Simple Little Things
by Maryam Bin Sougat
This little book is designed in chronological order, from your very first to your very latest. I want you to see your improvement. You’re very talented and you’re my sister, and I want you to be proud of yourself because I am proud of you. One thing I learned is, as soon as you make something or write something and you hate it or you feel like you can do better. Don’t beat yourself up, because the moment you do something you learn it and you instantly feel like there is room for improvement and there always is! It doesn’t mean that its bad, it means that you’re critical enough to criticize your own work, and trust me, thats the best kind of criticism you can ever get. It is a never ending cycle, race, or staircase whatever you want to call it. Never loose faith and dream. Dream big, so big, so unrealistically big, so amazingly big, SO FANTASTICALLY BIG, because you can!
A collection of simple little words written by Maryam Bin Sougat
SPEAK wednesday, 11 july 2012
“DESPICABLE!” “RIDICULOUS!” “That, right there is what a Wildman looks like, unjust and sick in the goddamn mind!” Their yelling, and bashes roared as more men joined in to express their hatred towards the president’s decision. Beer bottles clanked louder than usual on the counter, disapproval shed down all across the bar wooden bar (I was surprised it hadn’t imploded) and approving comments moved alongside it. I sat by the counter, a couple of seats away from the TV hung above the heads of the angry men sitting across me, and the bartender stayed silent, as he wiped the drippings of beer from the bottles of the angry men. We were all angry, even the men gathered by the pool table, and the men sitting by the tables behind the counters came closer to join our namecalling, and our bashing, except for the bartender. He only stood there, cleaning the drips of beer that shot out of the bottles of angry men, served more beer, he served everything from Budweiser to Carlsberg Vintage, yet the only thing he didn’t serve was opinion. He didn’t say a thing; he wasn’t like us, the men who yelled louder than the music. So I asked him “Afraid to speak up?” He looked
at me, with an expression that shifted from total serenity, to sudden humor. He laughed, and said “Son, you’re telling me I’m afraid to speak up, when you’re sitting your lazy ass, drinking cheap beer, and doing nothing but complaining. If YOU weren’t afraid to speak, you’d go up and tell him.” He said, pulling his towel out from the beer mug, and using it to point at the president in the screen. And just like that, silence swept the room, as all eyes targeted the bartender and I. Then, just when you think the yelling was finally over, heads shot back and laughter raised the roof, all over again. All heads did, except for the bartender’s; he only raised his brows, exposing the ripples on his forehead. As the silence ended, “Yeah, yeah. Someone ‘ought to tell him, and kick that damn president outta his chair.” Said a man sitting a few seats away from me. “You’re telling other people to take action, when you’re sitting here, getting beer all over my damn counter. Don’t you dare tell other people to do something, when you’re not doing anything at all.” Said the tender, with a hand on his hip and another one quickly cleaning the counter. “You don’t know shit, geezer!” “Yeah! Shut that mouth, and do your damn job.” The bartender did nothing but laugh
“Aren’t you all a big sack of flaws? You’re all sheep, lead by a sheep for a leader.” As their arguments grew louder, and as my anger grew bigger, I gathered myself, walked out of that bar, climbed in my car and drove away. I drove down the dark road, illuminated by yellow street lights that stood a few feet away from each other, causing parts of the road to quickly switch from complete darkness that made my car’s lights prominent, to faint light that made them look inconspicuous. He was right, that tender. We speak, and we yell, and we comment, and we get angry, and we call for people to stand up, when we clearly aren’t doing anything. I don’t even understand why we speak any more. What’s the point of having a voice with no hands?
Dearest reader, My point’s quiet clear. If you were to speak up, speak up with action. If you disagree with the unjust, don’t just say it, do something about it. And another point I didn’t make potent, was how robotic we’ve become. It’s like we took originality, creativity, and innovation, then shot them out the window, and planted our focus on what the majority was doing, what the majority was wearing, even what the majority’s media was portraying, to the extent that every unpopular opinion is now perceived lowly by those who just can’t appreciate what the minority has in store.
And thank you, Sincerely, The mindless.
FREEDOM SLAVES sunday, 22 july 2012
”“اهلل اكرب The witr prayer, subsequent to the shafe’h prayer. You all stood, line by line, shoulder by shoulder, heads bowed, arms raising slowly with hands held up towards our savior, in a way that resembled a pauper in need asking for the king’s sincerity. Freedom slaves. ” فيمن هديت،“اللهم اهدين The imam’s voice, harmonized by the quiet whispers of “Amen” coming from different ages, different voices, different races, all together sycned as one. ”“وعافني فيمن عافيت The soft purrs, elevated the masjid. You are all one. You all stood togehter, as the emotions in the imam’s heart poured out to his voice, the tears stretched down the lines, and then back forth again. But we were not alone. Millions of masjid’ spread like blossoms worldwide, with millions of people standing together, with hands raised to the sky, asking; like the indigent people that we all are, for heaven, for happiness, for freedom, for eternal paradise, for seeing our
brothers, our sisters, our mothers and fathers joy in the land where happiness is eternal. And picture them, the people with tears shedding down even the manliest of all men’s cheek, to the God that we stand so impotent to. Picture the beauty of neglecting the fact that we are from different ethnicities, or the fact that the millionare stood side by side, with the man that had a few crumbs in his pockets. As the prayer ended, the form the impotent soldiers possessed, broke apart, revealing once again, the jell-like form we all hold, and waves of people gathered by the door.
MY GODDAMN FLAWS wednesday, 11 july 2012
Flaw #1: I have a fear of socializing. I know the first thing that snapped inside that meat of yours: “WHAT?” Yep. I theorized it might be the reason that resulted my introversion. But I just can’t control it. No matter how much I try to breathe, no matter how much I try to stay calm, it always jumps right back, and digs its nails right into my brain, having control on my thoughts entirely. I remember before, whenever I used to talk to my mom in public, the thoughts would compltetly control me. It was almost like panic attacks… How do I explain this more clearly? It’s like, feeling as though the entire world is judging you negatively. It’s feeling very, very small when conversing. It’s feeling as though people hold this form of superiority while you’re the vulnerable, impotent little pauper. It’s anxiety. It’s not being able to make an appointment at the salon. It’s not being able to reply. It’s… so hard to explain. It’s not just being “shy” it’s ten thousand times more than that. It’s feeling defeated at the end of every conversation, or any interaction, because you were just too humiliating.
Just picture this. I presented something, a research thing; presentation about The Renaissance, or whatever. Exteriorly, I spoke, went back to my seat, and another person got up to present. Interiorly however is an entirely different atmosphere, my mind is enveloped by destructive thoughts, my heart thudded, rather than pumped, and a stone stretched my neck, as it forcefully pushed the tears out of my eyes, but I knew perfectly well how to swallow them back. I was humiliated; actually, I was always humiliated. My actions were all humiliating. I am a humiliation. Flaw #2: I cry easily. It’s as simple as that. I almost cried in Toy Story 2, I cried when my dad scared my cat, yeah; I’m sixteen by the way! I even cry when I’m happy. But, I always try my best to always cry privately. When my dad hit my cat, I sat in my room, and cried until the tears ran out. laugh all you want. It’s just because I was a huge crier as a kid, I mean I still am, but I couldn’t hold it in back then, as I do now. The only reason I cry privately is to avoid humiliation, so in a way, this fault is connected to my previous one.
