And now, a Christmas post.

I found quite an old book that my Grandfather sent me all the way from Pakistan several years ago. You'll call it a "Christmas miracle," once you find out what it's called.

"Politically Correct Holiday Stories: for an Enlightened Yuletide Season," by James Finn Garner.

From Pakistan!

Some great things have been said by it, according to the back of the book. (I know they say you shouldn't judge a book by it's cover and all, but then they go and place reviews right at the back of it.)

"Now everyone can read the real story of Rudolph's leadership and our struggle for fair working conditions!"
- Blitzen, Reindeer Union Local 691
"After all these years of hearing about Father Christmas, Garner throws an unflattering spotlight on the whole holiday patriarchy. Bravo!"
- Mother Christmas

James Finn Garner has done a wonderful job of liberating some of the popular Christmas fables, of cultural insensitivities such as sexism, ageism, religious imperialism, as well as other politically incorrect shenanigans, that we have grown out of. (Just like we love to claim on every given occasion, amongst others.)

And as everyone probably knows, (or didn't know yet,) I'm such a huge fan boy when it comes to "Political Correctness." A society as enlightened and sensitive as ours to each other's butts and their hurts, deserves and needs nothing less! But before I go off on a whim, let me stop myself and just present you with an excerpt from the book itself.

"'Twas the Night Before Solstice."

'Twas the night before solstice and all through the co-op
Not a creature was messing the calm status quo up. 

The children were nested all snug in their beds,
Dreaming of lentils and warm whole-grain breads. 

We'd welcomed the winter that day after school
by dancing and drumming and burning the Yule, 

A more meaningful gesture to honor the planet
Than buying more trinkets for Mom or Aunt Janet, 

Or choosing a tree just to murder it and stump it
And dress it all up like a seasonal strumpet. 

My lifemate and I, having turned down the heat,
Slipped under the covers for a well-deserved sleep, 

When from out on the lawn there came such a roar
I fell from my futon and rolled to the floor. 

I crawled to the window and pulled back the latch,
And muttered, "Aw, where is that Neighborhood Watch?" 

I saw there below through the murk of the night
A sleigh and eight reindeer of nonstandard height. 

At the reins of that sleigh sat a mean-hearted knave
Who treated each deer like his persunal slave. 

I'd seen him before in some ads for car loans,
Plus fast food and soft drinks and cellular phones. 

He must have cashed in from his mercantile chores,
Since self-satisfaction just oozed from his pores. 

He called each by name, as if he were right
To treat them like humans, entrenching his might: 

"Now Donder, now Blitzen," and such other aliases,
Showing his true Eurocentrical biases. 

With a snap of his fingers, away they all flew,
Like lumberjacks served up a plate of tofu. 

Up to the rooftop they carried the sleigh
(The holes in the shingles are there to this day). 

Out bounded the man, who went straight to the flue.
I knew in an instant just what I should do. 

After donning my slippers, downstairs did I dash
To see this trespasser emerge from the ash. 

His clothes were all covered with soot, but of course,
From our wood-fueled alternative energy source. 

Through this grim I distinguished the make of his duds--
He was dressed in all fur, fairly dripping with blood. 

"We're a cruelty-free house!" I proclaimed with such heat
He was startled and tripped on the logs at his feet. 

He stood back up dazed, but with mirth in his eyes.
It was then that I noticed his unhealthy size. 

He was almost as wide as when standing erect,
A lover of fatty fried foods, I suspect. 

But that wasn't all to make sane persuns choke:
In his teeth sat a pipe that was belching out smoke! 

I could scarcely believe what invaded our house.
This carcinogenic and overweight louse 

Was so red in the face from his energy spent,
I expected a heart attack right there and then. 

Behind him he toted a red velvet bag
Full to exploding with sinister swag. 

He asked, "Where is your tree?" with a face somewhat long.
I said, "Out in the yard, which is where it belongs." 

"But where will I put all the presents I've brought?"
I looked at him squarely and said, "Take the lot 

"To some frivolous people who think that they need
To succumb to the sickness of commerce and greed, 

"Whose only joy comes from the act of consuming,
Thus sending the stock of the retailers booming." 

He blinked and said, "Ho, ho, ho! But you're kidding."
I gave him a stare that was stern and forbidding. 

"Surely children need something with which to have fun?
It's like childhood's over before it's begun." 

He looked in my eyes for some sign of assent,
But I strengthened my will and refused to relent. 

"They have plenty of fun," I cut to the gist,
"And your mindless distractions have never been missed. 

"They take CPR so that they can save lives,
And go door-to-door for the used clothing drives. 

"They recycle, renew, reuse--and reveal
For saving the planet a laudable zeal. 

"When they padlock themselves to a fence to protest
Against nuclear power, we think they're the best." 

He said, "But they're children--lo, when do they play?"
I countered, "Is that why you've driven your sleigh, 

"To bring joy to the hearts of each child and tot?
All right, open your bag; let's see what you've got." 

He sheepishly did as I'd asked and behold!
A Malibu Barbie in a skirt made of gold. 

"You think that my girls will like playing with this,
An icon of sexist, consumerist kitsch? 

"With it's unnatural figure and airheaded grin,
This trollop makes every girl yearn to be thin, 

"And take up fad diets and binging and purging
Instead of respecting her own body's urging 

"To welcome the shape that her body has found
And rejoice to be lanky, short, skinny or round." 

Deep in his satchel he searched for a toy.
Saying, "This is a hit with most little boys." 

And what did he put in my trembling hand
But a gun from the BrainBlasters Power Command! 

"It's a 'hit,' to be sure," I sneered in his face,
"And a plague to infect the whole human race! 

"How 'bout grenades or some working bazookas
To turn all of our kids into half-wit palookas?" 

I seized on his bag, just to see for myself
The filth being spread by this odious elf. 

An Easy-Bake Oven--ah, goddess, what perfidy!
To hoodwink young girls into household captivity! 

Plus an archery play set with shafts that fly out,
The very thing needed to put your eye out. 

And toy metal tractors, steam shovels, and cranes
For tearing down woodlands and scarring the plains, 

Plus "games" like Monopoly, Pay Day, Tycoon,
As if lessons in greed can't start up too soon. 

And even more weapons from BrainBlasters Co.,
Like cannons and nunchucks and ray guns that glow. 

That's all I could find in his red velvet sack--
Perverseness and mayhem to set us all back. 

(But I did find one book that caused me to ponder--
Some fine bedtime tales by a fellow named Garner.) 

"We need none of this," I announced in a huff,
"No 'business-as-usual' holiday stuff. 

"We sow in our offspring more virtue than this.
Your 'toys' offer some things they never will miss." 

The big man's expression was a trifle bereaved
As he shouldered his pack and got ready to leave. 

"I pity the kids who grow up around here,
Who're never permitted to be of good cheer, 

"Who aren't allowed leisure for leisure's own sake,
But must fret every minute--it makes my heart break!" 

"Enough histrionics! Don't pity our kids
If they don't do as Macy's or Toys 'R' Us bids. 

"They live by their principles first and foremost
And know what's important," to him did I boast. 

"Pray could I meet them?" "Oh no, they're not here.
They're up on the roof, liberating your deer!" 

Then Santa Claus sputtered and pointed his finger
But, mad as he was, he had no time to linger.

He flew up the chimney like smoke from a fire,
And up on the roof I heard voices get higher. 

I ran outside the co-op to see him react
To my children's responsible, kindhearted act. 

He chased them away, and disheartened, dismayed,
He rehitched his reindeer (who'd docilely stayed). 

I watched with delight as he scooted off then.
He'd be too embarrassed to come back again. 

But with parting disdain, do you know what he said,
When this overweight huckster took off in his sled? 

This reindeer enslaver, this exploiter of elves?
"Happy Christmas to all, but get over yourselves!"

           - James Finn Garner.

I hope you enjoyed it. I personally loved it. Go get the book, it's filled with some other very hilarious renditions of classic Christmas time stories.

I didn't even celebrate it or anything. (Not like I don't partake in consumerism throughout the rest of the year, anyway, though. Does that count?) I just found the book and thought it was a good time to read it again. Then I did, found it funny, and thought I'd share the laughs.

If you celebrated, I hope you had a very merry Christmas. For those who didn't or don't, I hope you had a wonderful day as well.

Cheerios.

Love, and stuff.

I want to lay on the grass on a warm summer day, and gaze up at the sky to actually see stars. To see a sky filled with stars, in fact. Someplace not littered by artificial lighting like most of the planet is now. The only light around us, star light and moon light. 

