Hush

I owe you more than a poem but this is one of my favourites and will have to tide you over until I can post properly.

Hush

For my son

The way a tired Chippewa woman

Who’s lost a child gathers up black feathers,

Black quills & leaves

That she wraps & swaddles in a little bale, a shag

Cocoon she carries with her & speaks to always

As if it were the child,

Until she knows the soul has grown fat & clever,

That the child can find its own way at last;

Well, I go everywhere

Picking the dust out of the dust, scraping the breezes

Up off the floor, & gather them into a doll

Of you, to touch at the nape of the neck, to slip

Under my shirt like a rag—the way

Another man’s wallet rides above his heart. As you

Cry out, as if calling to a father you conjure

In the paling light, the voice rises, instead, in me.

Nothing stops it, the crying. Not the clove of moon,

Not the woman raking my back with her words. Our letters

Close. Sometimes, you ask

About the world; sometimes, I answer back. Nights

Return you to me for a while, as sleep returns sleep

To a landscape ravaged

& familiar. The dark watermark of your absence, a hush.

- David St. John

Mercurial Life

I am known as the go-to person when you want a presentation whipped up at the office. People I've never met - people ranking high up in the company's hierarchy - request the most random things from me knowing that I will deliver efficiently.

One such person came to me yesterday asking to recycle some slides I'd created for another presentation, which I gladly sent over. He's a young, energetic, intelligent man and is an easy person to work with because, unlike many people at my company, he knows what he wants, knows how he wants it, and has no problem articulating his needs. I like working with him. He needed another slide to be created and said he's come see me this morning to discuss.

This morning I walk into the office expecting to see him. Ten minutes later I find out he'd died in a car accident on his way home late last night.

We hear these stories often. Stories of people in the prime of life suddenly evaporating. Like they never even existed. We hear the stories of car accidents, murders, bumps on the head and disease. We gently pat people on the back when they lament the fact that they did not do more, did not get to say goodbye, did not do anything to prevent the loss.

I could have stayed a little late and worked on the presentation with him. I could have altered his path in some way. I'm not feeling responsible in any way, don't misunderstand me. I'm just wondering why this man in his early thirties, a man with a wife and two young children, was on that road at that precise moment. Why was it his car that spun, crashed and burned. Is it destiny? Is it the chaos of nature? Is it written by a higher power? All these age-old questions float up when death hits close to home. The what if's, why's and how come's. The need to understand and rationalize death, especially when the victim is young.

The very way we discuss death makes it difficult to digest. It is a crime. The person who died is labelled a victim. Death is internalized as an unnatural force rather than a natural progression. It is only when the deceased has lived a full life and died of natural causes at a decidedly acceptable old age that we do not question. What is the difference if one dies at 30 or 90? Why do we not accept it as part of life and move on? Why is humanity programmed to feel grief, to question events we do not agree with but are out of our control, to decide when and how people should die?

Life is celebrated when it is snatched away unexpectedly. This is the positive thought that came to me when I heard he'd died. When speaking to him yesterday, I spoke to him believing I'd see him the next morning. I looked at my laptop screen to pull out presentations instead of looking at him. I did not offer him 100% of my attention and effort because I did not feel like I would never have the chance to again. I had all of the next morning to create a great slide for him. He'd appreciate it then. But when today came and I could not fulfill my promise, I felt the urge to never again treat anyone the way I treated him yesterday afternoon. I did not treat him badly. I just didn't treat him the way I would have had I known that was goodbye.

Treat everyone with the respect, warmth and attention you'd want to receive. You never know when it'll be the last time you can. This is the celebration of life in its truest form. Respect the life still in front of you. If anything should be taken from this story, it is the importance of the little moments. They are the moments that prove your mettle.

Regression

This is one of those nights where a lot is attempting to sort itself out in my head. I don't enjoy thinking about all the things that bother me. I've regressed to the point where I don't even want to admit my own thoughts, fears and feelings to myself. It tires me out. One long, repetitive stream of should haves, what ifs, whys and it isn't fairs.

