Standing in front of the mirror he took it all in. Looking at himself through the reflective glass he studied his features and his looks. Five minutes later he decided to look in his own eyes. They were the saddest pearls of brown he had ever seen. Probably because he understood them more than anyone ever would.
Thoughts were blowing through his head as he picked up the razor and lathered his head in soap. There was no exact words to describe how he felt. Inside he felt numb, and stupid. There were no numbers he could think of to dial, no faces that came to his mind as he stood looking at himself - into those empty pools of brown nothing looked like it lived anymore. Even though he didn't care, thoughts of what people would think still fluttered by. A sad cold wave of realization rolled up his spine, no one did care.
As his dreams shattered, he could almost hear them breaking. A stranger in a strange land, he never did belong anywhere he went. Coming to this place did nothing to magically find his place. The feelings inside didn't go away. Everything was still the same. Ironically maybe they were worse now than they were before. No progress had been made.
"If your not first, then you're dead"...the words echoed through his head as he made the first stroke. The sink was screaming how water and the steam surrounded the room as if it was trying to escape from the air itself. "I bred you to be a winner"...the voice went on, "In this life all you have is yourself and if your not on top then your not anywhere"....
There were so many things he had to do and so many places he had to be...as he thought of himself and the responsibilities that others expected from him, it all started to pile up. He cleaned the blade under the water and just kept going....More and more voices found their way into his ears through the steam....
"I'm only trying to be there for you...why are you pushing me away"........"I can't be there for you, if you don't tell me, I don't know what you want"....."I'm sorry you had to hear about this in this way...can I hug you?".....
The piano music coming out of his laptop kept playing the same crescendo of notes over and over....how he loved that song and how he could write so much to it, no matter how he felt....
As he cleaned the razor for the third time, he felt his stomach go weak like its been doing for weeks now...."I'll just have some yogurt later"...he said to himself...how he wished for so many things...how there were so many things he wanted to do, and wanted to imagine for himself....
The pressure inside his head reached a point where he could almost hear his skull whistle...."I gave you the best years of my life so you could do what you want, the least you can do is succeed, this is how you repay me? If they can do it why can't you?"...
He closed his eyes and listened to the music and the water play together...."Its just tough love bro...you need to hear it...you're just making excuses...pull this shit together now...come on"....
He looked up into the mirror again..."What's my plan to get out of this?" he told himself...."Where do I go from here?"....the sink just kept on screaming....looking at it he wondered what she would say if she could speak...
"I think I've fucked things up big time"....he thought to himself as he took another stroke...by this time he just lost count like he had lost so many things....his eyes started to feel alive again...he blinked a couple of times and felt himself come out of the daze...inside the dark coals still glimmered, he felt them burn through his body waiting for him to realize they were there again....
He shook himself out of the daze again and tried to force the thoughts out his head...
He managed to let out just enough steam to keep that vault shut...once again.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Anyday
Bits of crumpled paper and shards of glass,
Drops of ink dry, minutes on the hour pass.
Open letters from my heart to yours
Lost looks and touches, affection cures.
Books on shelves and coffee in my cup,
Pens for writing wait, eyes for inspiration look up.
Empty notes on deaf ears fall,
This world was for the two of us, for us all
Lonely streets, left alone roads,
Open eyes, communicating with codes
Storms are brewing deep inside,
Tears are falling, no where to hide.
Snow and cold, wait and pray
The sun will come now, any day, anyday....
Drops of ink dry, minutes on the hour pass.
Open letters from my heart to yours
Lost looks and touches, affection cures.
Books on shelves and coffee in my cup,
Pens for writing wait, eyes for inspiration look up.
Empty notes on deaf ears fall,
This world was for the two of us, for us all
Lonely streets, left alone roads,
Open eyes, communicating with codes
Storms are brewing deep inside,
Tears are falling, no where to hide.
Snow and cold, wait and pray
The sun will come now, any day, anyday....
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Fall
Lounge around on my easy chair,
I'm staring at the wall,
Trying so hard not to think of you,
Trying to forget it all...
Every drop of water that falls,
Small sounds take my breathe away,
I close my eyes and remember yours,
The distant sounds of your laugh
On my mind's broken shores.
If I could wish and change it all,
Would I want to keep crashing,
Or just get myself to stop the fall.
Cold coffee and broken glass,
Fake smiles and missing mass.
Losing myself with every second gone by
Misplacing my wings, forgetting to fly.
Distant sounds coming through the wall,
Music written, pasts preserved,
Dreams of better days,
Getting glimpses of what I deserved.
Light up another one,
Start another day,
Put the mask on yet another time,
To keep the demons at bay.
Your so weak,
Pathetic and small,
Hide behind the music,
But you can't stop the fall.
I'm staring at the wall,
Trying so hard not to think of you,
Trying to forget it all...
Every drop of water that falls,
Small sounds take my breathe away,
I close my eyes and remember yours,
The distant sounds of your laugh
On my mind's broken shores.
If I could wish and change it all,
Would I want to keep crashing,
Or just get myself to stop the fall.
Cold coffee and broken glass,
Fake smiles and missing mass.
