the more cuter. I always feel inadequate when you start asking my opinions about stuff related to your life. Sure as hell, I bet you feel the same way too. But you made my freaking day. Just for the record, I'm still smiling, 24-hours on. *hugs*
Updates? How I wish I could fill you in when you prompted. Let's not go there. Come closer so that I can let you in on my dirty little secret; I wish a guy would sing me Jason Derulo's It Girl and mean it, so that we could ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after. There, I said it. Gracias for listening and smiling at my remark.You can smack me across the face now and wake me from my shameful day-dreams.
You know what we should do? We should hang out again, make time for each other. I've missed you, no beating around the bush. Baskin Robbins sounds just about right, talking and laughing for hours at the kopitiam 'til the waiters get nervy. I miss that too. I promise I'll drop by at your work place, partly because I'm in a bad need of a hug.

"Might as well be in Texas."

A pick me up needed.

I should feel happy. I should feel grateful. I should feel satisfied. I should feel hopeful. I should feel joyful. I should feel loved. I really should. But I'm don't.
For some awful-unseen-and-undefined reason, I feel empty. I hear the takbir raya in the distance. Slow, soulful, melancholy. This eid is not going to be like all the other eids that I've taken for granted. This time it'll be slightly different. Maybe even vastly different. Maybe superficial as usual. Who's to know? No one can tell the future.
Wednesday was a blur between a yes and a no. In a normal circumstance, champagne chilled on ice would have been popped and now be flowing freely in line with a celebratory mood. An inflation of the happy bubble. An influx of endorphine. But caution keeps whispering in my ear, reminding me to take heed of its warnings. Yes, I'll keep them in mind. I'll be careful this time. I must be.
Beneath the surface, behind the smiles, after the laughter dies, I feel alone. A solitary figure in the desert, being wind-swept but rooted to the spot. I don't know what to do or where to turn to. I still feel the loss, one month on. Is it guilt talking? I'm not sure, but it's a high possibility.
One less person to tell me that my tyres are flat and need to be checked out, one less person to pick out loud colors for my baju kurung, one less person to notify about my exam results, one less person to call me and tell me that my car is needed, one less person to rely on to come get me no matter which part of the globe I might be unfortunate enough to be stranded on, one less person to tell me that dinner is on the table whenever I pay a visit, one less person to send my car for a much needed wash, one less person to salam and ask for forgiveness on raya morning.
And the last thing I ever did was kiss you on the forehead which had turned as cold as ice, for the first and last time. Too late for a sorry, too late for making up for lost time, too late for a goodbye. Tears are futile. They don't change anything. I have been and still am a useless daughter.

Happy raya, Papa. I miss you.

Slowly slowly, slippin' away.

Dear Hope,

I know we haven't been the best of friends lately but, I have a question;

How do I face the faceless days, if I should lose you now?

She remembered when they broke the news. Four people in the living room. Her uncle sitting in the wooden armchair, his wife standing over him, her other aunt the bearer of the bad news and she, feeling small and inferior. She remembered being happy earlier in the day, reminding herself that her favourite uncle would stop by today after his visit to the clinic. Her anticipation, the long wait and her dopey smile.

"Doctor said it's cancer. Stage four."

She remembers vaguely getting up from the sofa and moving to the dining room. Her ears were ringing. Stunned, paralyzed with denial. She remembers holding onto the table, but it wasn't enough to stop her from shaking. No, she screamed silently. No! Not you! Never you!

She tried, over and over again to justify what she'd learned that solemn afternoon. Maybe the doctor had got it wrong. Maybe she had his results mixed up with some other patient's. Maybe he'll get better with chemo. Maybe if he took meds, he'd be okay. Maybe if he got a second opinion, it'll be different. Maybe this, maybe that, maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybes couldn't stop the inevitable.

How did they miss it? All the signs, all the hints. He hadn't been his usual bubbly self of late, opting to sleep more than spend time like they used to. "I knew my time was next when I saw Rose at the hospital," he said. And I remember the look on your face when you were at her bedside, she whispered inwardly. How could she have forgotten? Idiot.

A few days later he was submitted into the hospital. She visited him everyday, without fail. It was a sense of duty that she felt towards him. A moral calling, an obligation. It wasn't forced, nor faked. She did it willingly, out of love. He was the only man in her life, the father she never had.

Day by day she went to the hospital. Everyday was the same. Always on time. At the start of the visiting hour, and the last out of the ward at the end of it. She'd walk in the room, greet him, a brave smile plastered on her face. Then she'd leave the room, and make her way to the small verandah outside her uncle's placement, overlooking the hospital's car park, pretending to read the storybook she'd brought along, trying hard not to breakdown. She would sit there, unable to move, too afraid to look into the window and see the truth that was staring at her right in the face. The shame she felt for being in denial was undescribable. She felt disgusted with herself, thinking everything would sort itself out if she just ignored it.