Flaw #3: My eyes look like they’re about to fall out my face, my eyebrows are freakish, my ears stick out a little, I have a burn on my calf, I lack vitamin D, my lips are chapped, I have the darkest, and most prominent under eye circles, and tired lines, my eye lashes are too short, my facial structure is too big, and I think I look like a boy. I am not perfect; in fact, I am a big ball of imperfections, an ocean! If I must. I’m the girl everyone would like to avoid, I’m the girl who’d much rather watch TV in her favorite pajamas, rather than go to some party with her friends. I’m the girl who’d cancel any outing, because her favorite TV show is on in a couple of minutes. I’m the girl who’d eat like a cow, just because she can. I’m the girl who goes out with pajamas under her abaya, with no makeup whatsoever. I’m the girl who spends hours, and hours on her computer, watching countless videos on youtube, and learning absolutely nothing. I’m also, that girl, who fan-girls over any random picture, video, or gif of her favorite celebrity. I’m the girl who sings, and dances like a freak, in her bedroom, just
because she wants to. I’m the socially awkward, and clumsy daughter who’d spill the guests drinks, and embarrass her mother. I’m that retarded friend, who would love to spend the entire day doing the most idiotic things for… no obvious reason, really. My main point is, I’m okay. I’m fine. Even with my flaws, and my imperfections, I’m just fine. I mean I like being weird. I like randomly singing in a loud voice, I like dancing like a drunken homeless man, and I’m sorry you guys- the people who are just not ‘okay’ with it- just can’t get over yourselves. I’ll be me. I’ll be my idiotic, filled-with-flaws self, and I’ll flaunt my goddamn, disturbing flaws. P.S. Literately, this must be the worst piece I have ever written in my life, because all I want to do, is get this message cross instantly. And plus, how do I send this message of being okay with your imperfections, with a perfectly written piece? And thank you, for keeping up with my terribly beautiful writing.
LET GO tuesday, 31 july 2012
Two hooks, each bit down, gripped, and hung to the arid atmosphere of my old sea. With prominent spinal cords stretching down, making the living that I am, seem dead. The hooks were held by the ropes, which held the mountain I long pulled, and dragged. My bare, and grazed feet, barely lived with their wounds, and their cuts. My body; composed of nothing but skin that covered bones, and small, dangling little arms, hanging like broken chandeliers. I was a broken chandelier; the kind antique stores would keep locked in basements. My rainless lips, two other hooks, on each end, stretched it upwards, and dug itself into the ends of my brows. For the people who passed, for the people to see me bright, for the mountain to be hidden. And a layer of burning wax, poured itself down, and covered the features I have butchered. But I still walked, and I still dragged.
Dear, Whoever’s reading this. We all have them. Those days when we just want to crawl inside a room with no windows, no people. Just yourself, with yourself. We all felt empty, we all felt as though we deserve absolutely nothing, we all despised ourselves, we all put ourselves down, and have others put us down. Really, it’s typical. And typically, you’d expect me to say something like “Be strong, and keep moving!” Or “Don’t give up!” and “Don’t let others get you down!” But, I’m not going to say that, what I am going to is: You’re stupid. Why? Because I was trying to think of something you wouldn’t expect, and that’s the first thing that came up. What I am going to say is, it’s alright. It’s okay to fall apart, it’s okay to cry, it’s okay to feel like an invisible bubble floating around careless heads, it’s okay to fake a smile every single Goddamn day, because you know, none of them will ever understand what hides beneath. It’s fine. Really, cry your soul out, cry until your eyes dry out, if you must. Cry until your heart’s dried out, until nothing’s left inside. Just, let it out. Scream, if you
have to. Just, breathe. Why? Because we always hear the same damn ‘motivational’ statements, quotes, or whatever the hell you call them, but we never actually listen. Why? Because we’re being told, and because we’re taking our emotional baggage, throwing it somewhere in the back, and forgetting about it, convincing ourselves we’ve moved on. But then, when a spark pulls it back again, humpty-dumpty has a great fall, all over again. Calling all the king’s horses, and his men, to somehow put him together again. But, the question is, is he really put back together again, if he’s just going to sit back on that wall, and fall again? The problem is, we don’t face our pain, and instead, we throw it, and forget it until that certain moment that strikes, pulls us down, and smashes us to the ground. The solution though, is… quiet obvious now. Face them. Sit down, in your room, alone. And just think. Council yourself, and become your own therapist. Now I’m not going to lie, and say you’ll feel ten times better in a matter of minutes. No, the time the pain will take depends on how long it
takes you to seize it. It’s a kind of, a proportionatedrelationship. If your negative thoughts increase, your pain increases. And if they decrease, your pain decreases. The process however, depends on you, and you only. Though to begin that process, you’ll need yourself, positivity, and Allah. Then maybe, you’d stop dragging that mountain, the hooks would unhook, and the wax would melt away. This though, is coming from a pessimistic outcast. So maybe it’s not you; maybe it’s just me. I have this habit of throwing away all my emotional baggage, and somehow calling it ‘moving on’. But, if you are like me, in a way. Then, let go. Just, let go. Sincerely, Maryam. Just, Maryam.
DEAR, EMILY sunday, 12 August 2012
August 3, 1990 Dearest Emily, How are you? I miss you. I don’t want to bother you, and I’m sorry if I ever did, but, when you first got married, you said you’d write me everyday, since I don’t exactly know how to use those imails, or emails, or whatever you call them. I’m sorry your pap is an old-timer, sweetie. We haven’t heard from you, you’re mother and I. I know it’s only been a couple of days, but I can’t help but worry. Oh, and how’s Ethan? I’d known he’d make a remarkable husband; I’d always known he’d be perfect for you. I hope he’s giving you all the love you deserve. And if you’re wondering, we, your mother and I. We still make Lasagna every Tuesday. Remember? When you were six; the moment you wake up, you run out your room, with hair un-brushed and clothes unchanged, yelling ‘Lasagnaday!’ even though we don’t make lasagna at eight in the morning, you still spent the entire day guessing how it would taste this time. Remember how, even when it’s always the same,
we always had our remark: ‘Too salty.’ ‘Too much sauce.’ ‘Too much white stuff.’ And your mom would go crazy. Tuesday is my favorite day. I love you, darling. Please, write back to me. I miss you. If you’re too busy to write back, I’ll always be by the phone. At least I know how to use that, right? I’ll check the mailbox everyday. Love, Mitchell, your lasgnaday partner.