I went out for sohour (late meal to prepare oneself for the following day's fast during Ramadan) with some friends tonight. I carpool with a good friend, whom we shall call Cheb Khaled (he has a thing for Raï). He's been struggling with several girl and job related issues and we tend to use our alone time in the car to talk things out. So far, it's always been about him talking and me reprimanding (and sometimes advising). We've been pretty consistent about this for about 4 months now. In 4 months, I have yet to open up about anything bothering me outside of the superficial work isn't fulfilling enough sort of thing. Cheb Khaled has poured his heart and soul out to me time and again. He's opened up about a difficult break-up, about his ex-girlfriend's immediate rebound, about being held at arm's length by a new girl and how frustrated he feels. He's talked to me about his responsibility towards his father's business versus making it on his own. He's admitted his faults, his fears and his aspirations. I have not.

I haven't told him about how I'm still nursing the year-old wounds of being rebuffed after being pursued by someone who felt like Mr. Right. I'm struggling with my career options and my future. All I know is that I'm underused and unappreciated where I am now. I'm fighting a losing battle in my relationship with my father. We are too alike in so many negative ways that it is nearly impossible to be as close as we should be. I can't stand the way my brother is turning out to be. I can't stand the way I treat him because of my own prejudices. I can't stand the way my mother refuses to try to knock some sense into him. I worry about my mother. I worry that she is fast approaching her wit's end. I cannot deal with her breaking down. We won't survive it as a family because she is the only glue holding us together. I won't be able to deal with a house, unruly teenagers, a sullen and detached father, a 19-month-old and work all at the same time. This house is too cramped for so many people. I need more space and more time for myself.

I need to stop assuming this family will not function without me trying to shoulder some of my mother's burdens. I cannot hold so many grudges against my father, my grandparents and my uncle. All this ill will is only poisoning me further. But after so many years of harboring all this anger and frustration, how can I disperse it? I need to stop assuming Mr. Right will gallop into my living room. But how will I find him if I already know he's gone? I need to stop worrying about what I'm going to do with my life. It will sort itself out. But when?

Mourning What I Never Really Had

I miss having something to write about. 

I miss thinking that I could write. 

I miss that feeling of a deep and ardent need to get what was floating around in my head out on paper or screen as quickly and eloquently as possible. 

I miss feeling that if I didn't get that thought out I'd go mad because the thought would keep permeating every nerve cell in my brain until my mind either exploded or my whole body just ceased to function entirely. 

All that remains is a nagging disappointment at my inability to formulate a decent semi-interesting idea to share with my notebook, my laptop, Blogger, or you. 

All that remains is frustration and self-disgust. What kind of person who reads and is continually enamored by varied and celebrated literature, who loves the act of writing for its own worth as an art-form, who can argue the merits of a semicolon and who is genuinely heartbroken when a book is mistreated or *gasp* unread cannot find something - anything - to think or say or write? Why can I only complain about my inability to write? 

I don't even read as often as I'd like to anymore. I don't even make the effort to. I don't make the effort to do anything at all anymore. It isn't even the problem of being stuck in a routine. I don't even feel like making an effort to make a change to the routine. I'm 22 years old and I have subconsciously given up on life. What is wrong with this picture? What is wrong with me?

Ghost of Christmas Past

The day finally called for a sweater. I don't know if this has always been the case and I just tend to forget, or if winter is truly late this year, but it feels like it should have been sweater weather about a month ago. 

Seeing as I come from a family of procrastinators, it should come as no surprise to you that we are behind schedule regarding Christmas decorations, shopping, etc... Today we got around to decorating our Christmas tree. We are quite proud of our tree, which we consider to be one of the prettiest in Cairo every year. Of course, the six and a half of you who've been to my house concur. You have no choice since I've spent the greater part of my life bribing you all with the wonders of my mother's kitchen. 

We hope to get the rest of the house done up before December 25th. The likelihood of that happening wholly depends on - well, on whether we ever bother to get off our bottoms, really. Even my mother, who is the personification of family traditions and Christmas spirit, isn't too into it this year. I think we're all getting too old, too complacent and too fat to climb up all five rungs of the ladder to place the mistletoe above the door. Oh well, it's not like there's anyone to put it up for anyway. 