Chemotheraphy was not advisable because the outcome would be 50/50. Bummer. Doctors weren't sure if he would make it. They said it might even aggrevate the whole thing. They said the cancer had spread to his pancreas and that he would feel pain. Physical pain. Double bummer. Morphine was given to combat the suffering he felt. And right before her eyes he started to slowly degenerate. From the hearty and hale man he one was, now only a shadow of himself, all skin and bones. The drugs made him have delusions. On more than one occasion that she paid him a visit, he was fast asleep because the doctors had to sedate him. Her heart broke a little more everytime she saw him. The person who was full of jokes, the life of the party, now reduced to a mere shell.  All the wires and machines surrounding him, it saddened her deeply. She cried every chance she got, whenever no one was looking.

One evening before going home, she finally plucked up the courage to speak to him. She told him that he had to be strong, he had to make it through because this year, like all the other years past, they were going to go to Fraser's Hill again. And who was going to take them to the bungalow on the hill if it was not for him? It wouldn't be the same without him. Get well soon, promise me. He nods in return, but his eyes were unfocused because of the drugs. She wasn't even sure if he'd heard or even understood her. Her heart broke a little more. But still she prayed silently that he'd make it, that he'd still be around at the end of the year,when she got the results of her public examination. He would be so proud of her, just like a father would.

Time passed and they transferred him to another hospital in the city. They put him temporarily in the emergency area. Many people were placed there too. The room was big and cold. Very impersonal, white and not to her liking. Mechanically, she would do the same things she did before. Greet and go. His wife said he had no appetite whatsoever. The food was never finished. She choked hearing that her uncle was not eating. She left before the tears could hit the floor, seeking refuge between the pages of her storybook. As she was reading in the lobby, her aunt came up to her and said that he wanted to meet her. Her heart stops beating for a few moments as she tries desperately to compose herself. In her mind she keeps repeating: don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

As she reaches his bed, he turns to look at her.

"Feed me, please," comes his feeble voice. She bites her lip hard to stop from making a sound. She nods her head and with trembling hands, picks up the plate. After a few spoons of the dismal-looking porridge, he shakes his head. "Thank you," he mutters.  No, thank you, says her heart as she turns away to stifle her sobs.

Once back home, her brother drops by to see how his uncle is doing.  Their uncle is confined to the bed and asks to be shaved. His beard was becoming an annoyance and he didn't want it shaved with a razor because it would cause a nasty itch. So his nephew was to just trim it with scissors. Her brother smiles and does as he is asked. How sweet, she smiled to herself, leaning against the bedroom door.

Eventually, they had to admit him again into the hospital. This time, his condition became visibly worse. His health detoriated to the point of praying that God take him instead of letting him suffer, if that was for the best. At first she felt scandalised and baffled at what her family had suggested, but after seeing her uncle in such discomfort, she succumbed.

At long last the dreaded day came. The doctor advised that all his family members were to be called. With a heavy heart, she trudged into the room. He was on oxygen support. She tried her level best to be strong and calm. His daughter was holding her father's hand, stroking his forehead, comforting him. She looked so brave, standing beside her father.

After a while, his breathing became erratic and he started trying to pull off his oxygen mask with his weak fingers. He kept begging his sister-in-law to take it off and he kept saying he felt uncomfortable with the damned thing. She tried in vain to convince him to put it back on. In the midst of the commotion, the doctor strides in, all lanky and authorative.

"Not much longer," he says coldly, emotionless. Son of a bitch! Her insides were burning. How could he just walk in and say that like it was the most normal thing to say to a grieving family? Pass the salt. Heartless bloody bastard. If murder wasn't a crime, she would have struck him down right then and there.

"Take it off. Please," he was pleading. She snapped out of her reverie. The scene unfolding before her was heart-wrenching. He was relentlessly trying to get the mask off his face. Finally, his sister-in-law gave up.

"Read the shahadah," his sisters said and began teaching him how to do it. Through his gasps, he managed to repeat the shahadah quite a number of times. Slowly, his breathing started to level out and the machines showed no vitals. The doctors come in and announced the time of death. In the corner, her tears flowed freely and her body is racked by sobs.

Her life will never be the same again. He won't be there when her exam results come out, he won't be there when they marvel at the mist of Fraser's, he won't be there, sitting in the passenger's seat to follow her around when she gets her driver's license, he won't be there to send her off on her first day of college, he won't be there to take photographs on her wedding day.

"Is that his daughter?" a man in the crowd asks.

She runs out of the room in a blur of tears and leans against the wall. She felt numb. Useless. Directionless. Lost.

Footsteps were heard coming in her direction. She looks up to see her cousin making her way towards her. She opens her arms wide. They embrace. Her cousin starts crying in her arms. She feels the loss all over again, the pain washing over her afresh. "I'm here," she said. And you're my responsibility now.

I miss you. You are always in my heart and in my memory. You're the Abah I never had. I loved you and always will. She's doing fine, by the way. Your heart would just burst with pride if you saw how far she's come and how much she's accomplished. She loves you, we all do. Al-fatihah.