September 7, 1990 Dear Emily, I still haven’t heard from you. Have you moved? Am I using the wrong address? Did I upset you? And how are you, again? I miss you more, and more everyday. I know you’ve grown up now, but I can’t help but miss carrying you on my shoulders when you were little, and you’d spread your arms, shoot your head to the sky, and challenge all the birds, as if you were already victorious. I miss playing King and Princess with you. I still have the getup. Remember when we used to build a castle out of the sofa, and end up sleeping in it. Remember what your mom would say? ‘You’re ruining the couch, it’s silk!’ But she didn’t understand our very important tea party, did she? Anyway, where have you been? Have you travelled? Oh, and remember when you were so upset we didn’t throw you a party when you turned sixteen, and then surprised you with tickets to Rome, for us, and all your friends? I still remember the look on your face. You were crying in your bedroom,
with all that black stuff you so, religiously apply everyday, running down your face. As if it finally caught freedom. I must say, sweetie, you looked like a zombie. But that tormented zombie transformed into a less haunting version of itself once we gave you the tickets. But I do admit, you make a beautiful zombie. You don’t need to write me back, you can send me an empty page, and I’ll be just as happy. I want to make sure your okay. I still miss my little girl. I’ll always wait. Love, Mitchell, your loving king.
September 8, 1991 Emily, It’s been a year, and I’m still writing, still waiting by the phone, and still checking our mailbox. I’m even still having lasagnaday. I stopped knowing why though. I waited everyday. Everyday, since the day I sent my first letter. I sleep three hours everyday, I’ve lost my appetite, and I haven’t seen your mother in a while. I don’t blame her, though. Once she told me the news, I turned into a monster. We spent everyday arguing over things I forget in the morning, and I could tell your mother was getting sick of me. It all started when she first told me. It was like a part of my flesh was ripped apart and thrown away. I’m sorry, Emily. You always meant the world to me, always will. I would turn sand into pearls for your happiness, I would kill a hundred bulls, and I would flip this entire city upside down, and heck, I’d learn how to use imails. Just to see you smile. But I failed this time. I failed, miserably. And I don’t really know why I’m writing this, now that you can’t
read it anymore. I wish I was in that in car, on August the third, nineteen ninety. I wish I sent that stupid letter earlier. I wish it was me. I wish I could protect you. I’m sorry I let you slip away. The castle, lasagnaday, and Rome will never be the same without you.
Love, Mitchell, the man who lost his princess, and his queen.
WRITING LIKE A MENTAL PATIENT wednesday, 24 october 2012
These past couple of days, I’ve been writing bull crap. Complete, and utter bull crap. I didn’t understand why, though. I was never this bad. I mean, it was well written, I’d have all my principles and techniques in place, but it was just ugly. At first, I thought I was getting worse. I thought I was growing up, and my love for writing had slowly been fading. Then, I thought I was just stressed and needed a break. So that’s what I did, I stopped writing for a while. And in my writing break, I realized my stupidity. You see, it’s not all about how good your vocabulary is, it’s not about how well you apply your writing techniques, it’s not about your imagery, or how well you know all your principles. It’s only partly about that. The other bigger and the stronger part is the (Ready yourself. This is going to be cheesy.) heart, and the soul. I’m not the best, or the wittiest, but I can definitely say, your writings are absolutely terrible if you only write with your mind. Trust me, writing is more than accumulating a bunch of words together, in order to create a paragraph. Writing is picking certain words, allowing them to collide, and create a masterpiece of itself. It’s, seeing beauty inside
your mind, it’s letting the reader see the fireworks so deeply applied in each, and every line. It’s your own beauty. So, what I’m trying to say is, when I write, let I let my heart speak for itself, let it do most of the work, let my mind do the other half, and then let my fingers wander around the page. It’s, unlimited freedom on a piece of paper, pretty much. It’s letting your soul breathe; letting it live. And, when it comes to story writing, it isn’t exactly about me either. My stories aren’t exactly… mine. All of it, every single aspect of it, belongs to whoever’s doing the talking inside my head, if you know what I mean. When the main character’s an old man. The voice inside my head is an old man. When it’s a young girl, the voice inside my head is a little girl. I just let the characters live, and hope I don’t end up with schizophrenia or DID, or something. You see, when you unleash the crazies you actually come up with something pretty cool. Trust me.
SO, THEY SAID PEOPLE SUCK thursday, 10 january 2013
This is me, Maryam, merely writing whatever’s slipping through my typically-melancholic-but-notso-melancholic-at-this-given-moment- mind, if that made any sense. So yes, you will find grammatical errors of various forms, and yes, you will be reading the simplest range of vocabulary, because, this is nothing more than my sixteen-year-old self. And hopefully, my sixteen-year-old self shall, in some way, be in your most interest.(I am as awkward as a cat lady, who hasn’t had any sort of communication with any other living human being. So, ha! This is as interesting, as a sack of grain.) What I really wanted to talk about was, us. People. Humans. Individuals, what we all share, and what makes us whole. It’s 12:30 AM, and I’m in bed, these thoughts are pretty normal in my case. (Again, awkward cat lady figuration explains this.) Moving on. I just wanted to say: We’re all pretty incredible (This is so cheesy. I will regret this tomorrow.). I mean, we might’ve practically destroyed our very own planet, and slaughtered millions of our own species. We also like to judge a lot, and we
have this habit of destroying each other’s halfself-esteem. We’re basically, a bundle of flaws accumulated together, to form this imperfect structure that expects nothing but perfection. Funny, aren’t we? But, even with all this crap, we’re still are beautiful species. Yes, we destroy more than we build, but look deeper. Right to the core of this brick wall we all separate each other with, like we’re all different or something. In this little core, you find this beautiful, fancy little thing that is the sole reason to who we truly are. It’s what really brings us all together, what makes me feel all mushy on the inside. It’s our stupid, retarded, sometimes misinterpreted emotions. So, let’s all put the politics, in addition to our failing economy aside, and remember the funniest video we’ve ever seen. That one special friend that practically joins in with your stupidity, rather than laugh at it. Or those weirdoes we all love, and tend have the strangest conversations with, or when our entire family bursts out laughing at the same time. Or, when a random stranger offers a hand, or when everything for once, is just okay,
because someone somewhere cracked a joke. It could be from ourselves; maybe we sometimes unconsciously bring ourselves some hilarious thought, remark, or memory. You see, it’s always the little things that make us happy; bring us closer to the world we outwardly despise. It’s these little connections, these little unforgettable-split-of-asecond moments of complete and utter tranquility. There’s this other thing too, there’s the sacrifice. It’s stupid, if looked at exteriorly. But, quiet sane when you think about… Well, no. It just makes sense, when regarding strong emotions. I guess? It’s a pretty little thing, all in all. It’s sweet. There is no exact limit to sacrifice, no precise definition to it either. It’s a number of things. It’s a mother, giving her dying son her organ. It’s a woman, throwing away the rest of her world, for the love of the new world in her arms. It’s a man giving, and giving, and giving until all are almost content. It’s letting go, of everything that once kept you stable, for a one out of a billion. It’s, a friend of trust, you could say. It’s amazing, really, just think about it. Someone, somewhere has just thrown away his or her everything, for nothing but a mere human. Because that Some-Mere-Human, that random
stranger, just happens to be that person’s new world, that person’s new basis for everything. They just gave it all away! ALL OF IT! It’s incredible, to me at least. At the end of the day though, it’s all love. With all the crap going on around us, we still don’t actually mind trusting each other with our all. We still give, and share. We still have those who sit down, and listen to our pointless jibber. We still care, and love. It’s all still there. And maybe, just maybe, we’re not so bad. Maybe with our good people, maybe we could actually make it through this… Maybe we have hope. So, what I’m trying to say is, all these connections, these things we’d do for each other, these people that can mean so much to us, and the little things that make us so happy, but are so small. These, maybe, are things that are keeping us together. Maybe, we should pay more attention to them, I guess. Ok. I’ll shut up now, before I regret anything more.