Losing myself with every second gone by
Misplacing my wings, forgetting to fly.
Distant sounds coming through the wall,
Music written, pasts preserved,
Dreams of better days,
Getting glimpses of what I deserved.
Light up another one,
Start another day,
Put the mask on yet another time,
To keep the demons at bay.
Your so weak,
Pathetic and small,
Hide behind the music,
But you can't stop the fall.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Age 22
I don't know why I'm doing this, and I don't know what I'm going to gain. I feel like I need to purge this feeling and the best thing that I've done is write. Maybe through putting this words on this paper (metaphorically) I can somehow rid myself of these demons and sleep the night.
I hope that you will excuse me as I rant. I haven't tagged any of you in this note, and if you are reading this you are probably wondering what kind of post this is. Don't worry. I don't expect you to do a thing, though I know if there is one thing that I will get it is judgment. At this point you've probably also realized that I don't care.
If there is anything that I am thinking about right now its home. That's such a funny concept this home thing...when you find yourself there you want to leave and about two weeks later you are wishing that you never were stupid enough to leave your neighborhood. Perhaps what it really is stands on the fact that you realized that the world isn't this nice friendly place that you always thought it was - that maybe the hope you always held in your heart was really based on what I'm going to call faith-on-credit.
On the subject of real people. They suck. Get used to it. In the end really, good friends are hard to come by and that is not going to change. Some people may have lots of friends, but I think sooner or later I think they see that the 900-odd people they have on their Facebook list really don't count for shit, and yes you are as alone as you think you are.
You know how you always get this feeling that you were made for something? Yeah...I think I lost that feeling a little while back....its scary when you lose yourself in yourself. Can't exactly let go of who you are or of your existence...oh wait...yes you can.
Thoughts are just weird aren't they....how they creep up on you when you have nothing better to do. How when you feel like your life sucks, something just pops up in your head and gives you some kind of perspective? Maybe that's what it is, perspective.
In a sense maybe I'm writing this to you as a warning, not just for a way to find an out from whats going on inside my head. I really have no idea where I'm going with this.
This hasn't helped....and I don't think I'm going to sleep the night...oh well....seems all I can do these days is just try... maybe I've just hit the real world at age 22.
I hope that you will excuse me as I rant. I haven't tagged any of you in this note, and if you are reading this you are probably wondering what kind of post this is. Don't worry. I don't expect you to do a thing, though I know if there is one thing that I will get it is judgment. At this point you've probably also realized that I don't care.
If there is anything that I am thinking about right now its home. That's such a funny concept this home thing...when you find yourself there you want to leave and about two weeks later you are wishing that you never were stupid enough to leave your neighborhood. Perhaps what it really is stands on the fact that you realized that the world isn't this nice friendly place that you always thought it was - that maybe the hope you always held in your heart was really based on what I'm going to call faith-on-credit.
On the subject of real people. They suck. Get used to it. In the end really, good friends are hard to come by and that is not going to change. Some people may have lots of friends, but I think sooner or later I think they see that the 900-odd people they have on their Facebook list really don't count for shit, and yes you are as alone as you think you are.
You know how you always get this feeling that you were made for something? Yeah...I think I lost that feeling a little while back....its scary when you lose yourself in yourself. Can't exactly let go of who you are or of your existence...oh wait...yes you can.
Thoughts are just weird aren't they....how they creep up on you when you have nothing better to do. How when you feel like your life sucks, something just pops up in your head and gives you some kind of perspective? Maybe that's what it is, perspective.
In a sense maybe I'm writing this to you as a warning, not just for a way to find an out from whats going on inside my head. I really have no idea where I'm going with this.
This hasn't helped....and I don't think I'm going to sleep the night...oh well....seems all I can do these days is just try... maybe I've just hit the real world at age 22.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
This is Me
I started my day yesterday with the same routine I follow almost every morning. After getting up and making some coffee, I switched on my Mac and started dissecting the news for everything that I had missed in the last hours I have been away. It seems more recently that I have become an addict to the news. The day does not feel complete without reading the first 15 articles of every news source that I have bookmarked.
The more I continue to read day after day while I live in the West, the more a story unfolds itself in front of me. The love story between the West and the Orient has a long deep seated history of myth and imagination. The fascination with the dark and mystic has created a mirage that has yet to expire. It is a history of struggle, hijacked by those victims of their imaginations and their prejudices in the name of what perhaps can be most easily referred to as an urge of perverse exploitation. The most frightening aspect of this love story however, is not that it exists, but that its effects can blind even those who must stand up and fight against it.
The struggle of maintaining an identity as a liberal Muslim man living in the West has become as hard as ever. With the advent of Western academia and its models, the Muslim male identity finds itself under an attack which seems almost impossible to defend. In as much as I believe in assimilating into the environment that I now live in I cannot deny who I am. The blood that runs through my veins cannot let me renounce nor can I forget. In a sense, the pride that has been developed inside me and the history of my people finds itself fading into the darkness.
