Thursday, 26 February 2015

Poem || Do you still love me?

I daydream possibilities of a better life
And I see myself running after my children,
In the garden I planted with you; my husband.
And you look at me and ask,
"Do you still love me?"

It's silly of you to ask, you're my only love.
I think to myself as I call my brother;
Who I haven't contacted in weeks, busy with life
He picks up the phone and tests me mockingly
"Do you still love me?"

It's night time and our baby cries
The bills are piling by our window
Our eldest is off to college
My little girl breaks our vase, crying
"Do you still love me?"

My mother passed away last spring
You ask me to move on and get a job
I tell you I can't because I miss her
You don't care, and I plead God at night
"Do you still love me?"

Our son needs braces, our baby is growing
You suck on your thumb after a paper cut,
"Get me some damn bandages, woman."
And I hear the lady, in the soap opera on TV, ask the man
"Do you still love me?"

Our baby needs surgery and we're broke
You're smoking on the garden I planted with... you
Ashes fall on the dying grass that no longer smell fresh
And I could almost hear nature ask us
"Do you still love me?"

The baby died. All our kids are married.
You sit by the garden as I work 3 jobs.
My face isn't soft and my body's withering
We hardly speak and I wish I could muster up the courage to ask

"Do you still love me?

Sunday, 22 February 2015

Dear Owls, wishful thinking.

Dear Owls, 

I bought this book on learning how to Wish, and just when you think they've made a book on everything- you realize "No wait! You're not wishing properly, here's a book to teach you!"
And you're probably thinking, "Well, idiot, if you don't think it's a proper book, why'd you buy it?"

Well, it's actually a really good book. It's short. It's right to the point. It was also on Sale, so it was also cheap! Do you smell that? It smells like my kind of book. 
So, after I started reading it, I realized that my way of wishing is wrong. Apparently, you're not suppose to say, for example: 
"I wish I was a public speaker" 
Which in my case, is my biggest wish.
You're supposed to say, "I am a public speaker" 
And therefor, you're already half way there. When you address your wish as something in the present, rather in the past, it immediately changes the way we interpret it in our minds. If you're a procrastinator, like I am, it gives you a step ahead of where you stand in what you want to do to get your dreams and wishes alive. When you tell yourself you already are or have what you're wishing for, you become mentally responsible to reach your goal faster- in my opinion, that's mostly because you don't want to sound like a liar for too long.
The book also suggested that you should focus on one goal at a time, and you shouldn't tell a lot of people about your wish because it causes doubt and negativity among those who envy you or deny your potential. In my case however, my wish is a goal and I guess I'm fine with sharing it on the blog. A lot of people already know this is what I want to become anyway. Someday, it will happen. For now, I'll just build my skills as much as I possibly could. I am not liberated  to attend workshops and skill shops right now. It's annoying how I only found out about these workshops after everything that's happened. If I had only found out a couple of months ago, it would have been so easy to attend these amazing self-building programs. But it's a work at mind, and I'll go as soon as I feel the time is right. If anything, all that has happened has taught me to be patient and understanding towards life and fate. 

I'm not sure where I want to go- metaphorically speaking. I used to know exactly who I was, but now I'm starting to think maybe a friend of mine was right. I was rather unoriginal with my thoughts. I am/was so easily influenced by everything. If I was watching a certain series, I would gradually begin to think very seriously about what I was watching and apply it with everything that was happening in my life. And now, nothing applies to my life and so I guess that's why it snapped me out of this ongoing illusion that everything portrayed to me should be taken in mind. Recently, I've been a critical thinker, reevaluating everything I see and hear and actually understand how I feel about it; without asking anyone's opinion. I think my friend would be proud of where I am now- mentally. However, I've been rather confused and upset most of the time, even when I try to be positive. 
But I'm still trying.
I am a happy person with a successful life.

Yours always, 

Tuesday, 17 February 2015

Dear Owls, explanation.

Dear Owls, 

Something I find incredibly personal is an explanation to my poetry. There are a few people I have shared the meaning of my poetry to in the past and it's never really been something I do publicly. Some may ask what a poem was inspired by or what lead me to write a certain thing, yet I give a general vague analysis- by far. Although my poetry may come off rather sad, I'm actually happy while writing it. The thing about putting your feelings down in such an obvious yet mysterious way has always been such an amazing blessing to have. 

To further add about the poem I wrote earlier, I won't say much since it's really self-explanatory. However, I will say this: the man who "broke her heart" does not/ and isn't (in this case) a love figure. He isn't a man she "fell in love with" and no where on there does it say that she ever did genuinely love him. In my mind, it could be a person who's trying to take a boy, who's probably as close as a child to her, away. It doesn't state the reason, but it does show anger and vengeance from both sides, which gives a whole different back story to the relationship between each of the characters stated. Plus, my brother got a stupid idiotic annoying virus that got him locked in the hospital for two days, maybe that's where the inspiration came from? Maybe not. That's all I'll say about it, but I do hope I'll post more of the poetry I write on here. It's not too bad of an escape route away from the silly world we're all floating in. 