SPEC & THE UNIVERSE thursday, 21 february 2013
In a time where time was none. There lived a man named Spec. You see, Spec wished for what we all wish for: The universe to fold in on itself, and look at him. So, with all his will and might, he stood one day. He straightened his back, polished his shoes, and even fixed his hair. He looked up to the cloudless sky, full of wonder, unanswered questions, and prayers, and yelled ‘UNIVERSE! UNIVERSE, I swear to you— I swear to you with all my humanly power, that I am here! For once, for once will you look at me?!’ The universe said nothing. And Spec was baffled! How could it ignore him? Who is it to look down upon him? He was in the end a human! He had all the power this world possessed... Or so he thought. You see, this is where the humor comes in. Spec is a dimwit. Spec believes this entire world is set for him, that nothing else— not the sun, or the sea— could simply look away from him. He believed the world belonged to the humans, and everything that the world carried— it’s roses, and horses, and wind— served none but him. So, being the dimwit that he is, he stood again, with a straighter back and dirtier shoes, and yelled
again. Breaking through the wind, and the course of the birds: ‘UNIVERSE, YOU ARE TO ME. AND NONE BUT ME! YET, YOU HAVE THE AUDACITY TO IGNORE ME WHEN I SPEAK? AND WHO ARE YOU TO DO WHAT YOU DO? YOUR ANIMALS, AND YOUR ROSES ARE WORTHLESS TO ME! I STAND TALL, AND LARGE, AND I COME WITH WIT! BUT YOU DO THIS? WHEN I AM THE ONLY BEING WHO HAS THE MIND TO SPEAK, QUESTION, AND FUNCTION! WHEN I AM THE ONLY THAT IS EVEN OF MATTER! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!’ His back had arched with his reddened face, he yelled so much he had lost his breath to the wind. His hands were to his knees, as weakness tread down his limbs. Then finally, finally! The Universe spoke, looked to its stars and smoke, and said ‘... Do you hear anything?’ The Universe heard only faint whispers, and then let them be. The Universe did not know such a being as Spec existed, it didn’t know what or who or where he was, really. The Universe had much more important things to do. The Universe had to move. And move it will!
Dear reader, Yes, Spec is ridiculous. He’s probably one of the dumbest, most ridiculous characters I’ve ever come to project to the world (There are worse). I mean, the way he speaks is beyond our century, I understand. But, he’s sort of a hyperbole, symbolizing who we are as people. We expect the world to fold in, and look at us, like we even matter, without actually realizing how incredibly small, and indigent we are. We fail to realize that we are not the only ones here, and the world does not actually revolve with us, for us, or around us. In fact, it moves right by us, and we’re the ones who’re supposed to move with it. Because, all we really do have is right now. This split of a second that rushes by in an instant is who we are. Everything else is in the hands of the universe, who won’t ever regard us, because the universe just passed by, and instead of regretting and wishing and expecting, we might as well move with it. Sincerely, 2AM writings.
LIVING WITH SATAN monday, 25 february 2013
I’ve been living with Satan. You’ve been living with that shitty little voice inside your cranium, that’s in constant war with the nature of your entire being. You’ve been living with Satan, Satan who destroys the tiniest little spec that fabricates your very soul, because Satan just doesn’t like it. Satan means having a black hole. Satan is folding into yourself and self-destructing because you’re not good enough. Not for yourself, not for your relatives, not for your friends, not for your teachers, not even that stranger, or that fellow. Satan is who we allow ourselves to be, right after we fall apart and let ourselves completely perish, like it isn’t beyond the norms. I’m living with Satan, too. And, it’s sick. It’s so beyond sick to look at myself in the mirror, and despise the deepest depth of my interior, and the smallest detail of my exterior. It’s disturbing, disorienting, and disgusting to hate myself to the extent that I would detach myself from my body if I could, hope my inanimate be sold to a bunch of wild boars, and be reincarnated into sand. It’s upsetting, to feel so worthless that I’ve come to think that my death would only affect a quarter of a half, and I’m tired of myself. I’m
exhausted. And no, I’m not saying this for sympathy, or pity, or to vent. I’m saying this because I’m so bored of keeping the world from how I feel, because of some ghastly fear of judgment and ridicule, and worrying about whether people would care or not, or if it’s even important. Because, Goddammit, it doesn’t have to be important in order for it to be said. It doesn’t have to make sense. If I find freedom in my words, then hell yes, I am going to tell the whole damn world. This reminds me of the teardrop and the autumn leaf case. I was writing the prologue to this story that I’ve come to realize I have no faith in. It goes like this: Rainfall had always fascinated me. It wasn’t just the ecstasy of the shutter, and the beauty sourced in it; that sound when a hundred thousand raindrops meet gravel in an instant; it wasn’t just the sudden change of atmosphere; Not the enveloping thousand yards of rejuvenation that’ll always hold me captive. No, it was more than that. It was how, in one second, you look out your window and you
see the sidewalk, the road, and a sum of impatient cars. But, in that next instant, a simple drop meets gravel, the universe releases its grip and bam! The wet curtain falls, and there it goes: The impatient cars, the road, and the sidewalk, all a million miles apart…. … And that was the magnificence of these darn drops: They soar, levitate, aim, and fire, landing at one direct position, all at once! As if they were even destined to fall right on my window, or the sidewalk, or the road, or the impatient cars. As if they knew exactly where they belonged. And how I wish I were a raindrop. Because, you see, I am anything but the glory of it all. Unlike rainfall, I fall, then I tumble, then I scatter, and then I fall again: I am the darkest autumn leaf. And the darkest autumn leaf, I certainly am. And no, I’m not saying this for sympathy, or pity, or to vent. I’m saying this because I’m so bored of keeping the world from how I feel, because of some ghastly fear of judgment and ridicule, and worrying about whether people would care or not, or if it’s even important. Because, Goddammit, it doesn’t
have to be important in order for it to be said. It doesn’t have to make sense. If I find freedom in my words, then hell yes, I am going to tell the whole damn world exactly how I feel.
ALL HAIL THE UNDERDOG friday, 1 march 2013
If you ever do have the audacity to wonder why I’ve lived the way I have, stab yourself with a thousand thorns and you’ll understand. If you ever do have the wisdom, to march right up to my life and say: “You’re all wrong.” carry the weight of the world on your way back. And then, when you come back and you still don’t understand, then darling, sweetie, honey, tape your lips together and turn around. Because, you built a kingdom of civil wars and terror. Because, you threw around boulders after boulders after boulders, at the one person who sought to actually do something with their life. You pointed at them, and you said they wouldn’t win, you said this pauper was too weak, and we all yelled: ALL HAIL THE FREAKING UNDERDOG. We’re tired of you, and you, and you. We’re tired of being caught in your typhoon, so we made our own. We’re tired of being pushed down, so now we’re pushing back up. And we’ll yell: All hail the Goddamn underdog.