I've always had a bit of a problem with this time of year, because I tend to be a muddled jumble of conflicting thoughts and (whisper it) emotions. Mid-December ruffles my inner-feathers. It serves as an annual reminder of my greatest teenage regret. It just reminds me of how self-centred, jealous, and self-deprecating I was at 14. It reminds me of how superficial we all were. How little we knew and yet how much we thought we did. 

Whenever the winds blows in with the first nips of stinging nettle air, whenever the Christmas lights go up at home, whenever the fleece socks are pulled over my numb toes, I think of someone I hurt all those years ago. Someone I greatly admired, greatly envied, and did a great injustice to. 

I knew her for as long as I could remember. She was in the Yellow class of my year, I was in Red. We grew up semi-friends, connected by our shared birthday; she was a year older and thereby the wiser one. The one I always looked up to, the one who was always so much more grown up than I could ever be. 

She was always a free spirit. So much more free than we all were; at least that's how she seemed to me. She must have had her own share of insecurities and angst, but I never saw it. All I saw was a wild head of curly brown hair crowning a popular, friendly and achingly cool head. She was friends with everyone, she dated the cutest boys in our year. And yet she was always the mysterious one. The one who you always wanted to find out more about, even when you were her close friend. 

We shared a birthday. That made me somewhat cool by association. Looking back, I realize I was well-liked by everyone at school. The bigger kids knew me, the little kids weren't afraid of me. I was even popular, in the way a Betty Cooper type can be. But I never saw any of that. I saw my unibrow. I saw my flat chest. I saw the fact that I was the brainy one who liked to read but didn't have the coolest sneakers because I didn't realize those were the cool ones when I was in the store. I never picked up on the trends as a kid. I just wore what my mother bought me. All I was good at was other people's homework, other people's favours, and being the butt of other people's jokes. The boys never saw me. I was just another one of the guys. The girls never looked up to me. I was just in their group because I could write seven different book reviews without the teacher noticing they were all by the same person. 

I couldn't see the fact that people genuinely liked me. I still have some of that self-deprecation left over. But I'm a lot better about it now. I have Dixie and Daisy to thank for that. And my eyebrow lady. 

On my 14th and her 15th birthday, I got a call from a mutual friend inviting me to her surprise birthday party. I also got an earful of gossip about another friend who apparently wanted to pick a bone or two with the newly-15-year-old girl. Being 14 and especially naive, I got my hopes up. I thought the surprise was for me, too. They would never tell me that it was for me, too. That would just ruin the surprise. 

So I go. And I'm crushed when there is no singing of my name, too. When there is no second cake, and as usual, it's all about her. No one even wished me a happy birthday that day. No one remembered.

We share a ride home with her two best friends, who are also good friends of mine. I stirred up quite a bit of trouble and told them about what I'd been told on the phone earlier that day, about how she was going to get it good from the other girl. This caused a big argument with the other girl, of course. And I got the verbal whooping from her at school the next day. She was the school me3alima (head Mean Girl, for lack of a better word) and we shared the bus to school. I ratted out the other friend who'd told me. I was humiliated in front of the class. I deserved it. But I never forgave her for ratting me out to the Mean Girl. We had a strained relationship after that, the shared birthday girl and I. She never stopped being nice to me, but she never really spoke much to me either. 

11 months later, in mid-December during our Christmas break, she died. Her family's yacht went up in flames while they all slept. 

I never forgave myself for not letting things go. For never apologizing, and never patching things up. It may seem silly now, still feeling guilty over a childish spat. But I still feel like an ass, every year. I let her down. I let myself down. She remained the better person. I never knew the date of her death, nor did I go to the wake because I was in London that Christmas. 

Our birthday was always the first day back to school after Christmas break. I came back to a horrible birthday filled with special assemblies and memory books and tears. They didn't remember my birthday that year, either. They planted a tree in her honour instead. She was supposed to turn 16 that year. Sweet 16. So many milestones, so much life left to live. 

