decline or accept

Why is it that the green accept button is always on the right? And the slide option is towards the right too? The right side is inherently associated with the right choice, like the Angel that sits on your right shoulder, looking over you, whispering goodness and stuff. What if I’m left-handed? Anyway, I digress. Still, the choices we made, wrong or right, ends up being the right purposeful one somehow. No matter how shitty the choices and the voices were, and how shitty the consequences and screams became, it is always, and indefinitely, unapologetically, the right choice.

But I made some pretty bad choices which have affected me to this day. I am healing now though. I made a choice to heal myself. As I painfully discovered that no one and nothing can truly heal you except yourself. So I dragged myself out of the muck by sheer wilful force. A force that I never knew existed but still came out of that ancient place within me that declined being dragged down, controlled, subdued, or subjected and misguided by substances or people. I have forgotten what is was to be self-sufficient, self-reliant, self-respecting and free. I wonder if I ever was free. I wonder now if I can really begin to understand self-love.

At long last, I am transitioning, hopefully, into a person that is prepared, ready, exhausted and willing enough to accept. I am no longer resisting the accept button, no longer surrendering to decline the truth, or accept a downward spiral. Fuck that shit. It’s not worth it. Things are not worth it. People are not worth it. And the notions and ideas and pasts memories and misconceptions and grudges and anger no longer serve weight to intoxicated victories or infested emotions or warped existential psychological freedom. It only served as a dead weight, a paper weight holding down papers that should fly free when the winds of change come gushing.

I accept that I have emotional issues that need to be addressed and taken care of and it’s ok for me to take my time into understanding them.

I accept that forgiving my parents and moving on from the resentment I held towards one or both of them is essential to my individual growth and finding out who I am with and without the reflections of their inadequate selves projecting through me and my behaviour.

I accept that letting go of people who have existed in my life for too long and accepting the differences and changes that have occurred between us is part of a bigger plan and accepting that fact is the best thing I could have done to myself in so fucking long.

I accept that I live in a unforgivingly negative country thriving on socio-economic issues, political mistrusts and soul-pollution and it is going to take years for any pure change to take affect.

I accept that I must live in a bubble.

I accept that I must work very fucking hard to achieve any relief financially, physically,  emotionally and ultimately spiritually. Very fucking hard.

I accept the Now most of all. I accept the Past and I accept the Future as non-existent entities that have piqued the denial I’ve lived in and robbed me from true clarity.

 

 

 

God, I miss You.

Do you miss me? Did you hear me scream the other day? Did you notice the tears streaming down my face as my vision, like my life, begins to gutter out? I know my issues are petty that is why I screamed your name in vain, I cried your name in pain, hoping you would relieve me, rekindle me and fight my demons with me. But I doubt you heard me. Why would you? You see, I am surrounded by doubt. There are so many people, “your people”, hating on you right now. You have become the epitome of doubt until it has become so contagious we have forgotten how to treat it. You have become the being to look away from because people have mastered the blind eye and the wicked heart to solely focus on parasitic greed and transient earthly pleasures . Generations upon generations have so much to say against you, and so many to kill for you. Can you see the hatred in the world; the corruption, the rape, the hypocrisies, the blood, so much blood; the perfect habitat for anger and fear and death where we are currently thriving? Through you, we have administered the perfect Molotov cocktail for the soul.

I believed in you once, not the way you wanted me to though, but in my individual way. I may still believe in you but having led myself astray I almost stopped believing in myself. I went down paths that have damaged my very core, blew my soul into ash. I learnt your ways once, I learnt to pray to you myself, I read your words and I walked in life feeling your presence above me somehow, protecting me, shielding me, faintly lighting my way. In the many things I did, good and bad, I felt you at the back of my mind, watching me, judging me and I wonder now if you are laughing or penciling down my sins one by one like the blinking cursor on my screen.