I wouldn't mind being alone, but I'd prefer company. Not a large group of people, just a few? Or maybe a large group, but off in a distance. I'd like to step away for a minute, and be by myself. Or by "ourselves." You and I. You could watch me walk away and follow after a minute too.

Star gaze, as cliche as that sounds. The only light around us, moon light and star light. The only sound, the sound of wind blowing through the leaves of grass, and our ears and hair. Yours preferably flowing like the sheets and drapes that angels use to cover their windows from angel sun light.

One would think of the sound of waves crashing in the background too, but only a restless body of water makes much sound. I'd much rather prefer a quiet body of water, but then one would ask what the point is. As long as there is wind, and the stars, and beautiful silence, we should be good.

And what do we do with all this? Perhaps we could lay there and take in all the serenity. Or we could stare inside each other's eyes, feel the fluttering sensation in our chests, in unison and harmony with the tiniest of movement of our pupils. I say ours, because surely, they'd be darting back and forth in perfect harmony and unison too. Yours could lead and mine would faithfully follow.

There's a violin playing inside our chests, or so it seems. There's a giddy feeling somewhere around the area where the heart is supposed to be. This is one of those rare moments of isolation and loneliness that have a notion of romanticism stringed along.

By ourselves, but not alone.

Things may never stay the same, there may never be a moment that comes close to the one we're living right now. But it doesn't matter. The beauty of it lies in the fact that things like the past and future tense don't exist right now. They're one of the farthest things from our minds. All this beauty would be lost if our minds were unfaithful enough and dare committed such treason, to let our thoughts wander to the past or the future. The past would be sad and the future would make us worrisome. And so it doesn't happen. If it did, perhaps this wouldn't be as beautiful. But it is, and therefore, nothing could make it not be. It's the kind of logic that doesn't need to make sense, it's one of those things that just is. It's both beautiful and simple like that.

And nothing else compares. And no matter what else may clutter my head and let whatever experience shape me in whatever way. Nothing else will ever compare to that. 

Books, reading them, and the Zeitgeist.

If I was caught in a book, when I was younger, I would always take it with me to social gatherings. Not only because I really wanted to know what happened on the next page, but also because it gave me an excuse to not socialize. I could hide behind my book. It caught a lot of people as very peculiar, I'd always have people ask me why I was reading in a room filled with people. Sometimes I even got asked if I was studying for a class or an exam. Their disbelief and astonishment was met by a very similar disbelief and astonishment. Surprise and confusion was met with similar surprise and confusion, as if I didn't understand the question. This is why I never really had a solid, or well thought out answer.

I don't know, I like reading books? I like this book? It's interesting? I like books?

As if failing at their first attempt, or not contempt with the answers they'd get, they would wander over to my Dad or Mum and ask them the same exact question. As if, for a second opinion, much like an unsatisfied patient. I often had no idea what my Dad or Mum said to them, I'd be hard to hear from behind my book.

My Dad never asked me to stop, though. Neither did my Mum, actually. They let me sit behind my book. I will always be grateful of them for that.

There's always time to get reinstated within a society that's never completely accepting and almost always judgmental of you, even after telling you to be yourself. But as we grow older, we drift further apart from our childhood and fairy tales and fiction doesn't appeal to us as much as it would to a child. During our childhood is when we truly submerge and are willing to be taken away by the world of stories other than our own, stranger and more romantic than our own.

I once attempted to read a book called  "Sophie's World" by Jostein Gaarder, which first put this idea in my head. Unfortunately, either in part due to the fact that I had other things going on in my life at that moment (I was on the plane to America for the first time,) or because I just didn't connect with little imaginary Sophie's world enough, (I'm not making a sly joke concerning Philosophy here, by the way,) I haven't gotten back to the book yet, and it's been around three years. There's this one part of the book that always stuck with me, though, so I'm going to put it here.

One morning, Mom, Dad and little Thomas, aged two or three, are having breakfast in the kitchen. After a while Mom gets up and goes over to the kitchen sink, and Dad--yes, Dad--flies up and floats around under the ceiling while Thomas sits watching. What do you think Thomas says? Perhaps he points up at his father and says: "Daddy's flying!" Thomas will certainly be astonished, but then he very often is. Dad does so many strange things that this business of a little flight over the breakfast table makes no difference to him. Every day Dad shaves with a funny machine, sometimes he climbs onto the roof and turns the TV aerial--or else he sticks his head under the hood of the car and comes up black in the face.

Now it's Mom's turn. She hears what Thomas says and turns around abruptly. How do you think she reacts to the sight of Dad floating nonchalantly over the kitchen table?

She drops the jam jar on the floor and screams with fright. She may even need medical attention once Dad has returned respectably to his chair. (He should have learned better table manners by now!) Why do you think Thomas and his mother react so differently?

It all has to do with habit. (Note this!) Mom has learned that people cannot fly. Thomas has not. He still isn't certain what you can and cannot do in this world.

But what about the world itself, Sophie? Do you think it can do what it does? The world is also floating in space. 

Sadly it is not only the force of gravity we get used to as we grow up. The world itself becomes a habit in no time at all. It seems as if in the process of growing up we lose the ability to wonder about the world. And in doing so, we lose something central—something philosophers try to restore. For somewhere inside ourselves, something tells us that life is a huge mystery. This is something we once experienced, long before we learned to think the thought.

To be more precise: Although philosophical questions concern us all, we do not all become philosophers. For various reasons most people get so caught up in everyday affairs that their astonishment at the world gets pushed into the background. (They crawl deep into the rabbit’s fur, snuggle down comfortably, and stay there for the rest of their lives.) 

To children, the world and everything in it is new, something that gives rise to astonishment. It is not like that for adults. Most adults accept the world as a matter of course.

This is precisely where philosophers are a notable exception. A philosopher never gets quite used to the world. To him or her, the world continues to seem a bit unreasonable—bewildering, even enigmatic. Philosophers and small children thus have an important faculty in common. 

You might say that throughout his life a philosopher remains as thin-skinned as a child.

As you've probably already deducted by now, it's a book about Philosophy. I picked it up because I was looking for a beginner's book that would work as an introduction to Philosophy. That's right, a book about Philosophy with the protagonist named Sophie. Isn't that quite clever?

A quick Google search later, and what do you know; you can actually grab a .pdf of the book here. I might actually go back to it myself after three years of first being introduced to it. I originally thought that I had left it here, in Riyadh, but after searching for it just now I can't find it. It's quite sad that half of the books that I've read in my lifetime are all bundled up in a cardboard box in Philly, left to a curious and unbeknownst fate.

This brings me to what I was originally going to post as a separate post; e-books.

I know people are constantly providing rebuttals, making a case for traditional paper based books. After that excerpt from Sophie's World about how we quite essentially stop willing to grow and experiment, or have an open-mind as we grow older, I think this would be a perfect time to make a case for e-books and e-book readers.

Consider my situation where I have been traveler for the better parts of the last 3 years. I've moved around and lived with 6 different people in 4 different houses and apartments. For the past 6 months, I've been in Riyadh with a general disorientation considering what the future holds concerning almost every aspect of my life. This has left me without all my belongings, including all my clothes, my beloved guitar, and most of all - my very prized possessions, my books.

However, most people don't realize that with the switch from paper to digital, we are making our data and information a lot more easier to carry and access. I can carry every book that I could possibly want with me across the globe, and wherever I go. Some would make the argument that we are constantly being bombarded with information as it is, what with social media and what not. But bear in mind that an e-book reader is in no way a tablet, or even a medium which would enable you to partake in your, most-probably, usual routine of useless noise trading over social networks. You can not send a tweet, and you are definitely not virtually poking anyone on an e-book reader. This might be one of my favorite things about them.

The e-ink display is a marvel of technology, and a very little talked about one at that. Not a lot of people seem to understand how an e-ink display works, and at the very thought of reading on an electronic device, dismiss the idea due to the strain they've been experiencing due to LCD displays all their lives. An e-ink display is in no way like a Liquid Crystal Display. For you to understand how it is both different and better, you would have to look at one yourself and experience them in all their glory first hand, or at the very least look up and image or video on YouTube*. The Kindle page on Amazon has both. On an e-ink display, the words "pop out" of the screen, and it causes no strain to your eyes.

The third most popular argument I've received when trying to convince an avid reader to try an e-book reader, is that they're so used to holding a book and turning pages, that the switch to pressing buttons would just not cut the mustard. Here's what I always tell them, though;

The great thing about reading books, is the aspect of switching realities, of being taken into the world of the narrator. This escape from reality is perhaps, non-arguably, one of the reasons and aspects that enable an object as "simple" as a book to hold our imaginations and attention for such long periods of time. Whilst reading a book, one is not aware that he is reading a book. For if he was aware that he was reading a book, he wouldn't be paying actual attention to the book. He wouldn't be walking in a forest or climbing a mountain with Frodo while reading The Lord of the Rings. He would be aware only of sitting or laying down, and holding a book.