Today, I visited my old school- Al Mawakeb, since our university is now visiting all the schools for career fair, or whatever they call it. I get to go to two schools because my childhood was rough and I attended every single school in Dubai... just 3 actually, but it's still rough. 
Next week I might be visiting the school I graduated from. Sigh. I'm actually worried. There are so many memories engraved into the walls, the chairs and doors. I'm so afraid of remembering everything I'm so desperately trying to forget. Don't get me wrong, I love the school and the memories it holds- I just miss them. 
There are two kinds of "yearnings" in the world. One is the Nice-Missing. When you miss something- and you can do something about it (like when you miss eating a burger and you grab one from the nearest store the next day). Then there's the Ugly-Missing type where you miss something and you don't have the power to do anything about it and you eventually choose not to. (like when you miss candy but you can't have it because you're diabetic and it could kill you)
Let's just say, even if I missed the memories in school, I couldn't have them back. What's even worse is that I'm not even sure if I want to go. I've got a Midterm on that day anyway, so I'll probably end up skipping the heartache. 

Ps: my favorite grandmother traveled today and it's sort of the emptiest feeling in the world- Ah, and that's another example of the Ugly-Missing. 

Yours with sighs of reminiscence, 

Poem || "Heart-wrenching Countdown"

She killed the man that broke her heart
And she clawed her way out of the hole, hoping she would make it.
And she did. Almost. 
And there were people after her, so she jumped back in and,
She regretted ever getting herself into this mess in the first place and
Although things are better
She cries
Because the hole seems better than sunlight
And she's happy because she's falling now and her hair
Has never been this soft and
She sees strands in the air, bidding her a due
And she smiles and
It's been a while since she's done that.
She wants to let go of everything.
She doesn't want to live.
She decides to die.
And so she does.
In the middle of her fall; she stops her own heart and counts to ten
Hoping that's how long the angels need to come get her
She waits

She's waiting for something to happen; anything.
In the midst of silence
She's not falling anymore
But there's a little boy with a toy in his hand
And he's calling for her
So she reaches out her hand
And he doesn't touch her
He throws the toy at her and says, "You promised you would never leave me."
And she nods and
Then sobs
'I need to go,' she wants to tell him
But she can't
Her voice is gone
He calls out to her. Momma.
But she's not his Mom. Technically.
And she waits for someone to help her but every one is on their IPhones
Then she catches a glimpse of a shadow and runs towards it 
Because she doesn't care who it is
She needs them to take care of her boy.
He's alone and she has decided to die.
And there's no going back
"Please" she finds her voice, "Help him"
The shadow turns around,
It couldn't be.
It's the man she killed, who broke her heart, except it's not broken
And he's not dead.
It's beating in his hand.
Pump. Pump. Pump.
"I need it back. He's all alone and I chose to live. For him.
I thought you broke it, but it's there in your hand.
You kept it all these years, and I thank you, but I need it back."
He did not move. The heart's beating began to slow, and his face became dark.
She cries because she has less than a second
And she pleads him with her eyes
"It's not yours" he spoke. 
She sees the boy's soul fall and
He screams
And then she screams, but she's not dead yet.
And her baby's blood is on the floor; but she's not his mom, but she is.
And she died before she decided to
Because he was the reason she was alive
And he's the reason she's dying now.
And she looks at the man who broke her heart
And he's not dead.
But he's about to be.  


Monday, 16 February 2015

The Nature of Freedom.

As the vines braided their way around my house, I slowly felt more and more disconnected to the world. With each twirl and bend, I sought the need to seek adjust to the prison that would soon become my life. Slowly yet effectively, my house began to sink into darkness until the last ray of sunlight shined on the table across the room; it came from an uncovered spot on the window. Fortunately, the vines didn't do as good a job at covering it than it hoped for.

The house was relatively dark, yet I could walk my way around if I wanted to. But I didn't want to. It was a ghastly sight and experience to feel trapped in your own habitat by the forces of nature. The idea that even if I screamed my lungs out and nobody would hear me was just unsettling. I waited for my eyes to adjust, then sat in the corner of the room... sobbing.
For the first few days, I wondered why the vines chose my house to hug- was it that horrible, that it needed to be covered? What did I do to deserve utter detachment from the mankind? I grabbed a chair and stood the spot on the window where the sword of light hit. With one eye on the window, the other closed, I saw the people I would see every day not bothered that my house was in complete isolation. Most of the people I knew to be very considerate, trusted with my life, were unfazed by what was happened, almost forgetting that I ever existed in the first place.

A couple weeks had passed, I guessed, and some of my relative began to worry. They knocked on the vines and waited for an answer that would never come. Many tried to tug and rip off the plant. However, it seemed like the more they tried to help me, the stronger their grip became. Eventually, they would stop and stand there for a few seconds, staring at what had happened to one of the happiest, calmest houses in the neighborhood; wondering, like I did, why?