MESSAGE FROM A GRAVE wednesday, 11 july 2012
poem begins on the next page
What happens when you’re buried alive? Oh! You wouldn’t know. No, you wouldn’t understand. Liar, betrayer, destroyer, Tormentor, beast, manipulator, And yes, Go ahead! Smile to the crowd, Tell them your worth. Forget my corpse. Allow me to rot under your golden feet. And of course! Of course, You may dance in your riches. Go ahead! Dance in your filth. Because even with my rotting skin, I will glow, and we will rise. Against the world who worked, To save the saved; kill the dying. What happens when you’re buried alive? Oh! You wouldn’t know. No, you wouldn’t understand. Liar, betrayer, destroyer, Tormentor, beast, manipulator,
And yes, Go ahead! Smile to the crowd, Tell them your worth. Forget my corpse. Allow me to rot under your golden feet. And of course! Of course, You may dance in your riches. Go ahead! Dance in your filth. Because even with my rotting skin, I will glow, and we will rise. Against the world who worked, To save the saved; kill the dying.
THE USED CIGARETTE sunday, 10 march 2013
... If I tell them I had initially written this with my blood, what would they think? What would they say? Would it alter their thoughts? Corrupt their mind? Destroy the very essence of their innocence? What if I tell them, they had killed me a hundred thousand times, and had done it again? And again? And again? What if I tell them the most demented part? The most beautifully deranged action? What if I say I had tried to murder the that disgusting, stubborn undying that glows within me, itching for cadaverous happiness?... ...I am a walking corruption. I am carrying the tumbling towers of my universe’s bricks and I’m falling apart. I am dragging my past, and Death is my loyal companion... ... And they have taken my world away from me, and left me with my most revolting part. But, who am I speaking to anyway? These are the thoughts of a mind amidst a civil war, and who yells for the civil war anyway?.. Let me rot as die if I must, take my children, and keep them safe, and sell this heart to a cannibal... ... I would deserve it anyway. I’ve lived a day that was a thousand years, and I understood. I got
the message. I am as worthless as a disposed cigarette... Standing at my grave will be children I never raised... ... You were a push, did you know that? You’ve drawn me closer to the inevitable. You proved— yet again!— just how expandable I am, the burned cigarette.
THIS IS NOT A LOVE POEM wednesday, 13 march 2013
This poem will begin with the letter L:
Love is what is great and drenched down, Onto our souls, onto our highest cliffs. This is not an epigram. This is not a love poem. This is a poem written to all. Dedicated to the All. Prescribed as a remedy to the few. Announced to the some who walked with broken strings. The Some who tore away the desire of the Few, The Some who tore their hearts away. This is not a metaphor. This is not a love poem. This is a poem for the worthless, This is a poem for the unwanted. And to them I sing: You expel the light of the sun, Through the strands of your hair. This is a Truth. This is a broken poem of truth.
DEAR CENNET sunday, 17 march 2013
Dearest Cennet, I have been deaf, and I have been raised deaf. It’s true. I remember once, before I saw you, I stood in a boulevard. And tried to hear the rustling of the leaves, the music of the birds, and the language of the gravel under each and every one of my steps. I tried hearing the sound of the air as it tangled my hair, and pushed the course of the grass. I couldn’t, obviously. I couldn’t at all. Five days after that day, we began spending our leisure together (everyday). We ate in the strangest diners, we ran around Bursa as if we had all the capabilities and freedoms of the world, and with every second, my love for your love grew. With every second, I smiled and I laughed and I conquered the world and you were my conquerer. And as each second grew, I swear I could hear the sound of air tangling my hair, the language of the gravel, the music of the birds, and the rustlings of the leaves. I swear I could hear the melody of your laughter, and the rays of this sun as it expelled through your hair. I swear you drummed my silent heart to life, and I am no longer deaf. I can hear the music remedied
by love. I can listen to the harmony of the billions of glistening raindrops, and I could’ve sworn I could hear your lashes move. Cennet you gave me a sense without applying it. You gave me a world within a world. You brought me to the highest of cliffs, above all the troubles in the world, because nothing mattered but the sound of your laugh, and I swear I could hear it. Cennet, I will never fathom the complexity of love, but within it’s entanglement— with you, I will always listen to the grass, the leaves, the air and the gravel.
SO THE WRETCHED ANSWERED sunday, 24 march 2103
I always thought I was a mess. You made me feel like one, anyway. I always thought I was wrong. I always thought I was the one to blame. The one who just wasn’t quiet right. The one who wouldn’t grow up to be that perfect little girl who fits your little mold, and stands as the epitome of your idea of civility. I was always the joke, right? The one you could easily point and laugh at. Because, my lack of skill in your area of expertise somehow gives you the right to throw me down and allow me to blend and rot with the walls, as if I even belong, right? As if it’s okay to take me by my wings and shoot me to kingdom come, right? But, how do you please an individual who sees nothing in you? Nothing but a wretched black hole waiting to be filled with every mess you could put your hands on, and OH how you loved to fill that black hole with mess. AS IF, that black hole swallowed that weight. When, instead, it carried that weight on its surface and concealed it with a mask, just so the Adequate wouldn’t look at think there is more to the wrongness of the Wrong. Because I am the black hole, anyway right? What
black hole’s weak anyway right? I make a pretty bad black hole. But at least, at least I am one. So laugh all you like, and I’ll pretend to take it in. It’s all right. Because, tonight when you’re quiet—I hope your dreams are bringing you light and fantastic things!—and when you’re asleep, I’ll be sitting here, taking in your weight, and slowly falling apart because your unneeded baggage is too heavy, and I was never made to carry it. And, you know what? Be blessed I’m no rebounder. The ones, who would shoot back the pain, like it’s okay to drop down to a level that is a hundred thousand feet below. So you know what I’m going to do? This time, this time, I’m going to take your baggage and I’m going to laugh at it. Then, I’m going to throw it down, A HUNDRED THOUSAND FEET BELOW me. To you.
UNTITLED tuesday, 2 april 2013
I made a void. I collected my miseries. I collected my pain. I collected my melancholy. And I threw it away. I made a void. I brushed away the dirt. I brushed away the sand. I brushed away the dust. And it all flew away. When I realized, My golden tongue was not a gold, Sold by a seller who sells to the dying. I realized my golden tongue, Did not posses enchantments, Nor did it posses charms, Nor did it posses spells.
I am a mere child, who enjoys the union, Of the pen and the page. I am a mere child, and I do apologize, For not being endowed, With the power of the magician, Who leaves his audience, With a little less air. To further elucidate: I am sonnet 29, by the great Shakespeare, Without the turn, Or the great.
