May 20, 2010
May 15, 2010
May 14, 2010
Visions are flashing into my head as I reminisce
My reoccurring dreams..."
I picked up a little boy, fascinated by his ivory skin that felt soft against my sun-damaged skin. That feeling of infinitesimal, yet pure, unadulterated bliss washed me clean of any worries I harbored in that moment.
And then you came. Not particularly beautiful, but your heart tore through your imperfections, tore through my skin, tore through the years of heartache, through the walls I surrounded myself with, and settled therein. You were but the epitome of beauty.
I turned away from you, unable to hide the genesis of my blood burning underneath my skin.
I busied myself in that child, cuddling;hugging.
That's when you had the courage. To talk to me.
Your smile, those perfect white teeth against your ivory skin, stunned me into incoherency.
I don't particularly remember what it is that you said. Of course, in my defence, you were too beautiful.
There was something you mentioned about the child.
And I retaliated. Already building up my walls.
"I may seem crazy
Or painfully shy
And these scars wouldn't be so hidden
If you would just look me in the eye "
You looked me in the eye.
I asked, "Why? Who is he to you?"
You stood there, humble, strong, gentle, heartbreaking-ly noble, and said, "Because that child is mine."
But you said it with a wisdom.
Like you knew.
Knew it wouldn't matter to me.
And it didn't.
The flames ignited.
We knew it.
"A fragile flame aged
And when our hearts meet
I know you see
I do not want to be afraid
I do not want to die inside just to breathe in
I'm tired of feeling so numb
Relief exists I find it when
I am cut"
I accepted. With no question, whatsoever.
It was perfect.
We were perfect.
We fit together like the missing ends of a jigsaw puzzle. Like a boulder that falls from the mountain peaks; nestling into a place carved out by nature.
You weren't quite the Byronic hero I had deemed as my ideal man; you weren't tall, nor domineering, nor troubled. Not even aggressive.
Yet the purity of your soul drew me in to you.
You had me from hello.
We had fallen for each other. Hard.
And then you were sucked away into a black hole. I should have known. I should have looked at my surroundings more closely.
The very child I cradled in my arms was proof you'd disappear.
You vanished into thin air.
And every time I touched a human face, desperately searching for you, agonized by your disappearance, their form changed.
They were like wet paint; the original form swept away by just a single touch of my finger.
Your presence was like wet paint.
Apparent, liquid, and intense. It even had that sharp, addictive smell to make its presence known.
Your presence was like an artist's bold stroke-- dark, beautiful, morbid.
I ran; wild, erratic, looking for a sign. But the voices wouldn't stop. Mocking, probing, patronizing.
I ran from them. Searching for you.
What's bizarre, though, in all the while that I seeked you, your child, I hugged him close. Clinging onto him. Not letting him go.
In principle, he was nothing but another human flesh to me.
But in my heart, he meant more to me than words can express.
i had to fight for him. Look for you for him.
All of us.
You, my rock, eroded; washed away by the heavy tide.
And I kept searching, digging up the ocean-bed until I could no more.
And I drowned...
Drowned in your essence...
Allowed my weight to be carried away by the ocean.
The same ocean that probably carried you away, into a far, far away place, unknown to me.
I'm trusting you, O mighty tide!
Carry me away. Into the nothingness; into the abyss.
Carry me away. Into the eminence of his halo, the certitude of his being!
I'm far away now, but I'm calling out to you.
And I know you'd hear me!
I know you'd call out to me too!
But you don't exist.
I'm no stranger in your dreams."
Your face is nothing but a distant memory that's slowly fading away...
Crippling me alongside.
"I'm not a stranger
No I am yours
With crippled anger
And tears that still drip sore"
They say death is inevitable.
But the epidemic, ultimately, isn't.
Or so I thought.
Until I found out
That your epidemic, doesn't exist.
Often, it resembles a uninvited guest-- which means you either love it, or you hate it!
Fortunately for me, today morning was an affirmation of the former.
With exams comes a lot of stress, which means one too often one falls trap to the depression and has absolutely no motivation to study what-so-ever.
Let's just say the very act of me typing out an entry on blogger is evidence enough!
Now, have you ever wondered what our rights are, and what are our responsibilities? Who decides?
Fortunately for me, my religion serves it all in perfect proportions to me, thus contributing to my moral well-being.
We have a right to education. Basic human right, agreed? Who's job is it to provide us with education?
Our parents provide us with education, out of love for us. To help us build our lives when they're not around.
I know a lot of cultures do not fund their child's education past high-school.
And then there's us; the spoon-fed, whining-about-how-hard-life-is-with-parental-pressure-and-conforming-to-social-norms population, who doesn't give a rat's ass about school, whiling away their time in university abroad.
I'm not saying it's not true-- it is.
But just stop to think for a second about your parents.
They work their entire lives to support us; first feeding us as a family, then saving up from that moment for our future-- highschool, college funds, marriage funds, cars, house, license.
When do they ever splurge on themselves? When do they get a chance to finally put their feet up and relax?
Because when they do get that chance, they're old, and they die.
For people like me, who're the youngest in their family and have a considerable age difference with their parents, all we can pretty much do is wait for a job and support them. Often, we lose out on this chance.
The only thing we CAN do, is help them out-- in the following ways:
by getting good grades.
It is their right.
If they work hard to provide us with education, then it is their right to see the fruits of their labour-- our good grades.
If our rights are their responsibility, then it stands true the other way round as well.
And I'm not going to mess it up.
I'm not going to mess up my parents hard-work. The hours they worked in the heat, taking their capitalist boss' bullshit just to support us, I'm not going to let it go to waste.
My good grades, are their right.
And I will, inshAllah, make sure that I do whatever it is that is required to give my parents their right.
And so should you.
*dramatic noble music plays in the background*
*I rise on a pedastal, fiercely competitive look on face, wearing Sparta's outfit*
*Marching forward, examination hall in view, I enter, my land's flag waving proud and bright in the desert heat of the rather garishly painted school ground*