It's funny how I think about her now instead of on our birthday. I guess I still want to keep that as mine. Make up for the ones I lost to her. Still selfish, even with the guilt. 

I can think of others I've hurt much more than I hurt her. But she's the one who's struck me hardest because I can never take it back. I can't make amends. 

I try to think of her in a positive light. I try to think happy thoughts of her often. I want her to know that she will not be forgotten. She will forever be cool and zany Shamzy. 

A Question for My Fellow Film Buffs

Recently (read: over the last 24 hours), I have become very interested in film scores. This is the extent to which I have no life. This is also an indication to my having just watched Schindler's List. And cried. For the zillionth time. Because Hollywood has a special knack for making gut-wrenching Nazi movies.

Now, because I am L-A-Z-Y, and because I have such an intelligent readership, I will ask you a question that will doubtlessly save me lots of time researching the best (and hopefully saddest) film scores. 

So, my darling readers, what is your favourite film score? 

White Flag

I am tired.

Tired of life, tired of routine, tired of monotony, tired of me. I am tired of waking up each morning wondering what happened to the day before. Wondering which day of the week it was, and praying for the speedy arrival of Thursday, 5 p.m., where I will finally do good on the promise I made myself a lifetime ago to do something interesting, something different, something exciting, something rewarding. I am tired of doing the same thing every work day, of reading the same websites in the same order, looking at the same figures, same multiples, same companies, same chemicals and projects. An endless stream of numbers, names, and symbols that mean nothing to me, and will never make enough sense to become more than a worker bee in a highly competitive hive. Tired of coming home to yet another unbending routine of chores, of tv shows, and sleep. Only to wake up and do it all again. Is this how my youth will pass me by? Is this what I will look back on when I am past the so-called age of folly? I disappoint myself before even reaching an age of remorse and reminiscence.

I am tired of my own monotony. I am tired of not having the motivation or drive or genuine desire to make the effort to change. I am tired of making promises of exercise, of intellectual stimulation, of social reintegration - all of which I know I will break even as I make them. I am tired of being disappointed in myself. If I so flippantly and regularly let myself down, how can I expect others to not do the same?

I am tired of waiting for the phone to ring. I am tired of believing you will call. I'm tired of you letting me down without even realizing it, because you're too self-absorbed and important to notice. I am tired of wishing you weren't so perfect and knowing I couldn't find better. I am tired of knowing you will be the one that got away. And I am tired of knowing there is nothing I can do about it without obliterating the last tiny shred of dignity I have left. I am tired of wondering what I did wrong; why you never even gave it a shot. I am tired of feeling unwanted, unattractive, unloved.

I am tired of the lingering perpetual depression permeating my family. I am tired of watching us battle for every breath, claw for every smile, struggle for every moment's peace of mind.

I am tired of having no real talent, no niche, no dream, no aspiration, no future in mind. I am tired of kidding myself, making a fool of myself every day when I pretend to be an intelligent, educated individual with something to offer. I have nothing to offer but a vacuous, unthinking, porous lump of calcified matter in my head. I have nothing to say, nothing to add, nothing to create.

I am tired of mourning for a country which does not want to help itself. I am tired of looking out the window to see a woman living in a small garbage dump on the roof of a semi-erect structure with her poultry, her sheep, and her laundry hanging on a line only to be dirtied by the pollution in our smoggy, car exhaust-ridden excuse for air. I am tired of knowing that the establishment does not want to improve her standard of living because it would mean risking a revolution. I am tired of knowing that the revolution these people so desperately need would inevitably mean my own displacement, impoverishment, or death. I am tired of being the rope being tugged between two opposing teams because at the end of the day, I will be the only loser.

I am tired of feeling lonely. I am tired of feeling like a failure. I am tired of all my what if's, why's, and how come's.

I am very tired.

