One Day.

Close Enough To Start A War.

These couple of weeks have given me a lot of time and reasons to come down to many realizations. You know, those middle of the night aha moments where a light bulb materializes in the thin air above your forehead and you end up smacking it off because the pain of that revelation almost scorches it and end up with a theatrical facepalm? Yeh, those ones.

I realized that at this point of my life, my sanity has been sufficiently unhinged to make me see things that no other person can second. I’ve been told that I needed professional help by two of my closest people and I came upon the conclusion that my psyche Vikings push people who care away with tiny little axes and dismember them in an obscure vault in my subconscious while simultaneously convincing me that they never gave a fuck to begin with, or existed, for that matter. Shame I had to find out after being held hostage and led into that same room earlier this week when I tried to take care, the only way I can, about that little figment of evolution’s imagination that goes by the name of soul, proudly crowned with a ‘my’ pronoun that isn’t really its own, nor mine.

I realized that people actually care, I just was never let to believe it by my Vikings because it was easier that way, it was much easier when everybody was a temporary it that never gave a crap and never will. It prevented the  progress of a thing that was more likely by historical odds to leave by making it sound like it never intended to stay. The Vikings weren’t happy that I sneaked into their HQ and found out about their current war strategy. I’m guessing they’ll wage another soon enough, with a strategy that I have no clue about, a plan B that hasn’t been put down in textbooks or tried on a former human psyche. And I use the term human loosely.

‘It would be difficult to determine the state of that soul and what form it had assumed, under its twisted envelope. If we were to attempt to penetrate into Quasimodo’s soul through its thick, hard outer shell, if we could sound the depths of that twisted mind, explore the shadowy interior of that opaque creature, illuminate its obscure corners and absurd blind alleys and suddenly throw a clear light on the spirit enchained at the bottom of that cavern, we would no doubt find it stunted and rickety, like those prisoners in the dungeons of Venice who grew old bent double in a stone box too low to stand in and too short to lie in.

Quasimodo scarcely felt within himself the blind stirrings of a soul made in his own image. The impressions of external objects underwent considerable refraction before they reached his understanding. He received almost no immediate perceptions; the external world seemed further away to him than it does to us. His brain twisted all the ideas which passed through it. He was therefore  the victim of endless optical illusions and aberrations of judgment; his thoughts wandered aimlessly, sometimes mad, sometimes idiotic.’

I realized that my logic, uttered incessantly by the voices inside my head, has been rendered inept; it’s no longer one that I could listen to and follow with confidence, because by the statement of people whose word I’ve learned to trust more than my own, it’s no longer in sync with that of the world. It’s been pushed back into another dimension by the aforementioned Vikings, known to the world as defense mechanisms.

I realized that the world is not coded in mathematics, and couldn’t be predicted with formulas, because it’s full of ‘People’ whose formulas are too volatile to be bracketed in one general term. In fact, they’re so elaborate that even if you take one person and try to formulate and extrapolate his actions and reactions, there’d still be more variables than the slots you’ve made into their formula, and as a consequence would be impossible to fit in just one and quite a laborious task to try and make an extended version of that x function to include all those y variations, let alone know, by your current state of judgment, their true limit or form.

In the words of a good friend, the only consolation is this: “Being nuts isn't a bad thing, look what all the sanity brought to the world.”

As for the solution, I’m not nearly one to know.

Life Lesson #301: Running away is not an option.

‘I mean if you’re able to go into a collapse with all your might, why can’t you use the same energy to stay well and busy?’ – J.D. Salinger.

A Dream.

i had a dream recently

and it was about

...*drumroll*

zombies

kal 3ada

i was in a pyramid fil 2wel

(my dreams are super gory btw)

anyway, fil pyramid and i dnt rmr details, but there were mummies everywhere

and they were SCARY

intestines falling out and shit

7agat 2raf awi

b3deen there was a struggle 7aga keda, neseet el details honestly

i ran out

thinking the dream was over

XD hahaha

oh me. el mohem

i ran out into the heart of a city of roaming zombies

first image

blood splattered on the ground and pieces of flesh

one zombie on a lamp post

hanging b3deen fell and smashed on his face

and i freaked out

not that he fell

no

that wasnt the scary part

the real scary part is if you know zombies, they don't know how to climb really..

at least not lamp posts.

this was an indication that i was screwed

so naturally, i pretended to be a zombie with this other guy, who was also human zayee

i know, i keep telling my mom im messed up

3lashan this isnt normal

but whatever

anyway,

this is when it gets really weird

and you'll realize

what zombies are

to me

i finally got it

i pretended to be a zombie with this guy, and there were a bunch of zombies hanging out keda, like chilling as friends

and they demanded we do this weird zombie dance

el mohem we sucked, and fil akher i was like

...im sorry im just not a zombie

hahaha

and they're like, we know, it's okay we won't do anything to you

and

the dream ends with me telling them

"you're genuinely good people, though."

and they all smiled.