"Edith, stifle yourself."

Waking up early has never agreed with me. Ever. All the pent up energy makes me buzz with hyperactivity. And I end up not knowing what to do, just simmering under the lid. Seeing and discovering things relevant to my particular interest only alleviates my adrenaline rush. I can't be dopey faced before breakfast. That's socially unacceptable, frowned upon. But heck, I'm no alchemist. My damned heart is a two-faced traitor.
Monday, Monday, Monday. In rhythm to the conga line. Apprehension. The wait. Urgh, the wait. Exactly 24 hours left. Sigh.
Tingling with excitement. Imagine if tomorrow was below the par. That would suck beyond the feeling of shame losing to over-spending, thick-pocketed, arrogant and boastful but swagg-less neighbors and archrivals, 6-1. De Gea, Y U NO SAVE THE GOALS?! Okay, rambling.
Optimism is vital. Hold on to it. Everything will turn out okay. Maybe even exceeding expectations.
Shut up. Stop smiling.
Stupid dingbat.

How Long Til Your Surrender?

My sleep has been tainted with nightmares and jumbled snatches of my mind's machinations. This officially sucks. I can't even get a good night's sleep anymore. Tossing and turning under the covers, sudden starts that jolt me into an upright position and trying to get back to sleep afterwards, only to repeat the whole processs.
First, I get the news that my lecturer passed away. And I start to worry about who is going to take his place, how are we going to finish the assignment, what's going to happen to class, our lives are never going to be the same without him, no more fake Indian accent, no more stroke-inducing amounts of laugh in class... And 5 seconds later wake up to realize that it was only a dream. Queue tepuk face.
Even afternoon naps have become sinister. I don't nap for fun, that's pure exhaustion right there. But noooooo. Now it's my mama's turn to die. I know right, WTF? And to top it all off, my Blackberry becomes elastic, shrinks and shatters in my hands. I bawled. Like tears, frustration and dramatic sobbing. The whole nine yards. Not because of my mother's passing, but because of my phone. My bloody phone. Epic is what epic does. I was freaking out. Point-blank. A russle of the blankets and...
Oh. My bad.
Dear dreams, stop haunting me. Dear subconscious mind, shut up. Dear conscious mind, stop scheming. Dear assignments, go to hell. Dear presentation, evaporate. Dear midterm, find somebody else to torment.
What the heck am I doing  majoring in political science, anyway? With an over-sized and hyperactive imagination like mine, I should be a movie producer. Hollywood beckons.

Going Green

There's a label for what you're doing. It's called sabotage. Happiness is fleeting nowadays, almost alien to me. I've forgotten what it's like to feel happy and not worry about what might happen next. But along comes you to ruin a perfectly beautiful day. And you have the gall to pretend that you care. Over-analyzing every single thing only leads to worry and doubt and all the other unwanted feelings. When are you going to ever start living? Wait, let me answer that for you; never. Everybody dies, but not everybody lives. So when carefully examined and dissected, the only logical conclusion I managed to arrive at is that you want me to be doomed to the same fate as you. Always worrying for no apparent reason, jumping to fantastical conclusions without any basis for your suspicions and forever assuming, assuming and assuming! It's safe to say that this behavior can be categorized as sadistic. Yes, that's it.
Not everybody is going to lie to me. Not everybody is going to hurt me. Not everybody is going to make me cry. Even if they do, that's just life. I have to learn. Jot down notes as I go, so I don't forget. The secret to life is that when it beats you down seven times, you get up eight. People deserve chances. If there's no faith, you'll never go far. There's not always going to be a map for everything. Some things are just meant to be explored unchartered. Keeping me in a shell is not going to achieve anything. Things will play out the way it was always meant to be, whether you like it or not.
This is my life. My chance to shine. If I'm always going to be confined in the comfort zone, your comfort zone, might as well lock me up in a high tower with no escape route and let me waste away. Because waste away is exactly what you're trying to achieve. Don't try to deny it.
I'm nineteen for heaven's sake! Nineteen! A whole load of time to be utilized according to my whim and fancy. I know what I want. I know what I'm capable of. I know me. Hook or crook, I'll reach the top. Watch me. Stop making decisions for me and putting words into my mouth. Your bad habit is getting on my nerves. It's bloody unbearable. Stop smothering me, dammit! I'll decide what, when, how, why, who, where. Let my mistakes slap me in the face. I'll never grow up if you think deflecting them is the best defence.
Stop trying to control every single detail of my life. Or would you prefer it if I shut you out for good? Don't make promises you don't intend to keep. Trust me. Let me out into the world. I know the way back.
Gimme a break.There's no need to go all OCD on everything.

You Make Me Feel Like!