SCHEDULE YOUR FALTER saturday, 6 april 2013
Note: I’ve posted this before, but I removed it instantly. It was too personal. I mean, it still is. But, in an exaggerated form. Even though I have thought about suicide before, I’m not suicidal, and I’ve never been diagnosed with depression, or any other instability along its lines. I, although, have always felt worthless, always a little less than everyone else, and lately that’s kind of what my posts’ve been revolving around, because when I write, I write from my core. My core, at the moment, is a black hole. Slightly tormenting, but I’m okay. I don’t write for sympathy, and I’m not trying to impose any sort of idea. This is a piece that is simply from my black hole, and I only write to be free. To put myself out there, because I am no longer in fear of what other people may think of how I feel. I’m exhausted, and I feel like crap sometimes, because I’m human and humans do. But, lets not get ahead of ourselves. This is a schedule from my black hole. (Again, not trying to send any sort of message. These are thoughts. Ideas.):
Six thirty AM. Walk into kitchen. Inhale ridicule, dash of terror, and a hint of cinnamon. Six forty AM. Walk to school. Gather requirements necessary to suffer the heart burners, the unforgivable comments, the defining remarks, and the dying grades. Two PM. A gathering. Wear a dress of blame, shoes of worthlessness. Dress the tables with false claims, decorate them with demeaning jokes, and make sure those knives cut deeply. Would be humiliating to hand our guests old knives now, wouldn’t it? Smile. Laugh. Tear apart. Fall down. Lower. Deeper. Touched the ground?
Go beneath it. Four PM. Lay on bed. Four PM: Ready your razors. Four thirty PM: NOTE: You are as worthless as the ice on the curb, as tiring as a dictator that refuses death, and you are less, smaller, slighter. Five PM: Falter. Cut.
THE GREAT LIGHT friday, 12 april 2013
All my younger cousins, and older cousins, and aunts, and uncles, and second cousins gathered around whoever bared the match that ignited the greatness that are fireworks, it was sort of weird, like being a bundle of flies fascinated by nothing but The Great Light. So, we all gathered around the bearer, and we watched. We watched him light The Gray Cylinder, and stand at bay. We all stared at that little dark thing and waited. It all started with a simple line of smoke, then the sizzle of a spark; the indication—the alarm that alerted us all, the messenger that called— that greatness has almost arrived. Seconds later, sparks turned into a line of wonder and The Gray Cylinder erupted as it reached the inevitable, and it burst into The Great Light. The brightest stars bowed to their audience, and were soon devoured by the mouth of nature. It was beautiful. We’d all sit in silence, staring at silence.
And it’s this thing with fireworks that allowed my naïve 16-year-old-brain to truly dwell into The World of Philosophy. You see, when you look at that sudden outburst of stars, everything inside
of you and around you are silenced because what you’re currently witnessing is nothing less than beautiful. Every other thing troubling you, every other person throwing rocks your way, over other nightmare you’ve had, just… dissolves. Your mind is immersed into the wonder sourced in The Great Light. We experience The Great Light everyday, as well. You see, I’ve hit rock bottom, and I’ve been shot to kingdom come thousand of times, and even as I hid in the pit of my despair, there was always that silent line of smoke. Then there was a spark. And then there was The Great Light. The Great Light didn’t necessarily fix any of my problems, but it had given me what I thought I had lost. It gave me hope. It’s today that I thought about all this. My cousins and I were playing around with water balloons, (I’m sixteen.) we then had to gather whatever was left of our destroyed balloons to clear up their lawn. I then decided to grab a pile of wet torn up pieces of dirty balloon (I’m sixteen), and rub it on my cousin’s cheek (I’m sixteen.). She was a natural avenger, though. So she grabbed a pile of wet-torn-up-dirtypieces-of-whatever-was-left-of-our-balloons and
she chased me around with it. I laughed as I ran. I laughed so hard, running was difficult, and she was laughing too. So then I gave in, and she had her turn. I was still laughing, and she was still laughing, because, right then and there all that mattered was the moment. Everything else just vanished away. That was The Great Light. I guess that’s what happiness is to me. Fleeting moments of utter joy, where all the demons of the world bury themselves for your sake, so that you could have a piece of The Great Light. The point is, we’ll always be fighting and arguing and jumping over obstacles and pushing boundaries away and crying and sobbing and hitting rock bottom, but as long as that split of a second, fleeting yet everlasting moment of happiness somehow manages to ignite The Great Light, then everything’s going to be okay. Plus, you can’t have The Great Light without The Gray Cylinder.
ROOFTOPS wednesday, 24 april 2013
I’ve always found them magical. I mean, most of our lives we implement ourselves into the most perplexing of entanglements, where everyone inside thinks they’re doing the right thing, when they’re all tangling the entanglement much more than it had already been entangled. Everyone in the entanglement either puts the blame on themselves or on anyone else, when the blame is sourced in the entanglement itself. And, in this entanglement, we’re all caught up in the yelling, and the screaming, and the bad-mouthing, and other disturbing whatnots. Everything is just so loud, and it’s like the universe is sinking in, gathering its weight on our shoulders, and expecting our paper bones to be able to carry its rocks. So sometimes, sometimes we need to breathe. To just let go for a couple of seconds—a couple of minor seconds, really—and smile, so that’s when I found rooftops. You see, when you’re on a rooftop, the world suddenly silences itself, as if you are finally the visitor, and it is the audience—The world suddenly respects you. It stops yelling, and screaming. You look down on all these houses— you’re so high up. You look at them and it’s
like the world expanded again. All of that noise compressed itself into those little houses, and kept itself there. The rooftop is where the stars gather to remind you of just how great you are, how vast the world is, and how you’ll get through. It’s when the moon reminds you of life, and the wind tells you: You’re still here. The rooftop is where we find our freedom. It’s where we look up and realize that the sky’s yet to fall.
POT OF GOLD thursday, 9 may 2013
I’ve decided to partake in Sophie’s (Twitter: Sosepho , blog: ilovenoodlez.wordpress.com) Blogger Challenge, because it’s exciting and because it’s fun and because it’s educational and because I want and other ands. This a terrible introduction, but we’re basically supposed to write a poem, so voila:
When you are your highest, When you are your greatest, And when you are your wisest, Remember that there is the Wiser, And that there is the greater, And that there is the older, Always much higher. But never worry, no. Never be afraid. Because when you smile to the universe, It’ll only smile back. And when you laugh with your head bent back, It’ll call upon the stars, and ask them to you. To stand for you. To stand by you. To stand to you. And when you smile a little more, At all the funny and all the bad, It’ll gift you a rose with no thorns. And when you cry a little less, At all the worries and the mess, It’ll gift you a tree with only apples. But if you look up again,
And you dance, and you sing, and you laugh, Because goddamit you can! It’ll gift you the Pot of Gold, The Pot of Mercy, and All That is Swell and Well.
I AM AN IDIOT tuesday, 14 may 2013
This is just a quick little thing. Nothing formal, or artistic, or anything along those lines, this is a message to all those who put surviving over living, and then call it logic. This is to those who cancel out their dreams because even reality is an unreachable height. This is to those who tear down a dreamer’s bridge, and call it help. And to them I say: I once read an article about a man who had dropped out of Harvard (after being an engineering student) in order to pursue his arts in culinary. I thought it was admirable. I would give him a standing ovation, if I must. Because, what is better than doing what you love after all? So I told a certain bunch about him, and they all labeled him the same way: Idiot. An idiot, is evidently a man who is strong enough, and courageous enough to throw away the weights bending his shoulders frontwards. An idiot is a man who is passionate, a man who will spend the rest of his lifetime fully immersed in his own works. So, yes, if an idiot is all that has been stated above, then gladly, I am an idiot.