This act of being immersed and lost in a book doesn't go away. It doesn't go away, even if we're reading something interesting on a computer. Right now for instance. Are you thinking about scrolling down using your keyboard or mouse, or were you gripping on to every word that I have written?

That is exactly why it doesn't matter, and why reading on an e-book reader is not as inferior as most people assume it would be.

My last argument is most often in relation to the zeitgeist, one of my favorite concepts and ideas.

zeit·geist/ˈtsītˌgīst/

The defining spirit or mood of a particular period of history as shown by the ideas and beliefs of the time.

A German word, which my favorite way to describe, is by calling it the "spirit of the age," or the "spirit of the time."

To put it in the simplest of ways possible; before the television ever existed, no matter how you tried to explain the idea of a television to people, they'd look at you as if you were crazy.
Same exact thing with television. Same exact thing with the Wright brothers and them seemingly learning how to fly.

The skepticism or disbelief revolving around these revolutionary ideas did not stop any of these creations to not only go ahead and be invented, but to also quite literally change the history of mankind forever.

There perhaps is no need for me to go on after saying as much as I have, for I really don't want to insult anyone's intelligence. We are already living in times where the News, and Magazines, and even Comic Books are all being read on our LCDs'. (Which makes me wonder how publishing houses are still at it, I mean, sure, we all know of the crumble of bookstores like Borders, but why do people still make magazines?)

The ball has since long been set in motion, and even if you decide to forever swear off e-readers, the chances are strongly leaning towards the idea that your kids are all going to be reading on one. Let's also put it this way; just how many more trees are we going to cut down? Or rather, how many more trees can we afford to cut down?

We are fortunate to live in such exciting times, to witness this avalanche of exponential growth, even if we live in times of increased anxiety and are surrounded by an overwhelming noise of information.

What started off as a simple thought reminiscing my childhood and my love for reading seemingly grew and developed an identify of it's own, as the ideas and words kept coming to me and my hands kept typing them. This might, perhaps, even be my longest blog post to date. Not only because there's a huge excerpt from a book in the middle, because I genuinely feel that I've not only overcome, but also climbed on top of and hammered away this writer's block that had been ... well, blocking ... my thought process for what seems like a good while. As I already said, this was going to be two different posts, or so I had planned.

I'm planning on going back to reading books, and what a better time than when I feel like I'm starting to enjoy writing all over again.

Much love, to whoever read this.

For those who are fortunate enough to comprehend Urdu, I leave you with the random sillyness that is my sister:

@daanisharif I just saw this recipe for "Finnish pancakes" and I was like "Khattamm pancakes" hahahaa

* Fun fact: The squiggly lines under YouTube informing me of a spelling mistake only went away after I capitalized not only the "Y," but also the "T." Wow. Advertising is very ridiculous.

This too shall pass.

As if living like a loner, and a social outcast during my early years didn't provide me with a feeling of being disconnected from society enough, now I find myself with a new realization that makes things slightly more difficult.

I've realized that most of my over thinking my issues with anger and losing control, and my feeling of complete desolation and hopelessness all stem from anxiety.

Anxiety caused by failure and a shattered self esteem perhaps, but anxiety nonetheless.

Anxiety is a concept less familiar, ironically, than things like ADHD - ironic, because we all suffer from anxiety, more or less. Psychology considers it a self defense mechanism, but most if not all things can prove to be like double edged swords. We have to take the good with the bad, and sometimes our mechanisms go awry. Perform in ways we wouldn't expect them to.

Lack of awareness is a bitch. Imagine my pain and feeling of hopelessness when I try to explain anxiety to my mother, to in turn be looked at like I'm insane. To find her staring at me from across the table, trying to study me. Her eyes clearly revealing the fact that she does not understand. That she's confused, lost, even scared. It's either my luck or determination that I now realize that anxiety does not mean you're going insane, for I started out thinking that way and it made things way worse.

I understand why my mother doesn't understand, she doesn't want to. She wants to resist the notion, to deny the idea that her son can be anything but strong and able. She just doesn't understand the extent to which I am just as human as anyone else.

"Take you to a doctor, so people can talk about how our son is insane?" she says.

It hurt like the rain of a million razor blades all working in unison.

I'm not fucking insane, mother. I'm one of the smartest people I've ever known, maybe I'm unconventional in the ways I do things sometimes. Have I mentioned I suffer from severe fucking anxiety?

But I understand. I understand why things are the way they are. In some fashions, I suppose, that in of itself is lucky. I could just start being angry at my mother, and her lack of an understanding to this particularly touchy subject matter.

But I understand. My mother comes from a world that has since evolved, considering the exponential growth of ideology that is clear to witness. Where once my mother couldn't operate a simple VCR, my own prospective offspring will be born with a touchscreen in hand.

I understand.

I understand why my mother is having a hard time, perhaps because I've seen others turn a blind eye far quicker. Others whom I expected would understand, expected would treat me better. Would try to help me overcome this hurdle rather than blame me for all their own problems and inability to understand. But they were quick to leave, to give up. Telling themselves something completely different, telling themselves I'm a horrible person.

I'm not a horrible person. I'm a very good person. I've had bad things happen to me, like most of us. The only problem is, my horrible things were in several ways different than the horrible things that happen to other people. Not everyone suffers from anxiety, not everyone has this void where a self esteem belongs.

Psychologists warn not to think of your anxiety as an evil, as something you have no control over. They do this because they realize how it seems exactly like that when it shadows over your existence. Like a problem that will never go away, like a demon that is forcing you through pain and suffering. Like nothing can be done about it, like every scenario that you imagine has a horrible ending for you. Like a dark cloud following you everywhere you go.

Like every step you take will somehow enable you to fall harder on your face. Like every thing that could be going wrong in the world, is.

Like there is no escape. Like the walls are closing in.

I have witnessed myself going into a mental zone of in-comprehensive anger and confusion, especially around crowds. Crowds make me feel very uncomfortable. More now than ever before, I can not stand the eyes of all these strangers on me. Whether said strangers even notice me is a completely different matter, one which does not matter to the anxious mind.

At first I didn't realize what was happening, at first I didn't give it a second thought. But self awareness, especially a heightened self awareness, is a double edged sword in of itself. You start realizing things that you don't do in the best possible ways, so that you can better yourself. Better the way you treat people and live life. But this heightened self awareness brings with it anxiety of it's own.

What if I'm doing things wrong, what if I'm treating people wrong? Am I morally correct? Am I making the morally correct choices? Am I going to hurt people by doing what I'm doing? What if this doesn't heed expected results, what if I'm going on about this the completely wrong way?

Breathe, Danish.

I do realize it now. But as soon as I do, my mind refuses to go anywhere happy, anywhere good. What if I am going insane after all? No I'm not. What if people start hating me, what if I end up completely alone? What if I end up pushing away everyone because of this lack of control over my anger, and a refusal to take charge of the situation?

Just like I pushed her away.

I start to cry after writing that line. It feels good. I haven't cried like this in a while, they say crying helps... or something like that. It doesn't feel very bad. Suffice to say, I still miss her. I'm probably still in love with her, too.

But I wasn't a bad person. I'm not. I did everything I could for her.

I understand why she didn't understand either. I really do. Doesn't make it any less unfortunate, but I do.

I don't know what to say in ending. I feel very uncertain about things, constantly. But I know I don't want history to repeat itself, I understand how things are and want to make them better.

I accept myself. Even if not completely sometimes, even if self doubt still remains, I accept myself more so than I did a few months ago. This is who I am. The ability to be happy, the ability to change, the ability to grow and evolve, to walk out of this situation lives inside me. I am capable enough, and one day I will.

I have not been asleep for the past 23 years, I've been living life. Growing, and learning.

All I can think of right now is, "this too shall pass."

Technologically diluted dialogue.

In giving us so many ways to communicate, they've taken away our need to come up with meaningful conversation material. Oh, the sheer irony.

Since we don't have to think for half the time we used to have to, gratification is only a button press away. And our conversations, in turn, shallower. Diluted by the endless choices, without a choice.

The phenomenon is arguably only existent in the digital world, however, our face to face interactions haven't been tainted to that extent. However, with the exponential growth of touchscreens in everyone's hands, face to face interactions themselves are prone to be cut shorter.

What, with the required attention span being cut down in half itself, due to the instant gratification provided by our touchscreens, who has the time to wait for someone to stop talking?