I think I accidentally murdered the replay button. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. But I sincerely hope that you find peace where ever you are right now, dear Mr. Replay Button. I'm not trying to disperse blame or anything but it's not entirely my fault that the stupid song was stuck in my head for the whole day. Like seriously, I think there is a song for every life situation. Every single one of them. They think of everything, these musicians. From having a crush on someone and seeing life in full colors, to singing about suicide and other morbid nonsense. Coolio.
And Gabe Saporta just happened to be mouthing the words that have been lingering in my mind, dancing around in endless circles like the images conjured in the fire when Mr. Tumnus invited Lucy over for tea. The lyrics fit perfectly.
There's a suppression in my chest and it's taking huge amounts of control to keep it in tow. My heart feels like it could burst with joy. I feel like twirling around all the time, feel the breeze in my face. My lips are itching to break into a dopey smile and my tummy is voluntarily doing backflips. I feel like snatching glances at everyone I encounter just to make sure. Maybe, just maybe...
And then like a strangely clichéd movie with a predictable storyline, lunch happened. Minor heart attack FTW! My theory is that too much hope manifests into reality. Frankly, if reality was always this good, I'd like to live in the real world.
It'll be good while it lasts. No harm in making the most of it. After all, what rhymes with joy? ;)

The Midterm Conundrum

For two years, I have been waiting patiently for the day that I'd finally wake up from my mindless day-dreams and realize the real you. And that day has come. Thank God. I never knew what a good actor you were. Honestly, you deserve to be honored with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Everyone thinks you can do no wrong. Well, they should think again. Anyway, like my Mummy fondly said, "Good riddance of a bad thing." I bet she was break-dancing the moment I left the room after telling her that I kicked you out of my life. Down and out is where you should stay. And don't ever come back. I mean it. If you hadn't lied, at least I'd still have a sliver of respect for you. But lie you did. Let me make this clearer than chrystal: I absolutely despise liars. People resort to lying because they're scared to face the truth. And yes, you ARE a coward. If only I knew then what I knew now, it would have saved me a whole load of tears. List of words that best describe you include: liar, coward, deceitful, tactless, manipulative, fake, useless, hypocrite, jackass (and the list goes on). And that still doesn't even do the slightest bit of justice to your persona.
Fact is, you're just a bastard who broke my heart.
They say God  gives you only things that you can handle and that every cloud has a silver lining. Just a few weeks ago everything seemed to fall apart before my eyes. It took me a lot to keep going and act normally as possible, to not break down with every breath I took. But things have turned up. I'm happy and I'd almost forgot how it felt like.
Thank you for being there. All of you. You know who you are. For listening to me whine, for wiping my tears as they roll down my cheeks, for giving me a much needed smile when everything seemed bleak, for sticking around, and for knowing exactly what to say and being brutally honest. Gracias, people.
And if I ever have a coherent conversation with you, not just spasms of awkward smiles and fumbled one-liners, I'd thank you personally for making me smile again.

In Her Place

It's been a whirlwind. From happy to sad, sad to happy. Everything has blown over. Mediocre fireworks that don't really arouse any feelings. Whatever. At least university has become a friendly refuge. But come the weekend, misery is my best friend. I never seem to accomplish anything in those 3 days. And the assignments keep piling up. Have mercy for heaven's sake. And sometimes I just wish everyone would shut up and ignore each other. Stop making my ears bleed. Petty things annoy me beyond rational comprehension.
Lunchtime-enlightenment is always a welcome. Talking to Cooper always makes me feel as if I'm losing IQ points but he's rational and awe-inspiring. Never thought I'd describe someone my age with those words, but yeah, and it's still grossly inadequate. Walking takes my mind off things. To be alone with my thoughts, to see random people on the street and how they act, and maybe even flash a smile in their direction. I've always loved it when a stranger smiles at me after a tough day. Makes me feel like flying. For those of you who fall under that category, thank you. You people are awesome.
Hope. Fresh hope. I like the feel of it on my skin. It gives an extra bounce in my step. Right now I want a grassy field, blue skies, and an unlimited amount of sunlight, so that I can bask in the sunshine and roll around until the lovegrass makes my body itch. The four days in a week are almost a blessing in disguise, apart from 3 hours of troll time. Bloody hell. Oh well, I guess you can't get everything.
I'm ready for new things. New beginnings and possibly loads of smiles. Things to look forward to, boys to crush on and snigger about. Cute History dude, you on my list. A blank new page is more than anything a person could hope for. Now it's up to me to dip the quill in ink and scribble in the details. Our generation is going to shape the future, and the generation after ours is going to remember us for it. Spread the word.

Maktub, she said. Time to shine.