All Too Common

She soldiered on brusquely, constantly looking over her shoulder as if being chased by an unseen assailant. She had to keep moving, she had to keep her mind clear, fixed on its objective. She couldn't afford to loser her nerve now. Not after so many months of incubation, of fear, of meticulous planning. The stakes were too high, the consequences too great. She'd watched the leaves change as she waited for this moment. She smelled the flowers bloom when the package finally arrived. Backing out now was out of the question.

She fired several tuts in rapid succession at a man beating his donkey as she hurried passed. For all her 14 years, she still couldn't understand human cruelty. How malicious and violent towards creatures they depended on for their livelihood. Towards creatures offering purity and love in return. Weren't we all God's creatures in the end?

The package was held close to her chest, wrapped airtight in an innocuous black garbage bag. Her heart raced. It was a wonder its beats hadn't drowned out the roar of the traffic. The traffic. Hundreds of eyes glaring at her. Their glinting accusations merging into a river of blood, bile and milk as each car honked past.

She shook her head violently, trying to push the paranoia out of her head. Keep walking. Keep moving. March. March. Don't think. Her determination grew more steadfast with ever chant. Unconsciously, she gripped the package ever tighter; she only noticed when she gasped for breath, it had been pushing so tightly against her lungs. She had to be more careful. The package couldn't be bruised. It couldn't be disturbed.

Nervously, she eyed her passersby. Where they able to discern the contents of the package? Were those too glares of disapproval? Her worry quickly turned to scorn. Where were they to judge? Who were they to chastise, to invoke their honour as they stoned or slit her open? How could they know her circumstances? She was doing as best she could for everyone involved. Her conscience would be cleared tonight. Her conscience must be cleared tonight. No blame would be laid on her. 

She glanced around her one last time and slipped into the dark, quieter alley she'd chosen a few months before. Close enough to the main street to be frequented, quiet enough for disturbances to be heard and hopefully heeded. The government-collected garbage cans lay sideways, overflowing. She chose the softest looking bag and shooed the cats away. Gingerly but rapidly, she placed the package in the midst of the rubbish and fled as fast as her feet could muster, back into the tide of Cairo's never-ending traffic.

But amidst and above all the sounds of the sleepless city, she could only hear the cries and wails of the package, as her blood congealed over his tiny body, attracting the cats' appetites, and the cold night breeze caused the bag to rustle over his mouth.

Her conscience did not clear that night.  

Disgruntlement With the Self

But still, I never learn. Experiences seem to flit over me, hitting me on the head much like a stone skipping over a placid body of water, making momentary ripples that promise permanence yet are forgotten before the ever-widening rings come to pass. The larger issue seems to be my complete awareness of the repetitive nature of my mistakes. I know exactly how the event will play out. I should, I’ve lived it time and again. I know that I am merely setting myself and others up for disappointment, that I will kick myself for going through with it later, that dealing with the subsequent fall-out or debris is sure to be a hassle. But still, I never learn.

Once again, I agreed to a blind date. Once again, I knew full well that it wouldn’t be successful beforehand. Did I weasel out and save both parties the trouble? No. I chose to take the easy route and be accommodating to the whims and hopes of others. Same stupid submission; different day.

Maybe on some level in my subconscious, I think that this “yes, ma’am” attitude is a form of self-sacrifice for a greater good – a positive gesture to the happiness of others. But really, it isn’t. What have I achieved? I’ve appeased the person pushing for the date, but only to provide false hope to both the pusher and the poor man being thrust in an uncomfortable position. I have basically led him on before even introducing myself. I’m a perpetual tease.

And what boggles my mind further is the fact that he ticks all the right boxes. So I should have no excuse not to like him. He is gorgeous (think a semi-buff Gerard Butler), he is smart, he is ambitious, he’s the perfect age, he’ll make a great family man, and he’s a gentleman. AND he fits my mother’s “Good Christian Boy” requirement. That’s every box on my list ticked.

He complimented me just often enough to be flattering yet sincere. He was eloquent. He was interesting. He was funny and charming and genuine. It wasn't a game or a dance to be played out with certain step-requirements. It was an honest and open introduction of two individuals shoved in each other's direction.