Stop talking so it's their turn to start. The choice to not do that is becoming more and more prevalent. With our blackberry messenger, our whatsapp, our tweets.

The days of a heartfelt message in a handwritten letter are far behind us. Will anything as personal ever exist again, is a question rarely ever asked.

The sad thing is, our children won't have ever experienced such a phenomenon. A benchmark we are at least fortunate enough to have won't ever exist for our kids, for the next generation.

This state of disconnection and absolute boredom will be the norm one day. At least we still have the luxury of missing the good ol' days, they won't exist much farther in history.

Isn't that how it always is, though? In a similar fashion, I suppose they won't have anything to complain about either, except their own newer problems that we haven't a clue of.

Zen

When you call yourself an Indian or a Muslim or a Christian or a European, or anything else, you are being violent. Do you see why it is violent? Because you are separating yourself from the rest of mankind. When you separate yourself by belief, by nationality, by tradition, it breeds violence. So a man who is seeking to understand violence does not belong to any country, to any religion, to any political party or partial system; he is concerned with the total understanding of mankind.

-- J. Krishnamurti

Yin and Yang Wheel of Fortune

Think, think, think.

Round the clock, a constant tick and tock.

Think, think, think.

Don't bother trying to fall asleep, there's all this thinking to be done.

Think, think, think...

How am I going to get all my shit from Philly? My books, most importantly. And my guitar.

Think, think, think.

You think she still thinks about me? You think it even fucking matters anymore?

Think, think...

Why are you still thinking about it then, when it's obvious that it hasn't for way longer than you have been made aware of?

Think, think, think.

But we thought we were making the right choice?

Think, think, think...

Why do I keep finding myself talking to myself in third person more and more?

Think... think... think...

How are you ever going to walk out of this rut? Me. How am I ever going to get out of this fucking rut? This cycle, this constant churning. The sleeping through the fucking day, and my mind slowly burning.

Think. Think. Think.

Why hasn't she replied to my email yet? Are we not allowed or supposed to do this anymore? What if I'm just imposing anyway? People all have their own lives and shit, that's why we've assigned people that do it for a living and make money off of it... right?

Think... fuck, I'm so hungry... every time I try to eat, it seems my stomach has given up on me too. I've been left, a shell of my former self. I'm hungry now, and the world is all but asleep. I don't even feel like making myself food, anymore. FUCK.

Got to stop cursing so much. Got to stop self hating so much. Got to do so many things, but where is the time? Got to shut my mind off and get some shut eye... but then, when do I get the time to think about all this stuff? But then, when will I ever sleep... but if I sleep, the monsters are all still going to be there when I open my eyes...

Fuck, though. I've been through worse shit, have I not? I'm still here to tell the story and shit.

That's how it is. All night, every night. The Yin and Yang, like the fucking wheel of fortune, spinning back and forth.

All night, every night.

Addiction.

"Welcome to addiction. In all reality, it’s not explicitly selfish. You realize you’re killing yourself but you don’t have enough self worth to beat the craving-reward mechanism, usually because of an underlying depression that is related to, and fueled by, some source of guilt/shame. It quickly develops into a self-reinforcing spiral of self-loathing that drives you to your drug of choice as an escape, which you can’t resist because you just don’t have enough self-worth to muster the will to stop, and worse, you’re cognizant of that lack of self-worth. That only legitimizes the self-loathing in your head and further deepens the depression and isolation, because who in their right-fucking-mind would actually want to spend time with you? Anyone who does is obviously too selfless and decent to deserve the load of shit that is your worthless life, but-you’re-just-so-lonely-and-the-only-way-to-distract-yourself-is-to-do-the-one-thing-that-overwhelms-all-other-thought-processes-anyway… And that’s why you keep getting high and/or drunk."

- fromkentucky on Reddit.

The trend

And every girl that I walk around
leaves a scar on my heart
for the next one to come along
and think she can mend

When she realizes she can't
and decides to give up
she leaves one of her own
thus continuing the trend

Traditional wet-shaving 101

You have the choice of either using a double edged razor, or a straight razor.

The advantages a double edge holds are, they're easier to use and you won't end up cutting yourself as easily. I say as easily, because I've lost a lot of blood to my double edge, and I only mean they're relatively safer than straight razors. Other than that, they have two sides and you can shave using the other side without having to rinse in between.

Wet-shaving is essentially the lost method of shaving used by our generation's grandfathers. Even our fathers had the fortunes of being introduced to Gillette's multiple blade shaving razors. You know, the ones that promise no razor bumps and close, smooth shaves. Along with shaving gel or foam, instead of the traditional soap.

Wet-shaving has it's own set of advantages. Other than being considered an "art" by several, call them hipsters if you absolutely must, you can't deny the health benefits. Wet shaving offer much closer and smoother shaves once you have the technique down. No ingrown hair, cleaner skin. Apart from the razor itself, wet-shaving entails using soap - free of things like alcohol and the several hundred other chemicals found in the gooey, canned shaving "gel."

Then, there's the zen element. To stand there and create a lather with a brush, apply it gently to your skin, and shave as slow as possible or risk blood loss and pain. But I'll get to that later, let's get started with what you're probably going to need.

A razor.

Isn't it just a beauty? Stainless steel, and chrome plated. I prefer double-edged, easier learning curve and they look like the razor blades you're probably used to by now, so they handle similarly. Pictured above is the one I use, and one of the best values for your money. The Edwin Jagger DE89L. The "L" stands for "lined," as you can probably notice from the picture above. The lines help with gripping the razor blade, and make it so that it doesn't end up slipping in your hand in between all that water and soap. That could prove to be disasterous, considering you're holding in your hands an extremely sharp blade.

Shaving bowl and brush.

Brushes come in two varities: Badger and Boar. They have their own set of advantages, and badger hair is more expansive than boar hair is, hence the brushes are too. I decided to get the Van Der Hagen shaving set, that  contains a boar hair brush, a very pretty shaving bowl, and Van Der Hagen shaving soap (which is actually pretty good.) The shaving set is pictured above and can be bought from a Walmart or Amazon.

PS: Having a shaving bowl is not the most important thing and you can do without, lots of people make lather on their hands. Other than that, the soap you see pictured above allows you to create a lather within the circular container, and don't need a bowl to make one.

Shaving Soap or Cream.

The one pictured above is Edwin Jagger's own shaving cream, which smells like a million dollars, by the way. Offers a really smooth and close shave, and you feel wonderful using it.

I bought my Edwin Jagger shaving set off the internet for around 60$. This includes the razor (figure 1,) the shaving cream (figure 3,) as well as two samples of shaving cream and one sample of after shave.

The thing with wet-shaving that is perhaps my most favorite attribute, is the endless choice. You can choose from several types of soaps and creams, a couple of different brushes, a variety of blades for your razor, etc.

Other things you might want to consider are for post-shaving:

• Witch Hazel, or an Alum Block. To add a little comfort after moving a razor blade across your face. I have a Witch Hazel soap. Both these things act as astringents. 
• Styptic Pencil. I own one of these, and they come in very handy. Plus they're extremely cheap. Use one on your nick, or cut, and it'll stop the bleeding right away, even if it hurts like a mother - that only means it's working.
• After shave. There's a ton of different after shaves you can buy, but if you care about your skin as much as I like to think I do, you'll use something free of alcohol and relatively lighter on the chemicals. Like the Nivea Post Shave Balm for Sensitive skin. No alcohol, which is quite important, considering that alcohol dries out your skin and makes you look older than you are.

The procedure:

The first thing you'll want to consider is always shaving after a shower. There's two reasons for this:

1. Showering will soften your facial hair and give it the hydration it needs. Otherwise you risk having your dry facial hair being stuck in between the razor and being pulled out rather than being shaved off. Trust me, that hurts.
2. While you're taking a shower, you can fill up your shaving bowl with warm water and leave your brush in it. This hydrates the brush and it works way better on your facial hair than a dry brush would.

After you're done with your shower, rinse out the bowl, and shake off all the excess water from the brush. Gently take a a little shaving cream out of the container (typically the size of a pea on your finger,) and place it inside the bowl. Make sure there's no excess water either in the bowl, or the brush.

The ratio of water/soap depends largely on the shaver. You don't want too much water, or the soap won't hold on your skin and will be too runny. You don't want too little water, because then a good lather won't be made, and the point of lathering your facial hair is to hydrate it to begin with. This process is perfected only by trial and error. You need to find the perfect medium that suits you and for that you need to do it over and over.