Stupid by Definition

The only thing I'm capable of doing now is cry. There's nothing else for me to do except sit around and be useless. Every damn thing seems to be my fault, one way or another. I want to give up. To run away and leave all my problems behind. To not feel hopelessly trapped, to not be worrying about mounds of assignments I should be doing, to not worry about anything. I want to die, more than anything right now. I know it's a very cowardly thing to say but at least dead people don't break down or have to do anything for that matter. I'm not ready to go but what other options are open to me? I want a plane ticket to the end of the earth so that when I reach my destination, the crust will split open and swallow me up into the pit of its stomach. The tears are flowing freely as I type this and I don't know what else to do. I feel crushed, broken and beaten down, kicked around and still not immune to the pain.
Every damn thing is my fault. Rub it in my face. Scream it to me so that I hear the words loud and clear. Make me feel bad. I need a break. I need a hug. I need support. I need so many things and I have none. I want to be heard. I'm irrational. I can't think straight. I need a candle and a hand to lead the way. I can't take any of this right now. I want to run as far as possible. I want to crouch in a corner and cry til I'm physically broken. I hate myself. I hate everything.
Shun me. Hate me. Push me away. Evil people deserve evil things, no? There's no where to turn to. Doors closed, windows latched. I can't be strong. I'm going out of my mind. Deaf ears all around. Cynical smiles and faces of sympathy that look down on me because of my weakness. My fault, my fault. I'm so alone. Cold and alone. Tired and alone. Depressed and alone. Vulnerable and hopeless. I want to stand at the edge of a cliff and just pretend that I can't see that I'm about to fall off the edge. One more step to oblivion. No matter how hard I wish, this feeling lingers, like the smell of shower gel on my skin even after a long day. It smells sweet, but suffocating at the same time; as if its secretly trying to asphyxiate me with its aroma.
Take me away. Far away. Erase my memories. Let me start afresh. My own terms. Undo my mistakes. I need to take another look at things that have slinked by. I'd wish for a dead heart. Honestly, life should come with a free rewind button.

The Silence of the Sufferer

I have to block out thoughts of you so I don't lose my head
They crawl in like a cockroach, leaving babies in my bed
Dropping little reels of tape, to remind me that I'm alone
Playing movies in my head that make a porno feel like home
There's a burning in my pride, a nervous bleeding in my brain
An ounce of peace is all I want for you
Will you never call again?
And will you never say that you love me, just to put it in my face?
Will you never try to reach me? It is I that wanted space

Everyday I wake up to the burning on the left side of my chest. It feels like someone deliberately left the Bunsen burner on to finish what it started. Effective in waking me up from my much needed but fretful sleep, I dare say. It is the feeling of raw pain, staring at you right in the face, taunting you because it knows damn well it has the upper hand, that you're helpless against its sneers. It grips the heart with poisoned fingers, caresses it and laughs inwardly to itself. There's only so much I can do to quell it. And as I raise myself up to a sitting position, I realize that no amount of comfy pillows and warm blankets can stem the fear rising at the back of my throat. Eventually I crumble, letting the tears run rampant and sobs shake my body.

Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me so you can finally see what's good for you

But get up, I do. Standing beneath the trickling shower of hot water, I know that the situation is virtually hopeless. What shall I do now? In the aftermath of my highly irrational decision, I have no one to blame except me. But anyone in my shoes would have done the same thing. Wouldn't they? Maybe it's a lesson to be learnt. And the one that sticks out like a sore thumb is: never make decisions when your hormones decide to go bungee jumping. I'll try to imprint that onto my brain and hopefully it'll stay there. Breakfast is a challenge nowadays to try and keep the food where it belongs. Swallowing  alone is a milestone. I have no control over anything now. I feel trapped. Ripped off. Alone. Frustratingly and painfully alone.

The one thing that always tore us apart is the one I won't touch again

Why couldn't you just come out and say it? Would have saved me the time and false hopes. The stars will still wink to life at night and the wind blow in due course but nothing stays the same. What happened? Why? Mostly why. Always why. Just why.

So I'll drive so fucking far away that I never cross your mind
And do whatever it takes in your heart to leave me behind

You should have said it. What did you have to lose? Nothing. Maybe something to gain. It's murdering my ego more than you know it but yes, maybe something to gain. You should have said it. I asked you not once, not twice. The truth would have been bearable then. The accumulation of hopes fractured my soul and dropped to the ground like dead weight because gravity beckoned. Unfair, unfair, unfair. No matter which way it's twisted, fate's dark humor always prevails. And most of the time people don't get the joke; they don't even laugh when it's funny. They stare with empty eyes and blank faces.

Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn't do for you
Hate me in ways
Ways hard to swallow
Hate me so you can see what's good for you

Answers. Answers to the questions at the tip of my tongue. Anwers to the questions swirling around in my mind. Why not tell me to leave in my face if I was a mere friend? One friend lost and another to be gained, no worries. But why the hesitation and broken voice? Maybe closure is what's needed. But deep down I have an inkling that we're not over yet.  Please. I don't know what else to do.

And with a sad heart I say bye to you and wave
Kicking shadows on the street for every mistake that I had made
And like a baby boy, I never was a man
Until I saw your blue eyes cry and I held your face in my hands
And then I fell down yelling, "Make it go away!"
Just make a smile, come back and shine just like it used to be
And she whispered, "How could you do this to me?"