He put up with an hour's driving in some sketchy Cairo neighbourhoods at one a.m. because I am road illiterate and too stubbornly proud to admit it. He put up with a crowded evening of strangers and 4,000 renditions of my broken foot story to as many new faces. He even held the car door open without being instructed to. The last of London's chivalrous men.

And yet I nit-pick. My reason this time? I don’t see the families getting along.

That just makes me a complete bitch.

And I know I'll only see him again while he's still in Cairo out of guilt and remorse.

Why am I still waiting for the fairytale and fireworks when it is obvious that those only exist in the magical realms of the imagination? He borders on perfect. Hell, he’s every woman’s Mr. Right.

Why can’t I accept him as mine?

Because I’m an idiot who is actively pushing herself into a life of solitary confinement in my own deluded psyche, that’s why.

Run folks, otherwise you’re destined to read about years of therapy and cynicism.

Tuesday Morning

He walked past the woodcutter’s makeshift workshop, briefly closing his eyes to fully absorb the warm smell of freshly cut plywood against the crisp charred cinnamon effused by the heavy oak. The sound of the machinery did not disconcert him the way it did his sister. On the contrary, it was a strange sort of comfort to him. An assurance that it was a day just like any other. Nothing extraordinary would happen today. There was no need to worry, no need to think. It was a day like any other. He would not turn grey today.

He stopped for a moment, pretending to look both ways before crossing, though he knew the street’s beats better than his own heart’s. He just wanted an excuse to breathe in the planks’ refreshing simplicity once more, to allow the invigorating vibrations of the saws one more chance to rouse his soul. He counted to five, and sure enough, on the fifth beat the red Daewoo pick-up loaded with vegetation rumbled passed. The street was his timepiece. The woodcutter’s his gauge to the day’s mood.

He sighed and half-skipped across the broken asphalt. He did not feel any differently. The sun was blazing in the early morning smog in typical March fashion, brazenly evicting the wisps of winter the city coveted. The sandstorms would begin soon. He gazed at the austere blue sky, wondering which palette it would choose this year. Would it select last year’s abundance of oranges and pomegranates or revert to the safe saffrons of more conventional seasons? Or would it decide to turn the city beige, blinding all inhabitants in the endless yards of fabric as it had in 1998, frightening all the children. The factory warehouse behind him will probably fade further. Although he couldn’t really imagine how much of a change could happen to walls already indiscernible from desert dunes. Had it not been for the handful of terra cotta shingles remaining on the disintegrating roof, no one would even remember that solitary memento of Soviet days of yore.

The bakery was approaching; the air was becoming grittier. So much flour lost because of its capricious nature, always duped by the breeze’s transparent seductions. It was only destined to be dropped at the first hint of tedium, to be perpetually trampled on.

The loaves were of pitiful size and quality, but they would have to do. They were all he could afford, especially with inflation taking its toll on even subsidized bread prices. He was getting less and less for his painfully pursued pennies by the day, the hour. In some cases even the minute he thought, recalling how the price of tomatoes shot up five piastres as he stood in front of the grocer, mouth agape. His brow furrowed at the thought of arriving to the point where even his measly loaves would become a luxury. They already were in a sense. Those miniscule slabs of plaster and gravel, barely large enough to cover his palm.

He spat and banished the thought as he surveyed the mob he would have to shoulder through. It was a day like any other. He refused to grow grey today.

Ouch

So I really hope bad luck only comes in threes because I don't know if I'm up to dealing with any more of it.

Yesterday morning: zipper snaps in half as I put on a skirt. I quite liked that skirt. Cost me an arm and three toes, too.

Last night: drop my iPod. It refuses to function past a whirring and clicking sound of the harddrive skipping and won't even restore factory settings. I know because I was up until 2 am hitting the reset button and begging iTunes to fix my baby. This obviously means I've lost EVERYTHING on it since I now need to take it to the distributor to have them fix it.

Today: Snap my foot/ankle again about 15 minutes ago. In pain, unable to walk, and dreading the next 3 hours of traffic and several flights of steps I'll have to endure to get my iPod and skirt fixed.

