I am a living, breathing paradox. I am a mess of contradictions. I always have been, and I always will be. Once upon a time, this bothered me more than I could stand. So I tried my hardest to unite all the different forces within me, enjoin them in perfectly aligned harmony. But doing so made me miserable. And it was then that I realized I will always be happiest when allowed to pursue avenues that crisscross each other and lead nowhere and everywhere, all at the same time.
Tuesday, 26 June 2012
Perhaps one day we won’t be bound by any restrictions anymore. There wouldn’t be any millions of fine silver ropes wrapping themselves around us and holding us down, like glittering cobwebs spun across hands and feet, mouths and limbs. On that day, I would jump into your arms and kiss you harder than you’ve ever been kissed. And we would watch the sun set into hues of pink and purple, and I’d drink lemonade with you, even though I don’t even like lemonade much, but it’s the drink that we can always afford, being the cheap motherfuckers that we are.
I don’t know why I’m writing this. Don’t ask me why I do the things I do. I don’t even know myself, half the time. Except its 3:40 a.m. and I suddenly felt this desire to write. To tap at a keyboard and pretend like I’m writing something beautiful, when in fact most of the time my ‘something beautiful’ doesn’t even make proper sense to any sane mind. So it’s pitch-black outside the windows of my living room, and my eyes are puffy from crying mindlessly several hours ago, and I just want to tell you that you’re beginning to be the person I want to drown myself into.
You’ve saved me, because I needed someone to drown into. It’s too early for promises or predictions. I know that. But I’ve always been an impatient girl. So I’m going to sit and here and predict that maybe, just maybe, we’ll always be able to save each other like this.
Tuesday, 29 May 2012
Pier 39 at Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco, California is crowded with people. They stride by easily, hair whipping in the nippy breeze. I stand on the deck, and feel the wooden planks creak beneath the soles of my joggers as I shift my weight from one foot to the other. I put my palms on the railing, leaning forwards slightly to get a better look. Below, the sea lions lie sprawled out, a chain of thick, shining dark metal-grey bodies.
The sun keeps playing a game of hide-and-seek with the clouds. When it peeks out of the layer of fluffy white, the sea lions seem to glow brighter. Their large exteriors seem to glisten hotly under the sun, the shine intensifying. As the sun is obscured again, a dim gloom falls, and the sea lions appear as a darker mass that is close to black. I stare avidly. I’ve never in my entire life seen creatures that look like these. They fascinate me; I can’t tear my eyes away. They’re disgusting and blubbery and mesmerizing all at the same time. The air reeks with their heavy stink. There are so many; I’m in awe at the number. I’ve never seen even one sea lion before. Seeing dozens and dozens of them flopping before me languidly, as though they have nothing to do but lounge lazily forever, is amazing.
The smell is irritating my mother and my siblings. They move off the pier, and I follow reluctantly, stealing a last glance. We go to In-N-Out burger, slide into booths and eat hungrily. Out of all the new fast food chains I’ve recently tried in America, In-N-Out is my least favourite. The buns aren’t as soft as I prefer, nor the beef as juicy. Wiping our fingers, we exit and start walking outside. Night has fallen, and the air is chilly. My father calls to say that he has left his office and will pick us up from Fisherman’s Wharf in fifteen minutes.
We’ve walked a good portion of the way before my brother declares that he needs to use the toilet urgently. My mother sighs in frustrated exasperation at the thought of trotting all the way back, but she knows they have no choice. My brother isn’t one of those people who can control their bladders for extended periods of time. I can, though. It’s a capability that’s been tried and tested on several occasions, for I refuse to use public toilets unless they are absolutely sparkling clean.
“Your father will be here soon. He’s expecting us, and there’s no point in all of us walking all the way back. You and Ayzal stay here and get in the car when he comes,” she instructs. “Tell him Zoran and I will be back in twenty minutes.”
I nod my head, though I feel a bit nervous. At the age of twelve, I wasn’t a very confident girl. Standing alone on a deserted pavement in the middle of a blustery night with my ten-year old sister scared me. I didn’t even have a cell phone. But my mother is already turning back, walking away without giving me a chance to voice my concerns. I stand there, hugging myself, numb fingers digging deep into the pockets of my jacket.
There is a waist-length pole nearby. Bored, my sister latches onto it, clambering atop and spinning herself in slow circles. There is nothing driving her movements except the feeling of boredom, and the restlessness to do something. A homeless African-American man lurches up, looming up and springing out of the darkness like some kind of perverse Jack-in-the-box, as though scooped up and conjured from thin air. His shoulder-length hair is greasy, his clothes creased and spotted with mud, his eyes red and bloodshot. I’m properly terrified.
His squinty eyes focus on my sister as she spins away, oblivious. “You’re gonna want more of that, honey!” he calls out harshly. “When you’re older. Trust me, you gonna want some.”
My sister looks at him blankly. She is only ten and she has no idea what he is talking about. But I do. This man is referring to sex. He’s referring to the women who twine their legs around poles and grind against them.
He stumbles forward blearily, his mouth pulled back into a leering grin. “How old are you anyways? Not so little. Nuh-uh. I can see little titties. I can see ’em.”
It feels like all my nightmares have come true at once. Every horror I’ve ever dreamed has morphed together into a grotesque bubble, trapping me and my sister inside effectively. There is nobody around. The darkness swallows me, the night engulfing until the only thing that is left is this man, my sister and I. We are shrouded together in a veil of black. The entire world shrinks down to this moment, right here, right now. I wish I had a cell phone, I wish I had a cell phone. My heart is hammering. I want to call 911, and tell them there is a man harassing us, but I can’t because I don’t have a cell phone. If he attacks my sister, I will not be able to push him off.