TO THE VERY END wednesday, 29 may 2013
I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve lived in a class filled with a bundle of eighteen girls., who all weren’t as close as your dream class would be, but not as apart as your reality would be either. I mean, we didn’t always get along, and there were even moments when we couldn’t stand each other. But there were still our times, when at the end of it all, we never let each other go. Maybe there were clashes and arguments, but isn’t that what sisters do sometimes? Isn’t that what a class filled with eighteen girls who had known each other for a year, others for three, and most for ten? We’ve watched each other grow, and unveil into something static, and incredible, and euphoric, and it’s wondrous. All quiet incredible to be in a class filled with girls who not only look, but see and understand each other’s presence. We were never really bound by the bond of mere classmates, because if that was so, we wouldn’t have all wholeheartedly set our hearts into creating our own holidays in the midst of a very busy working week. We wouldn’t have crashed the music room in our gowns, and started using all the instruments like we even had some kind of unspoken of purpose. We wouldn’t have had an entire curricular
made especially for us, if we were mere classmates. We wouldn’t have had taken pictures together all over the school, and we wouldn’t have attacked my Victoria Cake and annihilated its presence from the face of the earth, under five minutes, and still thought about the girls who didn’t get a bite. If we truly were mere classmates, I would have never have typed this to even begin with. I would have never thought of September 2012 as only yesterday. I would have never looked at all of them and thought: Holy crap, this is the last time I walk into class and find a girl laying on the carpet, and another one happily dancing to some music, then another one in the corner over there fully indulged in her food. Point is, we’re all more than just eighteen girls trapped inside of some class: We’re all more than classmates; More than anything that this world could possibly fathom. We’ve built our own family, and no matter how little we talked, or how less time we spent with each other, we’ll always look at each other with honor, and we’ve never forgotten that we’ve never let go, and that we’ve always smiled to the very end.
I understand a bunch of simple couldn’t capture the true essence that even built 12B. Because, a class as unique as ours needs an entirely different language, I believe, to fully depict this odd bond that wraps around us, and holds us all under one roof. There will always be love, and care, and respect. There were arguments, and there were fights, but there was always harmony. To the very, very end, my darlings. To the very, very end. P.S. I’ll try to send you our famous Victoria Cake every month.
THE CASTLE OF GLORY monday, 10 june 2013
I’ve said it a thousand times. It’s a spark; A heartbeat; A melody; A thousand raindrops meeting gravel; The hug of the wind.; The music in laughter; and a thousand more the-s. It’s what keeps us centered and whole. What makes us look more than up, and never down. It’s what we’re always born with and who we are—Our dreams. As corny as it may sound, it’s true, at least to me. Our dreams are somewhere there inside all of our cores, and what we do, is we build a castle out of it—an entire reign—and then we suddenly separate it from our reality. We start talking about how heavy and loaded and absurd and difficult it is. So we just keep it there. And we do nothing. But we still never stopped talking about it. We still talked about this and that and how it might come to be, and how maybe, just maybe it could be possible, and for a second we believed! Then, we would just let rain pour down our reign, and we would let it take our castle away, as if all of our hope and work were built with paper. But we still kept our dreams there inside and we never spoke about it ever again, we only let it guard us from our reality. So all we could do is stay
enveloped and encased in a wall of maybes and mights. Because we got scared and it was like the world’s most powerful fuel didn’t course through our blood because we can dream. We got terrified, and we hid, without realizing our power, and it was disgusting; Completely revolting to hold back The Castle of Glory because someone said no. And now I don’t want to sit back and watch anymore. I don’t want to look inside my head, when I can bring my light forth, because I have light inside of me. We all do. And we’ll never be afraid ever again. We’ll never lose our light because others had lost theirs. We’ll sparkle and we’ll glisten, and we’ll sing, and we’ll dance, as our dreams become our reality, and we’ll dance again, and we’ll sing again, and we’ll glisten and sparkle again, because we dreamt and we dream and we’ll dream.
I AM NONE saturday, 22 june 2013
If this is my time, take me now. I’ve only felt this moment in my bones, Deep within my filaments, In every corner of my very Dark. And when you take me, I want to feel the terror of my soul, Tearing from every corner it had once been crafted to. I want to feel every inch of every wince of every cut. And I only deserve more. Do not let me rest, Do not let me breathe, Do not let me hold on to a stretch of a single line of happiness— I deserve less. And take this as the message of my parting: I am sorry, but do not forgive me. I’ve done so many wrongs, And I’ve hurt too many Rights, I’ve broken so many hearts, And I’ve mended no bonds. I’ve been a Wrong, and I’ve lived as a Wrong, I am sorry for all that I have done, but please do not forgive me.
When my funeral comes, you may let me rot. You may burn my photographs, and all my clothes You may destroy my bedroom; you may burn my books. You may burn my sheets and all my pillows. Take my terrible poetry, and all my stories and throw them away. Because I have treated those that I have loved, Like I’ve never loved them at all. And I yelled, and I broke, and I put no blame. And I am lesser than less, and I will love you in my death. So in this parting, and after reading this: I hope you understand, That I am I’m sorry for loving in all the wrong ways. So if it is my time, please take me now.
LONGING monday, 24 june 2013
This is a long post with different styles I think. I honestly thought your part was the strongest. But thats just my opinion. Anyways, since this whole book is celebrating you as a writer, I decided to cut everyone elses parts. I don’t think this poem needs some kind of context to support it. It’s strong enough to support itself. Again, thats just my opinion............
And it is only that sad truth, In those sad three little words, That forced me to look back and see, All that we had, and all that we used to be. Don’t you remember? Or was I the only who danced to our Melody— My Melody? Was I the only who could hear the music, or did you too? If I were alone in this, then do forgive me. For loving a love, that was never there. Forgive me, for being enchanted by some false enchantment. And do forget me, if it helps lighten the moon at night. But I had only wished to say, That even with my New, I still feel quiet old. Because I stand in the present with Time, Yet my heart still lingers in the Past. Where our hearts had once been bound, By a secret only I thought were real.
OUR ROOM monday, 15 july 2013
So, yeah! What I’m trying to say is, I haven’t written in a while, so this might be absolute garbage, and I might remove it tomorrow. Thank you.
We are the people of Glass. We are the victims of this Black Supremacy. We are the ones, who have hung above the floor, In the room where silence is always kept, As we sing our own lullaby, To hush that voice from yelling a little too loudly, Because now, we wouldn’t the other room to hear. We are the people, who are friends with knives, And ropes, and other metals too. Sometimes we dance with our knees to our hearts, And our hands to our eyes, In the room where silence is kept, As we sing our own lullaby, To hush the voice from crying a little too loudly, Because now, we wouldn’t the other room to see. We are the people hidden from the world, But exposed a little too often. We are the silent tears, The friends of death, The darkest stars, As we sing our own lullaby, To hush the voices from screaming a little too loudly,
Because now—
You’re a little too late.
HE & SHE monday, 22 july 2013
NOTETHING: Love stuff makes me feel weird. But I like love stuff. Cheesy love stuff, to be specific. And I wrote this a while back, and had completely forgotten about it. It’s a short simple thing, so.. yeah. I hope you like my cheese fest, I guess.