Not at all amused.

Chipping at the Concrete Wall

So everyday, I click on the "create post" link in order to write some witty little reflection in this blog. Something sharp, funny, and hopefully insightful to you, my six and a quarter readers. But everyday, I stare at the blank space awaiting the fruits of my mind's cog-turns for about a minute, and very anti-climatically and unceremoniously balk. Just as I clicked it open, I quickly click on the big red X on the top right hand corner, and go back to staring aimlessly at a random chemical poo company's capacity additions or cash flow statement.

It is not a lack of stories to tell. I have enough upskirt moments a day due to my wind funnel of an office building entrance to easily fill up several posts a day. It isn't a lack of desire to talk to you; I love your comments, I love your readership, and I love reading your blogs.

I get this way sometimes. It's not a simple case of writer's block. It's a deep rooted rejection of sharing the real me with the outside world. I don't exactly know why this is the case. I haven't been emotionally scarred by a person I love. I haven't been betrayed. I've never been able to let anyone in enough to give them the chance to hurt me to begin with. Even this silly little admition is more than I've ever said about myself before. I've always been happier listening to others and helping them through their issues. No, happier isn't the right word. I've always been more comfortable in that position. Becuase it meant that the focus wasn't on me, I didn't have to expose my heart or my thoughts and fears.

I've always bottled everything inside. This is one of the reasons why I decided to start a blog. I figured, if I couldn't communicate what's going on inside to people I would probably never meet and therefore would never have to face, then how could I ever hope to survive let alone flourish in this world? And yet, after 7 months of blogging, what have I really said on here aside from superficial stories, general winging, and random links? How much of me have I revealed? I could just about anyone writing and no one would tell the difference. I've made no progress. In 7 months, this just may be the first time I've revealed anything about myself. How disappointing is that?

Yes, great. I succeeded in maintaining this for longer than a week. Whoop dee doo. Yes, I've posted a couple of genuinely funny snippets. Who couldn't in 112 posts? Have I made a proper connection? No. Have I learnt to be even the least bit more emotionally communicative? No. I still can't talk to the people close to me about me. I can't even write about it on a blog almost no one reads. Even after this post, I won't improve. I know myself well enough to know that this is a one off. That's if I even bother to post it.

I'll concede this post as a tiny step forward. I'll grow a pair and actually post it. Let's see if I can keep this sort of honesty going.

Who knows, I might even be able to be funny next time.

The Indelible Disposition of Human Emotion

I am vulnerable. I am fragile. I am afraid. I am heartbroken at the prospect of solitude. I mask my emotions with an air of indifference. Of easygoing nonchalance. But it is a lie. I am lonely. I am. I want your arms to wrap around me in protection. I want to feel your heartbeat harmonize with mine. I want to enjoy the timbre of your voice as it jovially mocks my clumsiness. I want someone else's tomorrow. I want that tomorrow to be my own.

I do not as for or expect a fairytale. I do not require perfection. I require my own version of it. I require happiness. I require respect. I require conversation and intellect. I require a challenge. I require laughter. But above all, I require honest, reinforced, requited love and devotion.

I only ask for what anyone deserves. I do not ask for the extraordinary. That I can create within my ordinary. I want to know that this is not an impossibility. That it is not a dream. I want to know that this is going to happen. I want it to happen. I want it today. I want it to be my own and not my vicarious existence through a stranger or the imaginary. Because life is not meant to be lonely. Life is meant to be mine.

I do not need you to navigate through the waters. I do not need you to row my boat for me. I merely ask for your companionship and encouragement when the waters become choppy and the fog obstructs my vision.

You are not a necessity but a pleasure.

Where is this? Who is it? When will it finally reveal itself? When will my tomorrow come?

Remembering to Breathe

Some days life just isn't worth living. I should know, those days seem to chase after me like they're Eureka-seeking missiles.



It is those days where you need to remember to stop, count your blessings and just relax.

Otherwise, you'll miss out on the good as well. Like enjoying the view at St. Andrews (see above). Or having a glass of wine with the people who make you laugh the hardest.