With the brush, gently move it around the bowl in circular motions making sure you pick up all the cream or soap. Pretty much like whipping an egg, but far more gently. You don't want to do it too fast, or you risk hurting your brush. You don't want to do it too slow, because then a lather won't be made, or not as fast as you would like to anyway. Depends on how much time you're willing to put into shaving, of course.

While you're doing all this, it gives you the perfect opportunity to look yourself in the eyes, in the mirror, and think. Talk to yourself, take a breather. This is where the zen comes in. The minimalism, the lack of chemicals you're putting on your face.

After the lather is made, apply it to your face. Make sure to move the brush back and forth on your beard, because that's what the whole point is. This will hydrate your hair, and make it easier to shave off. Plus, it feels absolutely wonderful, granted that your lather is not too dry and not too watery. Once you find that perfect lather and have the hang of it, life won't ever be the same again.

After you're done lathering up, take your razor and hold it firmly. Now, realize that there are angles that you must move the razor blade in, up and down your face. These angles depend on what part of your face you're shaving on, and you can't necessarily be "taught" these angles, but have to pick up on them after trial and error. Just know that the blade has to be held at a certain angle to make it more effective, some say it's 45 degrees when you're shaving your cheeks.

I'm not going to say wet-shaving with a double or straight edge razor is a piece of cake. The first time I ever tried it, I didn't end up cutting myself, but my shave wasn't as great either. The second of third time, I cut myself horribly and bled a lot, but due to all that cutting and bleeding, I have learned how to shave properly.

Some things to remember; don't put any pressure or force on your razor. You are not using those piece of crap plastic razor blades anymore that don't weight anything. Double edge razors have a significant amount of weight to them, and this is by design. The weight of the blade will apply all the pressure the blade really needs to put on your face, if you keep insisting or pushing down on your face yourself, you will cut yourself, and cause razor burn.

Another thing to remember; you will have lots of lather in your bowl by now, even a small pea sized gallop of soap or cream goes a long way. This is good, because you'll need to make several passes on your face with the blade to ensure the same kind of shave you would get from a plastic piece of crap, and each pass requires you applying the remaining soap from the bowl to your face. Some might consider this, along with the time being taken, as a major disadvantage.

But it's not, once you consider that wet-shaving is a choice, and the end result is by far not the same as you would achieve from shaving with a plastic piece of crap.

Make sure you're patient. If you're not, wet shaving will teach it to you. Or you'll end up cutting yourself much more than you ever need to.

Post-shave procedures vary from people to people, so I'll tell you my own:

I wash off the remaining soap or cream with water, rinse it off my face.

Use the witch hazel soap, which burns and hurts a little, but that only means it's working, right? Remember, I said it's an astringent, which is the whole point of using it.

After the shave, and washing your face with an astringent, I prefer running ice cubes over my face. This is because you usually wet-shave with warm water, and that ends up stretching your skin and opening up your pores. The ice soothes the skin after the shave, cools down and relaxes it, and closes your pores. Other than all that, it just feels great.

Dry off your face. I don't use a traditional towel but rather just paper towels which are noticeably gentler on the face, especially after you've ran a razor blade all across it. 

Take a good amount of the Nivea "post-shave balm," (just a fancy way of saying after-shave cream,) and apply it gently to the face. My face usually turns bright red and pale, but the balm helps calming it down and not leaving it dry.

Now, it's time to clean out the brush, the bowl, and the razor blade. Never leave your razor blade wet, this expensive piece of equipment needs to be treated with respect and care. Always dry it with a towel, making sure you don't run the towel on the actual edges of the blade or it'll get ruined faster. If you don't, the stainless steel will get rust, and be rendered useless. 

Leaving the brush wet will also cut down it's life, hence rinse and shake off all the water it's still holding. It's also important to clear out the soap from the brush, leaving that in isn't good for the brush either. Make sure there's no soap left in by running it up and down your hand.

Cleaning the bowl is much easier than the other two things, it's very easy to tell if there's any soap in the bowl left or not, and it takes considerably lesser time.

Dry out everything, make sure it's all clean, and then put it all away.

After all of that is done, the only thing left to do is feel like a million dollars and enjoy yourself. 

Aawaragi.

It's weird, the phase I'm currently going through.

I made sure I stopped thinking about all my old flings, and crushes, and the several "ones that got away." But lately I feel I can't help it, and they end up in my dreams.

This one in particular was perhaps the prettiest of them all. I can still remember the dream, it was as vivid as daylight. With her huge round eyes, made to stand out with eyeliner. It felt like she was whispering every time she opened her mouth to speak.

Because her eyes were lighter and weren't dark brown like most people's are, the sunlight would gleam and reflect in them. They'd turn golden. Golden brown, in fact. The prettiest things I've perhaps ever seen.

It reminds me of the nicknames we had for each other, the things she would call me on the phone right before she would fall asleep. Or just pretended to, so she could hear me tell her incredibly pointless nothings.

When we'd argue, it'd be beautiful. The pain in my heart would assure me I'm alive, and that there exists something between us, otherwise we couldn't have cared less. They didn't last long, she couldn't stand me being mad at her for long. And if she was mad at me, I wouldn't let her stay mad at me for long either.

Things ended, but they weren't ugly for long. For that, I'm perhaps most appreciative. We've talked again, several times after. Discussed where we went wrong, made sure we each knew how much we cared for each other. Sometimes it's just the situation that makes things go awry.

It's way better that way, come to think of it. Much better than when people themselves decide to change courses overnight.

Then there are the regrets. Things I wish I had done differently.. things I wish I hadn't done at all.. some painful burdens that I will have to live with for the rest of my life. Be responsible for the heartache, and for the shaping of some poor soul. Blue on blue, heartache on heartache.

Some I've forgotten, and only remember when I try real hard to. We played silly games for a while, going back and forth on our own words, just unsure about what we wanted.

Should I wish I had done things differently? Sometimes I do. Other times I feel I wouldn't be true to myself if I did, and I've learned living with yourself is much harder sometimes.

It's perhaps time to stop regretting, and be glad I've experienced so much. Scars give you personality. I perhaps owe myself to all the women that have shaped me over the years. I can choose to be thankful in a lot of ways. Deep down inside, I can't help but feel they'll always remember too, and that I made sure of that somehow. By being unforgettable, in ways sometimes good, and sometimes not so much.

At the end of the day, I can only hope they're all happy. It's all I have ever wanted, not to sound too cliche or dramatic. Checking to make sure is a privilege I may or may not have, and that's another story.

People may not necessarily remember you by what you did, or what you said. But they will remember you by how you made them feel.

"Yeh dil, yeh pagal dil mera.. kyun bujh gaya? Aawaragi."

Guitar Sounds.

Came up with these guitar sounds a while ago, and they've been updated and altered quite a bit since then. I just decided to record it, and upload it on Soundcloud, so here you go:

http://soundcloud.com/daanisharif/guitar-sounds

PS: Don't go in expecting too much. Oh, and let me know what you think.

The only thing that remains.

They say every day is a fresh start. That life is like a novel, and you don't know what's next until you turn the page.

You grow up hearing such optimistic things, but eventually you learn that everything's eventual.

So one day you wake up and realize that you're still thinking about her. You try as hard as you can to tell yourself not to think about it, but you can't stop thinking about whatever you're trying to stop thinking about. You know you saw her in a dream again, even if you can't remember what it was about. It may not have had a plot, any side stories, but you know you were thinking about her.

You tell yourself not to, and look at yourself in the mirror. Where did I go wrong? You ask yourself. You can't look at yourself anymore, so you stare at the drain in the sink instead. The water flowing into it, disappearing.

You're fine so far, you've done a good job of pretending she's not there, in the back of your head. Gnawing away, nibbling away, scratching at the surface of your brain. The border of your worst nightmares.

You look around you, and everyone seems too busy to notice. The lack of life in your eyes, the lack of appetite and desire for anything. This one's your own burden to carry, you tell yourself that. Over and over, that you'll be fine. You were born alone, and that's just how it's supposed to be.

You're doing fine. You've been doing fine. You've been alive for 23 years, by yourself, must account for something, you tell yourself. All the while, ignoring that scratching, nibbling at the back of your head.

You try, and find things to occupy yourself with. You play mindless video games all day, driving over people, shooting imaginary guns. Reading your books, doing your computer things. Anything to not think. Anything to keep yourself distracted. A facade you play with yourself, day in and day out. They say it's the only thing that will help. You start hating "them" by principle of conditioning.

Then one day, you're going through your hard disk because you've managed to fuck up your computer again. All your back up is on your hard disk, and on accident you run into the folder with all of her pictures.

This is when you realize that it wasn't just a small nibbling, scratching, gnawing in the back of your head. It's also the huge void in your chest. The deep darkness in your lungs. The abyss you can not do enough justice to no matter how much you try to verbalize it, to describe it.