***Courtesy of Sara Soliman, one of my closest friends and someone whose head is a place I’d personally book a ticket to in one of my next lives.***

17th of February 2012

But that's just how the story unfolds, you get another hand soon after you fold.

Well, guess what, dad? Turns out I’m a wimp after all.

Phantom Soul

We Feel What We Can’t See.

‘You may be a lot of things, but wimp is not one of them.’ – Dad.

Home Yet Homesick.

Of Crystals.

Come to think of it, literature is nothing but wonderful custom-crafted lies that people use to escape from or into their own aura, depending on how they carry themselves through life. And life is nothing but a chosen distraction from all the time we have in the world that otherwise would only be the death of us.

And once every blue moon you come across a person whose ability to be happy exceeds their own as well as life's shortcomings. And you realize that they're the ones who've been doing life right all along. Not by being great, intelligent or successful, but happy. Those who are genuinely amused by how a little uncircumstancial event might have taken an unexpected turn, and that idiotic happiness is the reason for their light-hearted bouncing through life, without the needless stress and grief that weighs the soul down, sometimes so much that you begin to resent everyone who’s not wandered off of the yellow brick road. But what you don’t realize is that you only resent yourself for not having that ability, and you’re projecting it onto others, whose only fault was that they were enjoying their lives.

Little by little, you’d stopped doing the things that make you happy, and have been reduced into seeking constant affirmations of your worthiness from others due to lack of regular confirmations coming from within. It’s not their fault that they haven’t stopped trying when you have, it’s your fault for stopping without valid reason. For in what better purpose could hard work be harnessed than your own happiness? After all, you’re the one living with yourself, you might as well be pleasant. If not, then you’re probably thinking along the analogy of a married couple. You’re married to yourself, what happiness does it bring you if you’ve filed for an annulment?

Think of how many hours one may be willing to put into a paper, for the sole purpose of tending to their GPA, how much more important do you think your happiness is? It is after all the GPA that counts. That rigorous meticulous work you put into the latter is a lot more long lasting and relished than the former, even though sometimes, the former will lead to the latter, in the form of little deposits into your personal bank account. Another deposit may be a good book, yet another a careful workout. For what other reason would you do something if not for your own happiness?

If an emotion like pure hate and resentment that is energy-consuming could be replaced by another emotion like happiness that is energy-producing, with little effort being that you work on the things that make you a better version of yourself, then why on earth wouldn’t you take it? Masochism is a morphed form of happiness for the crippled of soul. If you’re able-bodied, why park where the wheelchair’s supposed to?

The little things matter, and with enough little crystals you’ll cast an expanse hue on every other department. If it doesn’t work, you could always go back to your delusions of martyrdom, they’ll be waiting right where you left them, in a pile of shards that flake everything they touch.

Why, do you ask? Because what else have you got to lose?

‘Like the terrestrial crust of the earth, which is proportionately ten times thinner than an eggshell, the skin of the soul is a miracle of mutual pressures.’ -A. Carson

Room 101

‘That is what brought you here. You are here because you have failed in humility, in self-discipline. You would not make the act of submission that is the price of sanity. You preferred to be a lunatic, a minority of one. Only the disciplined mind can see reality, Winston. You believe that reality is something objective, external, existing in its own right. You also believe that the nature of reality is self-evident. When you delude yourself into thinking that you see something, you assume that everyone else sees the same thing as you. But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not external. Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else. Not in the individual mind, which can make mistakes, and in any case soon perishes; only in the mind of the Party, which is collective and immortal. Whatever the Party holds to be truth; is truth. It is impossible to see reality except by looking through the eyes of the Party. That is the fact that you have got to re-learn, Winston. It needs an act of self-destruction, an effort of will. You must humble yourself before you can become sane…

Do not imagine that you can save yourself, Winston, however completely you surrender to us. No one who has ever gone astray has been spared. And even if we choose to let you live out the natural term of your life, still you would never escape from us. What happens to you here is forever. Understand that in advance. We shall crush you down to the point from which there is no coming back. Things will happen to you from which you could not recover, if you lived a thousand years. Everything will be dead inside you. Never again will you be capable of love, or friendship, or joy of living, or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or integrity. You will be hollow. We shall squeeze you empty, and then we shall fill you with ourselves.’

Excerpt from 1984, by George Orwell.

Phantom Limbs. (IWTFY)