And finally arriving at the end of the tunnel and having a reason to feel accomplished.

I can't wait for that day.

If you're having an off minute, or week, or even lifetime, just think about that sense of accomplishment when you finally pull through.

It'll make it all worth it.

Hey, whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?

Fallen By the Wayside

Indifference, apathy, pococurantism, dispassion, complacency. Such words, rather the state of mind they describe, sadden me. It is the state of mind wherein a certain funk has enveloped your life, steering you into a concrete routine from which you cannot break free. And from which you do not desire to break free.

It is an excuse not to enjoy the gifts life offers; an escape from the inevitable moments when one is forced to acknowledge, to accept, and to deal with the face that yes, you alive, you will be faced with circumstances beyond your immediate control. Such a state of mind does not allow for change, doesn't welcome challenge. It shuns life and its malcontents. It delivers the perfect method to circumvent any and all possible affronts, difficulties, or mere moments of living that life may present.

It saddens me further that I have fallen into this mindset. I have fallen into an apathetic routine in which I no longer allow for diversion from a strict, and admittedly boring, lifestyle.

I can no longer differentiate days. The passage of time no longer registers. I get up in the morning, go to work, barely realize that the requisite 8 or so hours have fluttered by, wasted on living vicariously through stories, adventures, news clips and generally anything I read when not researching chemical poo or the companies that make it. I then go home, reading a novel and listening to music all the way, say hello to my family, switch on my laptop, and continue to live vicariously through the fictional lives of my shows. I then crawl into bed, imagining a life within any of the worlds I'd encompassed myself with throughout the day.

Why? Why am I happier in my head than in my actual life? Why do I rarely resist the temptation to fall by the wayside? My days are all the same. My days no longer matter. Even as I type this, I am merely waiting until it is time to get into the car and head to Zamalek, where yet another night will be wasted at the same nightspot, followed by a short(ish) drive to the only club in Cairo still sort of worth going to, followed by another episode of whatever show I haven't caught up on and another Friday morning with breakfast and my laptop in bed.

When does this change? How does it change? Where do I go from here?

Letter to the Friend Who Could Have Been

I may not have seen you- really seen you and not the social facade - in years, but I know this will not go unappreciated. I know that even if you don't necessarily want to see or hear anything at this moment, on some level your consciousness craves every remaining gesture of love and human kindness left on this earth. God is not kind or loving today. I cannot know how difficult this must be, but I know that it cannot be anything less than the most difficult moment of your existence.

I pray you will find some comfort in these words, as simple and common as they may be. May you always remember the happy moments, not wallow in the what ifs that will surely haunt you. May you celebrate his life, the life you shared and cherish, not mourn his death. As terrible and untimely as it is. May you stand together in familial solidarity, not dissipate in blame and grief.

I wish you strength, though I do not doubt your courage. I wish you patience, though I do not doubt your steadfast will. I wish you closure, though I know this may not be in your immediate future. But I know your core and I know you will overcome this. I do not know you today, but I know your foundations. I know what made you. I know You.

I believe in who you must have become to be the beacon of strength I watched today. I do not pretend to still be a friend. I know a shared past does not guarantee a shared present or future. Today we are merely acquaintances. But we shared a childhood. We share memories of Nutella sandwiches. We share memories of Sister Act and dancing to Michael Jackson's "Black and White". It was my first time listening to him. I remember how grown up you seemed as you sang deftly along and sashayed to his infectious beat. So adult with your entire day older than my own seven years. They say a day older in age is a year older in maturity. Well, you certainly seemed seventeen, not seven, then. I saw it then.

I saw who you would become. I saw wisdom and intelligence beyond your years. I saw wit and speed I could only dream of possessing. I saw the grace and determination you continue to plow through the world with. I saw the tools you need to survive this. You have the tools to survive this. You will. Never doubt your ability to persevere, to heal, to prosper.

And know that even though time and distance have come between us and robbed us of the friendship that may have been, we share that childhood. I will always be your friend. And I will always be here if you need me.