A Reckoning

See my days are cold without you

But I'm hurting while I'm with you

Though my heart can't take no more

I keep on running back to you

I'm scared. Scared shitless. Scared straight. Whatever. Bottom line is, I'm scared. Apprehensive. I don't know how tonight will turn out.
The question is, why lead me on when you have no intention of falling through? It sucks. Actually, the word sucks is inadequate in describing the emotional turmoil I'm going through. And the crime scene in my pants isn't helping in any way either. Fucking hormones. Fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck fuck. Like seriously.
And Monday is coming around the corner all too soon. Back to bad management, screeching brakes, blue roofs and dismal tiles. I hate my life. There's a nagging at the back of my head, reminding me that I have to start working on those assignments before they rival Everest in height. But I'm stuck and I feel like crying. Oh wait, crying is the only damned thing I've been doing since last week. I'm sick of looking in the mirror and seeing my reflection in it. Swollen eyes, messy hair and tears that leave salty crusts in their wake.
I'm going to pick up the phone tonight and probably listen to your voice for the last time. Its killing me. For this past week, everytime I see you name, my heart feels like it's being squeezed by a hand cast in iron. If you could only imagine how that feels. Hurts, doesn't it?
If I just liked you, it wouldn't be a problem for me to turn around and walk away and just pretend that none of this ever happened. The thing is, I love you.
If only you knew.

That Thing You Do

I found out. Left the open house in a hurry. But she still doesn't get it. Don't touch me when I feel vulnerable. The backlash should have been anticipated. Crying while driving. Tears blurring the outline of the road. Stepping on the gas pedal harder than necessary. The dull ache in the cavity of my chest. Reaching home but not feeling the warmth. Honest.

Conquer your fears. I'm trying to swallow them whole as they're being shoved down my throat.

Ghost Town Adresses

Shattered. That's what I feel, in a nutshell. I don't care what kind or how many excuses they all generously come up for you, but this is a little overwhelming for me. Not now, not ever will I be ready to face this. If it didn't hurt me so bad, I would have packed my all excess baggage and sent them to the bottom of the ocean in a heartbeat. Thoughts that manifest into actions. Let no one find it. Let the fish stake claim. I don't care.
So how does this work? I slog and you bask in the sunshine? A knife deliberately traced across my throat, the cold metal blade dangerously close to severing the pain, once and for all. Do it! Don't think, because you might have second thoughts. You have to be merciless to have mercy. Remorse is just another word in the dictionary, another word someone somewhere in history came up with. It shouldn't concern you. Remember; merciless. You don't have a heart. And that's all that matters.
Respect is dwindling fast. I'm not sure wether to disrespect you for being a liar for twisting the truth, or for being a coward for not being able to stand up and face the truth. It hurts. More than you know, more than I care to let on.
I've just survived the crummiest two weeks of my year so far. I can't handle this right now. Smiling is hard because every millimeter my lips stretches, a piece of my heart is broken inside and falls into a dark abyss, irretrievably lost. Talking is hard because every word is a chore and the fear of my voice cracking being heard by everyone around me is a real threat in my mind. You've kept me sane for a fortnight. The tables have turned. Now you're being the instigator of my downfall. I did it once, I'm not sure the slightest bit if I'll be able to repeat the feat a second time. Encores are best left for musicians that have issues with their egoes.
I need to be rescued, but my hero is only a figment of my imagination.

It's LeviOsa

I think I'm jinxed. I really do. Being idle and happy is one thing, being idle and sad is pathetic.
He says, she says. It's the hormones. It's always the hormones. Stupid imbalance that tips everything and sets me off. And the tummy cramps. The back aches. The mood swings. The unsightly pimples. It's tough. And no, we don't have it easy.
I want to talk to you. Hear your voice, that little snigger of yours. Your smile over the phone. Saturday, Saturday; make my day.
I want to run around in circles until I fall to the floor. Don't pick me up, don't bother. Just let me lie there. I don't know. I just don't. If you want to, I can save you. But who's going to come to my rescue?

Oh-to-the-snap!