He was baffled by how so much beauty found no beauty all. He had fallen in love with Love itself, and he had expected it to love itself. He instead had fallen in love with Love that fell victim to hatred. So in turn, he was a victim her labyrinth, and he hated to love it, but he couldn’t help it. She was baffled by how a man as potent as him, as strong as him, as wonderful as him, could have ever found such little littleness in her pathetic little. He held the entire world on his shoulders, and he smiled as if the weight of the world were only his wings. He laughed as if he could, and he can. And he knew it, but he was never the type to flaunt it. He brought her so much that she didn’t deserve. He was beyond her words; Beyond her littler words; Beyond her might; Beyond her. But he was all she ever needed. And who would’ve known how mesmerizing a single smile was? She could have almost felt herself floating in that crooked smile. How the world lifted, and she was invincible. He knew he didn’t deserve her. She had deserved so much more, and so much grander. He knew he wasn’t quiet enough for her, and the only Enough
that he could have possibly give her was a Heaven that wasn’t in his grasp. But he had fallen too deeply. So he went down on his knee, and he did the impossible—the imposter! He went down his knee, and he held her hand, and he asked her for her world.
And so they said: I do.
---monday, 5 august 2013
You are worth it. You’re worth every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every month of every year and eternity. You’re worth all , the the pain and all the fights and all the days when you felt your highest, and all the days when you just didn’t. You’re worth it all. And yes, just like the stars and the galaxies and the sun and the moon and the mountains and the trees, you deserve to be right here. Right on this very spot. You deserve to feel excellent and happy. You deserve to look at the mirror right there, and call yourself beautiful, because goddammit you are. You’re loved and you’re wonderful. Maybe not by everyone, and maybe you have a bundle of flaws, but it’s okay. It’s okay because there’s someone out there who loves them, and if you haven’t yet noticed, you’re human. We were born to be everything wrong in a very right way.
EMPTY / FULL tuesday, 20 august 2013
I sit in a room where silence is kept. The windows sealed, the fire dead. I sit in room filled with so many people, and no people at all. Here you hear the laughter of a woman swept away by the charms of some talented liar; You hear the whispers and the music. All together forming this sort of… sound. And it’s not loud, but it’s not quiet either. If you don’t listen with precision, you hear the sound of the ocean. A collection of a thousand voices that together form a different language entirely-- How could you put a sound into terms? I guess it’s only by experience that you can hear the sound of a thousand people: The Language of Conversation, you could call it. And it’s so strange, so beyond strange. The feeling of a thousand voices all speaking at the same time, forming one common voice… And they’re all in this room of mine. You smell the wandering scent of heavy alcohol mixed with the despair of the rich wandering through and the drying and aggressive smoke of their cigars, and a sort of underlying—literal and metaphorical—coldness. You see the golden ceiling that could reach the stars, as it bent in its center, forming a cupola. And in its middle came
dangling a star of our own—A chandelier with so many diamonds, that you can’t quiet tell if their all very large diamonds, that entwine to form a bright orb, or if they are a collection of smaller diamonds that accumulate to form this spectacular orb. Either ways, once you look up, you can’t possibly look back down. You wouldn’t want to, anyway. And there were so many things, so many incredible things in this loud and lively and dead and silent room, that I’ll never be able to list—and as I look I see that I’ve built an empty kingdom filled with too little many-s. But all I want is that sense. All I want is that sense of honest laughter; the sense of honest jokes, and people who look at you, and with the simplicity in their look—and all it takes is a look— you sense that you could mean so much. So, yes, if I could trade my chandeliers for a wildfire, I would. I would trade my empty kingdom for a cottage brimful with beautiful stupidity. And only then will I be able to look up at the sky and look at it. Only then will I be like them, the ones who laugh and laugh and joke and laugh even more, with all the little care in the world, because what they have in their grasp is a power so great, so beautiful, so humongous, so degraded, that not even the shiniest of chandeliers can fathom.
MIRRORS sunday, 20 october 2013
There are only three things that can turn man into dust: The power of God, the inability to properly understand freedom, and the realization of the fact that what had been dead, had always been alive. This had begun some time ago when I had looked in the mirror, and I’d seen the series of lies that I had been carefully fashioning around my bloodied flesh. I spoke of Satan, and I’d said I had killed it, when I had merely paid no heed to it. Then It was a couple of days ago, when I had realized that I am more than just a bundle of faults. I am a Fault, always less and never more. Because I have collected everything that had scarred me and buried it in my soil, then I let its roots grow until I could feel them. And it wasn’t until I had felt them that I had realized how idiotic I was. How idiotic I had been. It was when I looked in the mirror and I saw, how I had never looked myself square in the eye; that the sensation had all seemed so foreign; that I was still a seed among roses; that I was never what I had announced myself to be; that my smile had always been fleeting—that I had never smiled to mirrors And it was when I looked in the mirror that I had realized, how I had despised my skin, and how I
wished to tear my core and yell at it—scream at it for being so menacing, so cruel and silly and gullible. But who am I to put the blame on what I had made? Who is a man, who blames a storm that he had built? I am writing this down because I am with the Frauds and the Insecure, and even though we do not deserve to be heard, I am writing this down because it simply must be written down.
THIS IS TO MY YOUTH sunday, 1 december 2013
To the Fallen, the Tragedies and the Misfits:
You were born to be everything more, And nothing less Than a carefully crafted Wonderful mess. You are a part of the Youth, Who is dead and alive, Intelligent and misunderstood, Vibrant and dull, Quiet and loud; A paradox, within a paradox. You are important. You are unimportant. You are significant. You are insignificant. You are whatever you choose to be. The mold that was crafted for you, Is not your mold at all. You are a part of the Youth. And we are reckless, And we are insane.
We are hurricanes, And many other storms. But we are not— We never will be Clear blue skies. And goddammit, We’re proud. Always.
STRICTLY HUMAN tuesdat, 18 february 2014
They hate me because I have never been ashamed of the sins that I have made. If I ever decide to be ashamed of them, then on that day, I lose my humanity. But because I am Human— and strictly human— I choose to carry my flaws on my hands and on my face. Here I am. With all my scars and my mistakes. Take what you want, and hate what you resent, but spare me the judgments: You are just as human as I am; Just as disgustingly humane, and beautifully faulted.
RISE saturday, 17 may 2014
My dream is to write an anthem to my youth. In it, I’ll glorify our messes; I’ll sing to the kids who dream; I’ll write it all for the generation who was taught to falter, but didn’t. For so long we’ve been repeatedly told that we cannot be anything beyond our simple boundaries, and we’ve lived sort of religiously with the idea that we are not made for greatness, and that we cannot be it. And, frankly, it’s pretty exhausting. To continually hear that we are lazy and selfish, when—if we tried—we could be unstoppable. We could—We are made of cosmos; we might envelope into ourselves, when we are not ourselves, but when we are ourselves, we are the sun. We need to stop teaching these kids—us—our generation—that conformity is the only way to success; That the media is our only means to understanding our entirety; That in order to be wonderful, we must fit into a mold that we cannot fit into, and I’ve said this a hundred thousand times already. So shut up, and rise.
And with that my only sister, we end this book. I hope he actually read it and now you see how much better you’ve gotten. It all sounds good to me, but of course its different when you’re actually familiar with the art. Happy Birthday noonie El Mlabaka (REMEMBER THAT????)