The fact that no matter what you look at, experience, your first instinct is to run to her and tell her about it. Like a fucking puppy, bringing dead birds to their owner's door step. Look at what I've accomplished, look at what I've learned. I wanted to share it with you, because you seem worthwhile, and I'd feel selfish otherwise. The best person in the world.

Everything's eventual.

The fact that you can't go back to your music, or anything else that made you feel comfortable, because it's all tainted by the memory. The only thing that remains.

So you stay up all night, thinking about everything that you had, and everything you have lost.

According to Arabic literature, "love" has seven stages;
Attraction, infatuation, love, reverence, worship, obsession, and death.

Makes sense to me. And maybe that's what the whole problem here is.

Myself.

I typed out another rant filled with hate, anger, angst, sorrow, agony.

It didn't make me feel any better.

I feel as numb as an ice pick.

As lonely as ... well, myself. Perhaps always will, until the end.

Oh, Reddit, some more.

"School"

I remember in fifth grade, we had a substitute teacher for English.

While everyone else was busy running around sniffing daisies and roses, I was borrowing assigned reading from seventh graders. They give me looks like I was retarded, but I didn't give a shit.

My English workbook had been filled till the end, it took me two days to complete it. Even further than was assigned for the semester. Somehow the substitute teacher found out, and all she would do everyday was grab my workbook and jot the answers down from it on the blackboard for the rest of the class to copy off into their own.

Chapter by chapter, day by day, every day, as I just sat there and watched the rest of the class.

I still remember the kind of looks they all gave me. Like something was wrong with me. Why would this kid not go out and play, but rather choose to sit here all day and end up doing more work than was supposed to be done? I still remember the look I got from the teacher when she realized all her work was already done for her.

The look always portrayed confusion. This wasn't something she was used to, or expecting. It was something none of them ever got used to.

I remember in Computer Science class in 9th Grade, when the teacher walked out of the class for a minute locking the computer behind him. I walked up to his computer and broke in to it, bypassing the lock. He walked in right as I yelled "yes," without even thinking about it.

He just looked at me, looked at the computer, told me to go sit down, while trying to figure out how I did what I did. He didn't say another word.

I remember in 7th grade Computer Science class, when the substitute teacher walked in and bragged about how she was going to teach us how to create our own websites. I walked up to her and handed her a piece of paper with the address to my website on it. She didn't teach us shit for the rest of the day.

I remember when my dad signed me up for extra curriculur shit during the summers at his work place. They had reading, writing and running around in fields as activities assigned for kids. I remember the looks I got when the counsellors and people in charge couldn't figure out why I didn't want to go out and play with the other kids and chose rather to hide in the corner with my books or my pencils and paper. They graded our work. I came in "second" that year. Maybe if I was a bit more social, I'd come in at first.

I remember getting beat like a mule almost every day in school, after we reached 9th grade. "He's extremely brilliant. If only he would get his priorities straight."

"It's not that he's stupid. He just doesn't seem interested."

"I don't understand. Don't you want to do something with your life?"

Why would I give a shit when so early on you proved to me that I didn't need you, School?

When I left the rest of my "colleagues" far off behind, and without second guessing myself knew more than the teacher did, why would you even expect me to give a shit?

By the time we got to 10th or 11th grade, we had stopped going to class altogether for our own reasons. We would be in school, but attending class or actually paying attention in class was something else altogether.

I started failing almost everything, I just didn't give a shit anymore. Except for English and Computer Science, of course. Never really needed to even open a book for those two.

My dad was supposed to sign my monthly reports, and so he'd either just yell at me, tell me how I wasn't going to go anywhere in the world, before eventually signing them and forgetting all about it.

"If you keep this up, you're going to end up without a job and having to rely on your brothers."

Thanks, Dad. You know how to work wonders for a child's self esteem.

Not to mention all the times you beat me half dead, to an inch of my life. The times I couldn't stop shaking, because the pain was unbearable.

The time you told me you were going to kill me, and told me to go sit in an empty dark room to wait for eminent death. And I sat there for an hour, dad, perhaps more, without moving. I was too scared to. You, on the other hand, completely forgot you had asked me to wait for you.

Imagine the look on your face, dad, when you eventually remembered and walked in the room to find me just sitting there.

Just sitting there with a blank expression, staring at the wall, in pitch darkness. I still remember, dad.

Or the times you said I was probably not your real son and got switched at the hospital. Because I made a mistake, or just didn't want to pay attention in school anymore.

Worked miracles for my head, dad.

In 10th grade, we had made a habit of playing hookie from school. We weren't really loaded in cash, and had expenses to cover. Like lunch, cigarettes, drinks, a few games of pool.

Because we were who we were, we would grab little kids and tell them to go raise funds for us. They never even questioned why. The little kids would run to even smaller kids and extort them for money.

We made 75 Riyals in 30 minutes that day. Without doing shit.

The guard in charge of the doors to the outside was in on it with us. We'd blackmail him, by telling him we'd tell the principle about his tobacco chewing habits. Or bribe him by saying we'd get him some chewing tobacco. Either way, we were on the way to play pool on a cab that day, smoking our cigarettes.

The first time I ever put a cigarette to my lips, two of my friends did the same. We were 5 kids altogether, two of which had been smoking for a while now.

Luckily for me, my house was a minute away from school, so I had time to go clean up. The rest of my friends weren't so lucky that day, and got busted when they walked in to school.

A friend of mine, Arsalan, and his brother Nabeel both got caught smoking the same day. When the school called their house to complain about Arsalan, Nabeel would pick up and pretend to be their father. End up giving the school shit for ever letting us bail to begin with. When the school called to complain about Nabeel, Arsalan would end up pretending to be the father, yelling at their incompetence.

We had left forging signatures way behind, that was child's play.

My friend Omair got caught with two packs of cigarette, a cologne, and some "Niswaar," in his bag. The fucking idiots actually thought he was drinking cologne to get high.

When I got busted for having a cell phone in school, the idiots didn't know the "N-Gage QD" had an external memory card slot. Before they walked me in to the vice principle's office, I had already slipped the memory card out, all the while the phone was still inside my pocket. They couldn't find shit to incriminate me with, then, could they.

During our exams and tests, we wouldn't bother whispering to each other for answers. We'd just slip each other our respective answering sheets. To compare notes, of course. They would never find out.

I remember we started hiding each other's school bags for fun. This one time the principle walked in to one of our friends looking for his, that me and Fahad had hid. He complained to the principle that he couldn't find his bag, and in turn got the shit beat out of him in front of us.

Talk about being fucking fair.

This other time a friend threw another's bag out the window. It landed in the ministry next door. We're standing outside during recess, wondering where his bag could be, when we notice the doors to our school fling open and a soldier wearing camaflogue walks in carrying it. The ministry went on alert that day, they thought it was going to fucking explode.

In 8th grade, we'd throw pieces of chalk at the English teacher while he was busy trying to teach us shit. No one ever really paid attention.

In 9th grade, my friends started chewing tobacco. The teacher saw us one day and gave us a lecture on how it wasn't good for us. As soon as he turned around, the tobacco went straight in the mouth.

Day in and day out, these "teachers" would walk in to class, half hating themselves for it. They'd try to get to us, to teach us shit. But it's kind of hard to pay attention to what he's trying to say when the rest of the class is busy talking over him. About their cell phones, about girls, about cigarettes.

And the teachers couldn't do shit.

This one time a teacher saw a kid talking to another and walked up to him, smacked him in the head. The kid stood up, cursed at the teacher, and pushed him so far that he ended up falling on his desk. The kid just walked out of the class after that.

You couldn't really blame them then, could you, when you would witness them beating the shit out of some poor kid that wouldn't fight back.

Or blame me for the six months I pretended I was terminally ill just so my parents wouldn't send me to school.

"You actually waste money on books? What's wrong with you?" A kid in my class once said to me.

I once got beat in class for reading a book that wasn't associated with the class.

In 6th grade, they asked us if we wanted to go out and play or go read in the library. My voice couldn't be heard in the midst of the fucktards that all wanted to go kick a fucking ball around.

Imagine the yelling I got at home later, when my parents found the rant I had scribbled in the back of my notebook. "Fuck school, and fuck these assholes. All I want to do is read a book, but these fucktards want us to aimlessly run around."

"Are you insane? You could've gotten suspended if they ever saw this!" yelled my Dad at me.

I'm sorry if I couldn't find the right expressions then, dad, I really didn't know how to feel.
Neither did I feel like feeling bad for something I didn't do wrong.