A man and a woman walk by quickly, glancing at us. I glare at them. Too afraid to speak, I will them with my eyes to look at us, to realize something is wrong and help us. I plead with them through my pupils. I can’t tell if they understand or not. But they don’t stop, and they’re gone, gone, fading away into the open jaws of the endless night. The hope of being rescued by someone flickers inside my breast and dies.
Ayzal inches towards me. Out of the corner of her mouth, she whispers, “What do we do?” I look at her. Our eyes meet. Grabbing her by the arm, I suddenly propel her forwards with me.
“Run!” I scream, and we dash down the street faster than we’ve ever sprinted before in our lives. We don’t look back to see if he is following us, because neither of us has the courage to turn our heads. Our feet slap against the pavement, hard and fast, as we speed in the direction of the In-N-Out burger joint, not slowing down until we’ve pushed open the door and sunk into the softness of its yellow glowing interior.
Tuesday, 8 May 2012
I guess I should apologize for changing the blog’s appearance nearly every other month. But I’m really not going to do any such thing. Because the point is, I love my blog and I’m not going to stop until I’m absolutely, positively satisfied with its appearance.
And since I’m hardly ever absolutely, positively satisfied with anything, you can expect plenty of changes here for a long time to come.
The real reason for this blog post however is that it’s time to celebrate *drum roll please* My Blog's 1st Anniversary! And that momentous occasion deserves a happy dance, I feel.
Go shorty, it's your birthday. We gonna party like it's your birthday.
(Or rather the blog's birthday, but never mind.)
(Or rather the blog's birthday, but never mind.)
My blog anniversary was on May 2nd though, to be precise. But the thing is, I have papers in two weeks, so I can’t really be expected to focus on other things nowadays, can I? Not that I’m really studying much anyways. Just watching re-runs of Desperate Housewives.
In about two weeks time, I’m about to start becoming as desperate as these five ladies, who are renowned for their desperation. If I knew the examiner, I might even offer him sex to get straight A’s. Okay, no I won’t. But I’ll be sorely tempted. Which is desperation at its extremes, I would say.
Anyways the point remains that I fully intend to study, and like I always say, it’s the intention that truly counts. And I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who believes in this, since even the Holy Prophet himself uttered: “The intention of a believer is better than his action.” I think that proves my point completely.
Moving on, I can’t believe a year’s already gone by. Or to be more specific, I can’t believe a year’s already gone by and I’m still busy bumming around and failing at life in general. I started this blog in the hopes that it would help me become a more accomplished writer. But all that it’s really done is make me write even more crappy poetry than I usually do and whine a bit more about my life than I previously did. It did help me meet some pretty spectacular people though, and make connections that really matter to me. So for that in itself, starting a blog was one of my, shall we say, more enlightened decisions of 2011.
Also, 71 followers in one year. Woah. That’s several dozen more than I was expecting to be honest, and I’d like to take this opportunity to thank all of you who read what I write, and appreciate it. You guys are amazing.
I love you. And puppy-dog eyes. Could it get any cuter? No seriously, could it?
My own birthday is only about four months away now, and I can’t even tell you how much I’m anticipating it. Not because I have any special plans for the day. I’ve stopped building up birthdays into huge gigantic affairs that hold tremendous expectations, because to be painfully honest, my birthdays have always been a teensy bit disappointing. Not that I would expect any birthday to go absolutely perfect. But it’s just that I’d just really like one birthday where I feel incredibly happy and on top of the world. But every year practically something or the other disastrous happens and ruins my ‘on-top-of-the-world’ feeling. Like my last birthday, when I had the worst fight ever with my mother right as the clock struck midnight. But we’re not going into detail on that because it makes me slightly teary-eyed every time I think about it and because it’s incredibly depressing and I’m not going to ruin my blog’s birthday as well.
But I am looking forward to my upcoming birthday because I’ll finally be eighteen. And I’ll be legal and able to do things like these:
Because cigarettes are yummier than ice-cream, yo.
Volunteer for military service.
Except the last time I broke a nail, I cried. So this one might be out of the equation, perhaps.
Visit a porn site (without having to lie about my age).
My expression while watching porn. No seriously, this is probably what it’ll be.
But nah, I wouldn’t actually do any of these things. I’m a Good Girl. And as I was saying, even though I will technically be legal and capable of enjoying all the perks that come with it, it’s not really about that. Because let’s face it, I’ll still be living in my parents’ house, eating the food they put on the table, going to college with their money, and begging my mom to lend me all of her make-up.
But rather, it’s the knowledge that I will be eighteen and an adult, even if my lifestyle might not reflect any great change. So it will be a pretty big milestone for me, and a journey that I can’t wait to embark on.
Thursday, 3 May 2012
A dozen times you’ve made my heart flutter, my lips curl into a smile. A dozen times you’ve told me you loved me, and heard me whisper the words back to you. A dozen times you’ve been there for me. A dozen times you’ve heard me speak, my voice crackling over the line at three a.m. And even when I thought you might get tired, you didn’t.
And I asked; Will you ever get tired of me?
No; you said. I will never get tired of you.
And so I believed you. And I was happy. And you were happy. And it all sounds just so simple, but that’s because it was. It really was just that simple.
But not simple in a trite way. Or even in a trivial, meaningless way. No, not at all. It was simple in a poignant, magical way.
And then what happened?
It stopped being simple.
But it wasn’t supposed to. It wasn’t supposed to stop. I wasn’t ready for it to.
But the sun was setting. And the stars were retreating into darkness, one eyelash-blink at a time. And the wind was sweeping all the leaves off the trees, carpeting the ground in gold and green and brown. And you said good-bye.
And here we are.
Two entities once joined, now separated, revolving slowly in solitary orbits.