Hey there. So it's been exactly a fortnight since I have touched my laptop. You used to be my favourite gadget in the room. And along came the Blackberry.
Yeah. Ouch. Sorry.
In any case, that's not the reason why I've been shamelessly neglecting you. I guess the real reason is that these past two weeks have been blissfully kind to me. Truthfully, I think this is by far the longest I've gone without a screw up. Phone calls on weekends, occasional texting, even the bitch issue resolved! Savouring every moment, like having mint-chocolate chip ice cream on a particularly hot afternoon. You see, it's not rocket science. Ramadhan is like Christmas, except that your wishes come true in a blink of an eye for a full month. No doubt I get hungry everyday from 12-3 p.m. and I have all kinds of cravings and I don't get to eat. But that's not the point. The point is, whatever other stuff on my list is ticked off real fast. Blink. Done. Dusted. Wow.
So for fourteen days, I haven't been walking around like a zombie and being jumpy about irrelevant things. Thank you for putting my mind at ease, dear Lord. And I realise I don't thank You enough. Heck, even I don't even approve of me. Sigh. Not good.
Oh. Hello, you. You know I'm here. You even admitted to it. So why don't you tell me what's really bugging you? You miss your Dad. I see that. I hear it in your voice everytime you lie to me about being okay. Quit playing the soldier in my eyes. I know you're dying inside. Your weight loss just magnifies everything to a hundred-fold. And stop calling yourself an orphan. Everytime she says that word to me, my tears well up and my heart feels like it's being stabbed with a serrated blade. Don't say that, baby. Never say it.
I know we're in a good place right now. And yes, I know for a fact that you want me to stay and you acknowledge the significance of my presence in your life. And thank you for being virtually demonstrative of it. But I ask you, would it literally break your fingers if you texted me now and again? It's free, for God's sake! Yeah sure, all those little statuses and smilies are meant for me. But can't you write to me privately sometime? Is that too much to ask for? Urgh. I'm whining, aren't I? Being ungrateful again. You're growing up. You don't know how grateful that makes me feel.
The new library is uber cool, by the way. You know what would make it cooler? You in it. I can just imagine the smirk on your face right about now. Anyway, the book I picked up is called Sexuality in Islam. Quite an interesting read. Apparently, in heaven we won't have asses anymore since the purpose of it is just for excreting waste. It's got me thinking, what if the likes of Kim Kardashian, Jennifer Lopez and Cristiano Ronaldo decided to embrace Islam? Poor things. Tsk tsk. And another shocker was the kind of rain that comes down in heaven. Everyone I asked managed to get this wrong. Fact is: it rains semen in heaven. Semen, yaw! Like those stains that glow under the fancy torchlights in CSI. I know, it was an epic WTF moment for me too. Good times. Roflol.

You think missing me is hard?

You should try missing you.



Go. To. Hell.

Stop being a pussy. Make your decision. It's fairly simple.
And you, bitch. Do you know how much I just loathe you? Indescribable. Beyond words. I tried being civilized but who am I kidding? Just seeing your name on the screen makes me infuriated. When he was all fraternizing with you, you gave him the cold shoulder. Ignored him into oblivion. But when he got a cool new phone, you cooed at his heels. Materialistic much? I don't think so, I know so.  Now that the guy you've been chasing is off the market, you crawl back to the one person who hasn't seen you for who you are, liking his posts and commenting on almost every single one of them. Pathetic. Really. Harsh, I'm all too aware.

I know this hurts, it was meant to.

My patience is running thin. Lord, help me.

yesnomaybe

Here we go again. The holy month is upon us and it means that you are impossible, like literally, impossible.

Lets take stock of the situation so far:
1) from my previous observations, fasting makes you bitchy and slightly lethargic
2) you sleep earlier and that means no phone calls that result in stroke inducing bills
3) you don't play football in the evenings, so that avenue is closed
4) you practically live in the mosque now so I can't just ring you whenever I want
Oh yeah, and most epic of all:
5) your bloody Blackberry is BUSTED. FML

I'm missing you endlessly. Kill me now, why don't you?

The Fourth Day of August

The anticipation, the nervous laughs, the tired eyes, the impromptu confession.

He pokes his head though the doors of the library, puppy-faced.
"So? How?"
"Yes," she says in reply.
Oh God, I feel like crying.

Shimmer

The sound of your smile over the phone, I love.
The way you react to the nicknames I call you, I love.
The way you sound helpless when you ask for help, I love.
The way your breath catches in your throat when you start a sentence, I love.
The sound of your snigger when you talk, I love.
The way you playfully test my patience, I love.
When you ask me what I'm doing, I love.
The little attempts at jokes you make, I love.
The awkward pauses we have in a conversation, I love.
The surprise in your voice when I remember the tiniest detail about you, I love.
The apprehension you feel when I ask you a serious question, I love.
The way you get all nervous and flustered when I get straight to the point, I love.
When you send me a text in the middle of the night, I love.
The passion you have for football, I love.
That fiery insistance of yours when you want something from me, I love.
Your broad shoulders and perfect fingers, I love.
The way you fret about my wellbeing, I love.
The way you look at me when you think I don't see, I love.
The smile carved on your lips that is only reserved for me, I love.
When you call me on the phone unexpectedly, I love.
The way your voice drips with jealousy of another, I love.
The way you dilligently try to make a connection, I love.
The way you probe into my life just to want to know me better, I love.
The way your eyes light up when we manage to meet unexpectedly, I love.
When you remember a small trivia about us, I love.
The way your voice quivers when you say hello at the start of a phone call, I love.
The way your hand trembles when you pass me a piece of chocolate, I love.
The way you give me a sideways glance so that nobody else sees, I love.
The way you try to be the person that is worthy of me, I love.

You, I love.