Sanction me for your fucked system.

Blame me for not giving much of a shit anymore.

Blame me for figuring out I've never needed this shit.

Blame me if I decided not to let schooling get in the way of my education.

Blame me if I all I've ever wanted to do ever since is be the catcher in the rye.

Don't you worry, I'll find it.

I'm actually re-blogging myself.

I don't buy into "Astrology" much anymore, but this one seems to hit a little too close to home to completely disregard.

When your Gemini child finally grows up, lots of people will tell you disapprovingly that "he has too many fingers stuck in too many pies." You'll smile then, and they may be annoyed. But you'll be remembering one spring day when he was seven. He stuck his fingers in your chocolate pies, his father's shaving cream, the fish bowl, the garbage can, a pot of hot soup and an electric socket. You were furious. Later, at twilight, you watched him run around chasing lightning bugs in the grass. After a while, you sighed, and asked yourself aloud, "Why must he rush around so? Why must he get into everything? What in the world is he searching for?" He overheard you and it troubled him. You'll never forget the look in his bright, clear eyes when he answered. "Gee, Mommy ... I don't know. But don't you worry. I'll find it."

Oh, Facebook.

So, I've just found out there's a person on facebook that's an apparent mutual friend, named "Wifey Material." If this was any more ironic, it'd be on the periodic table.

Not only is her profile picture a self shot through a mirror. She's also in Hijab, and has a leg up on a chair or something.

"If ya dont no me, ur not guna get to no me :p" her facebook page says.

If she don't buy a book soon and somehow stomach her way through it, she's going to have a hard time getting anyone to know what she's fucking on about.

I tried reading through her favorite quotes, but the only one I could come close to comprehend goes:

"ιƒ уσυя ℓσσкιη 4 ρєяƒє¢тιση вυу уσυяѕєℓƒ α вαявιє ∂σℓℓ "

I was actually looking for something said or written by someone of at least relative fame, but this shit works too I suppose.

The rest of them looked like: "ĿĪĿ ß♡ĪS ṖĿΛY ΛŔ♡ƱИD ŔƐΛĿ MƐИ SƐŦŦĿƐ D♡ѠИ"

I'm no good at cryptography yet, but she'd sure make Dan Brown proud.

A friend got interested, and since great minds think alike or some shit, he decided he could pick some ideas for a funny blog post himself. After cross referencing, he asks me if "Wifey Materials'" facebook page has the numbers 16 after them.

I checked with mine, and mine said 56.

Which means, there are currently 56 known cases of people using "Wifey Material" as their facebook names.

My hands are fucking huge, but they're not enough to carry the weight of the facepalm that is required for this one.

Before I get accused of not having a life, and stalking other people to get a petty laugh or two, didn't you think this shit was at least a little funny?

As far as having a life is concerned; you're on here, reading this shit, aren't you?

Pain.

The nightmares have gotten a lot more vivid since the last time.

Dreams of being hurt by her, while being torn in between a broken self esteem and a pathetic desire to be desired.

You are consumed by whatever has your attention. It's a pity I don't have enough control over my own thoughts, or I wouldn't be constantly hurting myself like this.

Coupled by the fact that proper sleep is a luxury I haven't enjoyed in months.

How would I? Stay up to toss and turn with clenched fists, unable to forget everything that happened, like a broken record, the needle scratching the insides of my head and making every sensation hurt.

Over and over and over.

The little sleep that I do manage to sneak in only makes me regret ever trying, to begin with. Dreams of how things could've been even worse then they were, or perhaps the exact same as they were and my memory just isn't as great as I would like to think so.

I wish to completely forget about everything. I wish to forget about where I was, and never go back. I wish to start completely over.

It pains me greatly to think how the dynamics of our acquaintanceship changed. It pains me to feel the polar opposite of how I used to when I used to think about you.

It pains me to know that it had to come to this, things could've been different. I didn't want to feel this way, I never have, but if only you had left me any other choice.

I wasn't asking for too much.

It's just not fair... Why do I constantly feel like shit, and not have the will to look forward to anything anymore?

I fucking hate you more than I've ever hated anything else.

Consumed.

We walk into the cafe, and are immediately greeted by Ricardo at the door. Ricardo's eyes brighten up as he sees us, and we nod in unison, as if to ask him how he was doing. We shake hands, because that's what you do here. "How's it going, Ricardo?"

"I'm good sir," he says, all the while still flashing his smile, his eyes still lit up like a Christmas tree. Or the streets on Eid, I suppose, doing as the Romans do.

"How about two Saudi champagnes, then?"
"No problem sir," he says, as if something could go wrong while mixing fruit and juice.

Saudi champagne being the oxymoron that it is, considering it's as alcoholic as a glass of water, and the fruit dare not be even a week old.

He scurries to perform his faithful duties, and why wouldn't he? We've been tipping him pretty well for the past 5 years or so, at least. All the while with that smile of his, that seems like he just wakes up in the morning and puts it on like a mask, or make up.

We sit down on one of the tables, and the pockets start to get lighter. Out come the packs of cigarettes, sometimes several different brands mind you, depending on how many people there are. Then the cell phones, the keys to the cars - with their specific key chains, equipped with buttons to lock the doors, unlock the doors, or simply make that honking sound, because why not?

Sometimes even the wallet isn't allowed to sit in the back pockets, because it's just not comfortable, is it? The fatter it looks, the better. Even if it's just filled to the brim with old receipts and mostly useless foreign currency. Canada, the United Kingdom, the United States of America, the United Arab Emirates, and sometimes even Pakistan.

The layout is usually the same. Cell phone goes on top of the wallet, lighters go on top of the pack of cigarettes. All aligned neatly next to each other. The car keys lay idle wherever you want them.

It used to be, the cell phone's got to be as big as it could possibly get. It only meant it had all the more features, right? Things have since changed, and now it's supposed to be as small as it could possibly be, while equipped with the same amount of features, if not more. A camera on a cell phone is like a steering wheel in a car, just can't buy one without anymore.

Ricardo hurries back with the "champagnes," but he can't get comfortable yet, because we've been sitting at the "wrong table." One you can't sit at unless you're paying 30 Riyals an hour for it, because it's only available to customers shooting pool at one of the two tables at the secluded part of the cafe. The premium membership lounge of sorts.

"That guy's a real asshole," I tell Ricardo, talking about the douche that just made us get up off our table because we didn't want to shoot pool that certain day.

"Yes yes, I know, I know," Ricardo chimes in. A fine tuned harmony with the right amount of enthusiasm and agreement. Stating otherwise just wouldn't be loyal enough would it?

He's now apologizing for the other server while setting our drinks down, telling me it would've been different if he was serving the pool tables tonight. "Of course, I understand," Ricky boy. We've been pseudo helping out with you financing your family's luxuries back home in the Philippines.
Of course things would've been different if you were the only server.

"We're going to need another one of these, Ricardo." Since we have more company, right.
"Yes sir," he says and scurries back to his working quarters behind the bar.

Us, the minorities in the Middle East. Yet, royalty in our own right. So accustomed to luxury, and brainwashed to the brim to blindly follow consumerism, like rats following the pied piper. With our fancy cars, our fancy cell phones, our branded clothes from American Eagle, or Lee Cooper. Our Mercedes', our GMCs', and our Chevrolets'. Our Black Berry's, Nokias' and Sony Ericssons'.

Our "servants" every where we go, never mind the ones at home. Running after us, these even more singled out minorities, trying to feed their starving kids in all the 3rd world countries. "Back home."

Taking our shit, and smiling the whole time, while they curse us out in their spare time. They have a lot of that, while they can't sleep at night, asking themselves if this was the life they had envisioned when they decided to travel to make money.

Washing our tables behind us, picking up our glasses, and our ashtrays after we're done administering ourselves with the luxury of cancer.

Cleaning up after us, as we get up and walk to our expensive fucking cars with tinted windows, Bose speakers and subwoofers, and Kenwood fucking cd player with 6-discs changers.

Us, the royalty. Consumerism has us brainwashed, and we don't even know it, there's no sugar coating it or hiding it behind analogies. "We buy things we don't need, to impress people we don't like, with money we don't necessarily have."

But it works, doesn't it? Because we cease to be bothered about slightly more meaningful things, like what we're doing with ourselves, or how we treat all those that are way less fortunate than we have been. What we can rather be doing, with ourselves and our lives. We can't be bothered to discuss human life, or politics, or business.

We're too busy checking in to foursquare with our blackberry.

Us, the royalty, the consumers. Rendered neutralized, and well... consumed.

Another close brush.