The land that I come from is not the land of Aladin. We do not speak the same jargon that you have heard in Syriana or Team America. Blood thirsty terrorists are not my neighbors. The only Klashnikovs I have seen have been on TV and I did not learn how to make bombs in school. These statements may come a shock to some, its not so often that something that may seem obvious is said so seriously. However these statements represent some of the realities that Muslim men must live through day after day - not for unorthodox behaviors or customs - but instead because of unique names and color of skin. The stereotype of being an oppressive, rough, inarticulate, "brown-town" - towel head permeates even in small bits through almost every encounter between virgin West and un-foreseeing Orient.
In reality I was born to a family not a harem. I am not prince but I do guard my reputation like it was of royal importance. I do not believe in honor killings but in honor. Family is my biggest priority and my nephews and nieces are my life. Oppression is my personal Jihad, and I believe in changing the world through love and not in violence. The language I speak is thousands of years old and environmental preservation is written throughout the pages of the book that I revere. Yes I am a feminist and the only thing I inherited from my father was my name.
How many can say that they have had the perversity of experiencing 3 wars? Bombs have never stopped falling. No one that I know started the fight, but my sin is that I live through it day and night - even when I am not there. When all are allowed to speak I must hold my tongue and yes I am labeled. Airport searches are never random, and my pockets never hold more than a phone and my passport.
Why do I tell you this? Because you fear me when I fear you.
The more I continue to read day after day while I live in the West, the more a story unfolds itself in front of me. The love story between the West and the Orient has a long deep seated history of myth and imagination. The fascination with the dark and mystic has created a mirage that has yet to expire. It is a history of struggle, hijacked by those victims of their imaginations and their prejudices in the name of what perhaps can be most easily referred to as an urge of perverse exploitation. The most frightening aspect of this love story however, is not that it exists, but that its effects can blind even those who must stand up and fight against it.
The struggle of maintaining an identity as a liberal Muslim man living in the West has become as hard as ever. With the advent of Western academia and its models, the Muslim male identity finds itself under an attack which seems almost impossible to defend. In as much as I believe in assimilating into the environment that I now live in I cannot deny who I am. The blood that runs through my veins cannot let me renounce nor can I forget. In a sense, the pride that has been developed inside me and the history of my people finds itself fading into the darkness.
The land that I come from is not the land of Aladin. We do not speak the same jargon that you have heard in Syriana or Team America. Blood thirsty terrorists are not my neighbors. The only Klashnikovs I have seen have been on TV and I did not learn how to make bombs in school. These statements may come a shock to some, its not so often that something that may seem obvious is said so seriously. However these statements represent some of the realities that Muslim men must live through day after day - not for unorthodox behaviors or customs - but instead because of unique names and color of skin. The stereotype of being an oppressive, rough, inarticulate, "brown-town" - towel head permeates even in small bits through almost every encounter between virgin West and un-foreseeing Orient.
In reality I was born to a family not a harem. I am not prince but I do guard my reputation like it was of royal importance. I do not believe in honor killings but in honor. Family is my biggest priority and my nephews and nieces are my life. Oppression is my personal Jihad, and I believe in changing the world through love and not in violence. The language I speak is thousands of years old and environmental preservation is written throughout the pages of the book that I revere. Yes I am a feminist and the only thing I inherited from my father was my name.
How many can say that they have had the perversity of experiencing 3 wars? Bombs have never stopped falling. No one that I know started the fight, but my sin is that I live through it day and night - even when I am not there. When all are allowed to speak I must hold my tongue and yes I am labeled. Airport searches are never random, and my pockets never hold more than a phone and my passport.
Why do I tell you this? Because you fear me when I fear you.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
I miss you
When was the last time that I told you that I missed you?
The last time when I looked at you and smiled?
Did I ever take the chance to tell you?
How much you mean to me?
How much it hurts to know that your not there.
I'm listening to the songs from when we grew up,
From when we fell together and when we laughed so hard it hurt.
I'm looking at the pictures
When your face glowed on mine,
When I said what I wasn't supposed to,
And stayed the whole night missing you.
When was the last time,
I told you how much you meant to me?
When I told you that I saw home when I looked at you.
The nights we spent together, the words we said,
The songs we sang the music we played.
The days we ran and slow afternoons that would never end.
Those were the days my friend
Those were the days.
If I could do it all again, I would never try.
If I could wish for anything again, life would be a movie with you as the star.
To smile and shine, laugh and play, and pretend like it was all okay again.
I miss you.
The last time when I looked at you and smiled?
Did I ever take the chance to tell you?
How much you mean to me?
How much it hurts to know that your not there.
I'm listening to the songs from when we grew up,
From when we fell together and when we laughed so hard it hurt.
I'm looking at the pictures
When your face glowed on mine,
When I said what I wasn't supposed to,
And stayed the whole night missing you.
When was the last time,
I told you how much you meant to me?
When I told you that I saw home when I looked at you.
The nights we spent together, the words we said,
The songs we sang the music we played.
The days we ran and slow afternoons that would never end.
Those were the days my friend
Those were the days.
If I could do it all again, I would never try.
If I could wish for anything again, life would be a movie with you as the star.
To smile and shine, laugh and play, and pretend like it was all okay again.
I miss you.
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