Regardless

If there ever was a word in the history of mankind to describe you, only one single word, that word would be bipolar. Yes. Very succinct. Precise and to the point. You and your little mood swings and bursts of emotions. You never cease to baffle me. Hell, I never cease to baffle  me. I can't keep this up for long. I can't keep living like this; waiting, unsure, insecure.
We can't even make it through the week without falling out. We don't fight or anything, we just fall out. Just like that. Then you retreat to your far corner where no light penetrates and become one with the shadows. You simply vanish from the face of the earth and there's no way to reach you, not by any means. Oh God, the waiting. When we start, it's a bang, all fireworks and sound, frenzied to the point of going off the radar. But when we stop, it's the silence of the crypt, nothing moves, no sign of life whatsoever.
Every single day, without fail, the people I am (sometimes) unfortunate enough to call my family drive me to the brink of exhaustion and insanity. And you're that little beacon of hope, keeping me in check. But I highly doubt you're aware of your role. It gets so frustrating at times. Hope is like a double-edged sword. Hope is the embodiment of evil, its very essence, in fact. And I am hopelessly hopeful when it comes to you.
Right now, I feel like emptying the recycling bin for glass bottles over my head so that everything comes down in a shower of pain and colour. I feel like lying on the road so that a steamroller can come along and crush the life out of me. I feel like ripping the hairs out of my scalp and rolling in the mud. I feel like banging my head against the door repeatedly.
One day in the future, I'll be laughing about this. Re-reading  all my blogposts and looking back in time, there would be no doubt about it. But the present is a stalker who doesn't yield to my threats and restraining orders.
Once in a while I wonder how would you react if it was me that was pulling the tantrums. I bet my ass you'd be gone before I could even bat an eyelid. I saw your picture online yesterday. The sweat on your forehead, the mess of hair, the broad shoulders. Man, the emotions that tugged at my heartstrings! I'm so ashamed for letting myself feel that way. I feel worthless. I miss you, dammit. Do something about it. Urgh.
You know what, I spend half my time thinking about how much I love you and the other half wishing that we'd never met.

Dummy and Dumber

The bell rings, signalling the end of another school session. Her bag is packed, books stowed away with careful precision, making sure the textbooks don't curl around the edges. She deliberately takes her time, waiting as the class slowly empties. She risks a glance across the room and the corners of her mouth turn upwards as she sees him doing the same. Her heart flutters in her chest, like the beating of a hummingbird's wings. Her tummy knots with anticipation. He's still fumbling with the strap of his bag. Too slow, she thinks, a small smile forming on her lips.
She picks up her bag and walks out the door. He meets up with her outside. His eyes are trained on the floor as he walks towards her. He blushes and manages a shy smile when he looks up to find that she is watching him intently.
They walk side by side, saying nothing, too afraid to even breathe. She silently wishes the journey to the front gate never ends, so that they could go on forever, just the two of them.
She attempts small talk as they round the bend and head down the stairs. He answers her distractedly, but she doesn't mind. From the look on his face, she deduces that he's formulating his thoughts.
They pass so many other students enroute to their destination. Some friends, some just random schoolmates with no name.
They reach the canteen and incidentally he meets his brother. Incidentally. They start talking about the calligraphy his brother has made for their mother. She prays under her breath that his brother would go away. Good days like this never come easy. And by some miracle, his brother moves away. He falls back a step behind to walk with her. She feels relief beyond words. He turns to her.
"Have you ever heard about 1-4-3?"
She shakes her head in reply.  He looks a tad bit crestfallen.
"So you don't know what it is?" he presses.
"No. What the hell does that mean?"
"Oh, I saw it in this movie," he begins sheepishly. "The guy said it to the girl. It means I love you."
"Oh, okay." She feels strangely detached, trying to piece the information together. "Are you saying it to me?" she asks.
"Do you want me to say it to you?"
"Only if you feel that way about me. If you don't, then don't say it."
He ponders what she's said for a while. Silence. His face is conflicted with emotions. Before you know it, they've reached the gates. His mother is waiting for him in her slick black car. His brother is with her.
He looks pained. She knows this chance may never come again. He turns away and walks to the car.
A period of two years has elapsed since that afternoon. Some days it shines, on others it rains. Sometimes she thinks back on those days when the world seemed so alienated from her. She was a  living, breathing thing, but somehow through her eyes the world had taken on a shade of gray. She revisits the past now and again, sifting through events that took place and altered her life so dramatically. Sometimes this particular memory is the one that hurts the most, eventhough it seems as harmless as eating french fries with ice cream. She beats herself up whenever she thinks about it.
This time, she promises herself, things will be different.

Nvrmnd.

It's been less than 24-hours and yet I want to take to the streets (no illegal rally rubbish) and shout out 'til my lungs give out

I MISS YOU.

Threads of Gossamer

Elusive. That would be the most appropriate word to describe the presence of patience in my life at this point of time. I feel like I'm drowning. No water, just air. The very oxygen that allows me to breathe is slowly suffocating me and turning my lungs leaden. I just want to scream. To scream and scream until I get hoarse; to scream until I can never scream again. The madness is everywhere. In the trees, whispered in the wind, in the words spoken and left unsaid, in the glances exchanged by the strangers and the passersby, in the cars that speed past in all their polished glory, chasing after each other in a single-minded intent. And all I can think about is you.