There's construction work going on right upstairs my bedroom on the roof. Somehow this huge rectangular slab of concrete got blown off by the wind, and got tangled in the wire of the split air conditioner in my room, hence slamming through the window right next to my bed, right above my head. Luckily, it didn't go through all the way, or it would've fallen right on my head/face and it wouldn't have been pretty. No pun intended.

Another close brush with the Grimm Reaper. The second this year. The sixth overall.

Don't want to jinx-fuck this lucky streak, as much as I hate wallowing, I'd hate my family being sad even more.

Crush me.

Her: I don't sit there and map out what's gonna happen
Her: Stop taking things so seriously
Her: We're talking now and that's nice
She is typing...

 I want you to hurt me.

I don't want to say I get off, off of it, but I can't say I hate it either, can I? Evidently. Judging by the past and everything, right?

I want you to be the worst you could possibly be. Hurt me like I've never been hurt before. Say shit that I haven't heard some other woman already say to me. You'll have to take a while and think about it for a bit, I suppose, you might not even come off as original much, at this point in life. But give it a shot, would you?

I'd love it if you could manage to squeeze a few tears out of these eyes. Make me feel alive again.

Grab my heart and squeeze it at the center of your palm. Feel the pulse and the throbs, squeeze until it gets fainter. Or until it starts beating faster. I could not predict much anymore.

Grab me by my gut, and twist it. Make me weep my soul into your lap. Into your shoulders, into your chest.

Be the worst you can be. The worst person in the world. Destroy my identity, and crush my self esteem. Tread on my dreams, and walk all over my hopes.

Bring me back that unforgettable feeling of sorrow, right there in the chest. As heavy as a burden, filling up my lungs, and making my chest feel much heavier. Make me feel alive. A rush like no other.

Walk away from me and leave me behind. Pay me no attention, what so ever. Make it a lack of any attention. No matter how much I cry out for you to stop, or beg you to stay, or even make the pathetic and foolish request of asking you to come back.

Make my lips tremble, and my knees wobble. Make me regret being alive.

Watch me decay, and die away. Be the reason for it.

Cause me to self destruct.

And I'll love you. More than anything else in the world.

Just make me feel miserable again. I hate not feeling anything at all anymore.

Masks.

Always just a phase.

"A month doesn't change anything," she says.

This 'stranger' believes it so wholeheartedly.

The liar that claimed she would always be there for me, clearly didn't.

The irony is not lost on me.

Probably not...

I miss you.

There's no other way of putting it.

The hole in my head doesn't get any smaller trying to think otherwise.

Do you think about me when our music plays? Do you play any of our music? The shit we used to listen to, living like there was no tomorrow? Do you feel the corners of your eyes starting to soak? Do you find yourself wiping them away, too? Constantly, and in a crowded room full of happy people?

Just sitting there, numb, and trying to blend in? Just when you think it's finally working?

Do you find yourself wondering how I must be doing too? I do, but it only makes me sad to think that you don't. Why would you?

Do you get woken up in the middle of the night too? Thinking that it was just a bad dream? I have a lot of those, but you know that. Do you find yourself come to the realization that it isn't just a dream, and hate waking up, too?

Do you still blame me for everything? Do you still think I didn't just want you to be happy? Do you still make me out to be the enemy? I understand, I really do.

Do you ever think about all those times, and all those nights? I try really hard not to, but the harder I seem to try, the worse it seems to get. Do you ever feel that way?

Do you remember all the stupid jokes we had? All the lame puns I would make, and how you would giggle like a little kid? Or how I'd always try to protect you from the mean, cold world?

Do you remember everything I just carelessly threw away? And more if you had asked for it?

Probably not.

Just a few bad moves.

So this whole thing about being constantly miserable.

How much longer can I play this fucked up game with myself, I constantly wonder. There's got to be a time where I just stop, right? Grow up, maybe. Or whatever the fuck it's supposed to be that makes it stop. Everything's eventual, I suppose, but death is eventual and I don't feel like waiting that long. For it to stop, I mean. Not that I haven't been goth as fuck, and everything. A change of pace would be nice. Do I even want that? A change of everything. I want to start over.

I want to forget all about the heartbreak. The constant heartbreak, over and over. Like a scratched up record on loop. Like a curse, or perhaps just a few bad moves. A few horrible decisions, a few wrong steps.
Each and every time, just like the last. As if I've always been asking for it, as if it's what I've always wanted all along.

People have asked me multiple times if I enjoy putting myself through this. If I enjoy being miserable, if I look forward to it. It would make sense, I suppose, wouldn't it? Just some kind of twisted fucking irony. Not that it ever isn't, but I wish it would just be lost to me sometimes. I'm tired of picking up on it, finding it in the most convenient of places, placed like a word that fits in a short poetic piece. Fuck.

Why?

If no other answers, I wish to have that one. Let it be the only one I ever get, but let it arrive, late but definitely. Speaking of some twisted fucking irony, it's the only one I've never gotten. The yearning evidently exists for a reason then, I suppose. As always of course.

Fuck this in between bull shit. Being stuck is never any fun, but being stuck in the past is exceptionally fucked. Having to live with your decisions can be tough as it is, but having to live with someone else's is a little worst.

Pain to the max

The way I see it, there's two types of people...
Those who spend their lives trying to build a future...
And those who spend their lives trying to rebuild the past...
For too long I've been stuck in between...
Into the dark...
Locked in the course of destruction...
Time moves forward, and nothing changes.

Know me, broken by my master.

I wish there was a way to describe this feeling.

Agony.

The feeling of wanting to throw up without being able to.

The feeling of wanting to burst out without being able to.

The feeling of choosing warm embrace over this cold shadow.

This pain in my chest.

This feeling of death. The feeling of losing a loved one.

The feeling of being completely alone.

The motion sickness. The feeling of being on a deep slant, and your stomach churning.

Just churning.. and churning.. and the mouth tastes sour.

So sour, I figure this is what battery acid must taste like.

Or the stomach acid that's building up and will start pouring out any minute, because I haven't eaten properly in days.

Or has it been months?

The days have all begun to blend together. In and out, in and out. Day in, and day out.

Clinical depression is not a joke.

Feeling so useless, so miserable, so void of emotion. It's not a joke.

Feeling so cold, so restless. So anxious, so bothered. So desperate, so pathetic.

I faintly remember what it felt like to be happy. To feel the serotonin rushing through.

The muscles in my face to stretch and curve upwards. It used to feel good.

God, do I miss that one.

The feeling of being wanted. The feeling of being needed.

I miss that one too.

The feeling of wanting to live.

That's one perhaps more than others.

My mind.. I miss that too.

I'm so tired of missing things.

My perfect enemy.

Dead as dead can be,
my doctor tells me.
But I just can't believe him,
ever the optimistic one.
I'm sure of your ability,
to become my perfect enemy.

To forever fall from grace,
and onto black days,
as you thought you were trying to save me

You've always had such beautiful ways,
and so I'd endlessly praise,
all the ways that would slowly destroy me

To the games we are about to play,
to the shame we are about to share,
and you perhaps without even knowing,

To the death I am about to meet
and so respectfully greet,
as these pains are constantly growing

To always expecting to fail,
and for broken ships to set sail,
I wish to crawl into my mind and slowly burn out

What, with you back-stabbing Caesar,
and harbored hate you pretend is leisure,
burning out is a possibility without doubt

To playing with madness,
To anticipating sheer sadness,
I have managed to be surrounded in fear

There may not be people,
only never ending recluse,
it's all I've had since you haven't been near

One.

This can not be good for me.

I can't do it anymore.

This whole loneliness thing.

It fucking blows.

It really wrenches the soul and burns through the body with sheer determination.

It's very, very tiring.

I've grown extremely tired of it, and I don't want to do it anymore.

It's just horrible.

The viscous cycle...

The endless disappointment.

The bland dark walls inside my head.

Every idea just bounces off and disappears into the darkness.

Like a laser pointer on a dark wall.

Like a laser pointer on a dark wall.

Oh, the angst. The agony.

It begs to escape. For my soul to explode, to burst into flames.

To burn out, to disappear into smoke.

Nothing else matters, it never has.

The only thing that put some light on the situation felt like a dying candle for a while,

and then put itself out.

Out of misery, out of association with the never ending horribleness that is yours truly.

Like it always has, like it always does.

But I don't want to label everything and put it in the same box.

That was why I never wanted to do this to begin with, to do things, to begin with.

They just end up as useless classifications. Each, and every time.

Each and every time. Blue on blue, heartache on heartache. Each and every time.

It's like a small box, dying to explode. Burst into an explosion filled with paper.

Oh, the growing pains of yours truly.

Why does we always end up at square one?