Every day for a month, I would sit at the table where the light shined in the morning and contemplate the mistakes I had done to deserve this nature bound lock. At first I was bitter, angry and frustrated with the world. I doubted my purpose and existence, reexamining everything I had ever done and if my life even had a reason. I didn't know what was happening around the world or the latest celebrity gossip. I couldn't reply to my emails, stalk hot guys on the media, tell my friends about the exciting things that happened during the day, or see how they were doing or rather if they missed me.
One day, to make things a whole lot better, some of my closest friends stuck signs outside my house, where my vision could reach, blaming me for not contacting them or keeping in touch with them for a very long time, saying that if I really cared, I would have found a way to cut down the vines. I wanted to tell them that I tried, that the only way I could get rid of the vines was to burn down the house- and that would've been suicide.

Suddenly, the curse of vines had eventually become a blessing. I began to cherish my time on the table to contemplate, relax and avoid people-related drama. Gossip about people I have not seen in years did not matter as much to me. Friends that did not understand that they needed to wait for me until the vines died off, weren't friends I wanted to keep anymore. The table became a filter; a window. The table seating was also a place I mourned those I missed most outside the walls of my house and I prayed for them to find happiness and a life full of adventure. Although I wanted to have them with me on the table, eating breakfast like we would normally do, eventually I needed to wish them a better life- without me in it. I began writing about my experiences, hoping someone would relate- or not- people didn't really matter as much anymore. Ironically, people matter more. How does that work? People's opinions did not mean much, but the people I knew would be supportive are the ones that really meant the most.

Years after waiting in solitude, I lost hope. The vines did not fall and the roots seemed to dig deeper in. I was beginning to think I would never speak to another person again, until one day I did something rather odd.

I watered the plant.

The vines had already found their way through the windows, breaking the glass, so it made it easier for me to offer it some water. I'm not sure why I had watered it, or what I was thinking, but I'm glad I did. With the purest intentions, I pondered how tall and wide it would grow if I nurtured it. I thought to myself, if I was stuck here I might as well be doing something worthwhile. One day, I said to myself, someone will find the stories I had written sitting on my table, they will see the lovely paintings I drew and marvel at my patience; how I managed to stay all these years trapped.

I watered the curse and it became a blessing.

Once I got past my hatred towards it, it slowly withered as if offering me one last sight of it's colors all at once; sailing away with shades of lime green, bark brown and then eventually coal black. You would suppose that after all these years of being stuck between walls, I would've ran to the door. You are wrong. I did not move, as if the idea of being free upset me. My body quivered and my feet numbed. Being free did not upset me; it disgusted me. After all these years, I began to share a bond with this plant. Then the disturbing thought crept through my skull and widened my eyes... "Did my kindness kill the plant, or did my hatred foster it ?"

 Both maybe.

Tuesday, 10 February 2015

Dear Owls, New Pain.

Dear owls, 

The last time I wrote here, I was starting my Newsletter, getting paid for a summer job and confused about decisions I had to make for myself. It's odd how my issues back then seem so simple now. It's almost like in the past few months, I've become a completely different person. Whether I like the person I've become or not, I'm not sure, but I like to think that I'm getting there. 
A quick recap: Second semester of University, First year. Nothing has been going on... really. 

However, I have had a breakdown, a change of train tracks and for that reason, I need to find out quickly where I want my train to switch to; left or right. I'm going through a phase where I'm quickly losing understanding of why certain things happen to certain people and do not happen to others. I've heard all my life that everything happens for a reason but nobody says anything else about it, other than a polite smile. We, as humans, have come to believe that everything in our life happens for the pure purpose of another event happening. 
Is that really what Life is? A combinations of events? Let's just say it is, since I'm so keen on finding my own definition for Life. 
To continue my definition; why is life so freaking hard? But then, when you think it's all over and it's better than you ever hoped it would be, it slaps you in the face again. Why does Life do that to you? Is that what it adds to? 

Life /noun/ A combination of events over the years of your existence and your tolerance towards them in attempt to continue living. 

That's not too bad. It sums up what I've learnt over the past years and after all my years of asking what the hell life is, I guess it's a pretty good conclusion- cliche, but good.  
And apologies for a crappy post, I guess it's just me trying to work out metaphoric pieces of a metaphoric puzzle that I can't tolerate trying to solve anymore. A lot has been taken away from me, and I guess in the process I'm trying to be grateful for what I still have. I haven't been kind to my surrounding, I've been bitter, uptight, angry and confused. 
Honestly, I'm just scared. And the idea that there are some things in life I can't control doesn't make it easy. They tell you "Life tests you to your breaking point, just to show you how much you can withstand", but I'm not sure if I'm going to be strong enough to handle my breaking point. 

At times like these, you try to remind yourself that other people have it worse than you do, that one day you'll look back at your life and laugh at your struggles- but they never really tell you how you overcome them. Maybe that's why you end up laughing. 
You laugh at your past because you were so stupid, stressing over things you couldn't possible fix, crying over people who couldn't even hear you and looking for answers that didn't want to be found. 
You laugh because you're tired of crying. And maybe that's what life is. Life isn't who you are, rather what you did with yourself. Contrary to what I thought it was, Life isn't a noun, it's a verb

Life /verb/ Adjusting, overcoming, or adapting.

Love always, 
Baby Yoshi Blinking