I wonder, I wonder how am I supposed to find you again. I really thought I had you once but there is just so much ugliness in us, so much vanity, lies and disappointment. I believed in you, the memories, the thoughts, the training I had on how to perceive you in my waking, worshiping life. I tried to believe in other things, other philosophies, to detach, to love myself but somehow I always found myself pulling back to you and hating myself even more. I find myself staying attached to you when what I prayed for the most is to be detached, from everything, everyone; for your mercy to flicker me out like a candle gently and allow me to be the smoke that fades out into nothingness once and for all. Forgotten, unknown. I lost you when I was coming down, was too distracted to find you when I was high and I still miss You.

 

that one-liner

So I am posting on a Tuesday instead of a Monday but that is because I finally made it to the beach with friends yesterday and the sun, wind, sea and sand were just right.

I have this book that is called The One-Line-A-Day, A Five Year Memory Book. On August 30th, 2015 I wrote: “I have made a decision. I will quit soon and start work with my mother. Leave this wretched city behind”.

A year later, I am working with my mother, I haven’t entirely quit and I haven’t left this wretched city behind either. I am amazed at myself and at others at how fickle our decisions can be. We make a decision with all the confidence in the world, looking hopefully into a non-existent future with glittering stars thinking that we will surely conquer that decision, squeeze it till we drip the last drop of success out of it.

Bullfuckingshit.

No such thing. Every decision I made, so far, didn’t stick out. Every decision I watched someone I know make, did not stick out. We babble and dream and convince ourselves it would work, but it does not. Why? Discipline. Mostly. We lack discipline, not money, energy or time. Discipline. That one most-pivotal-moment-sort-of-lesson I learnt the hard way working with my mother. Not the most joyful of partnership but one where many hard hard lessons have been laid carefully before me so I can I get to pick and choose which attitude to work with, if I even could.

When I look at the lines upon lines that I have written over the few recent years I feel like I am reading the lines of several different people, each in their unique situation, embodied in one being; dumbfounded, depressed, eager yet willing. Taking a peek into the past on a daily basis is actually a terrifying exercise. So much self-judgment, nostalgia and resentment can arise out of that exercise. Another discipline lost, the discipline to look at the bright side.

 

current distractions

I have discovered creative ways to distract myself while I swim with cement blocks tied around my aching joints in a putrid Ocean of billboards and broken buildings and menacing smog puffing at me. Actually, they are not really creative, they are revisited hobbies, hobbies I had and thoroughly enjoyed but for some reason forgotten because I was a stupid bitch, like reading. How I used to love reading and how I am falling in love with it once again. I’m onto my 8th book in 2016 and I don’t think I have read this ferociously before.

In a time of eye-widening and ass-numbing distractions stemming from the tentacles of social media, it is truly hard to focus on one thing. One good thing at that. One self-developing thing. BUT somehow, I managed to finish all 5 books of Game of Thrones, listened to 44hrs and 53minutes of Stephen King’s IT on Audibles, restarted Oscar wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray that I have abandoned about 5years ago and finished it, and picking up Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventurew in Wonderland that I have also abandoned but now plan to reread along with Through the Looking Glass once I am done with that.

So that’s it, I’m set, I’m loving it and it is my only proper escape when I’m feeling in limbo at the restaurant or in any other state where I’m forced to wait for something or someone or nothing, which happens a lot.

Oh and I have developed an unhealthy fascination with Jeffree Star.

 

this summer rut

The sun shines and passes my days by. I haven’t met the beach till now. I haven’t swam in the water. In that familiar element where the child in me can begin to play for a moment, or hopefully several moments. Zigzagging away from her shy shell. From the depth of sadness a flicker of a smile can pay a visit and the weight of the world can feel a little lighter. But no. I am stuck. Stuck in a rut. Even tighter than a butt plug.

I got an audio book to give me company on the road. 500kms every week I cover. Every week. Back and forth, between 2 points that push and pull me while I spin and spin and swish and swash like a rag in a washing machine running low on water and soap.

Today I am in the office. Half dazed, half asleep, quarter awake. A long day ahead. Another long day ahead.

guilt: my friend & foe

This post is a sort of confession, I suppose; a stream of consciousness, a purge of reflections gathered on the age-old feeling of guilt; this guilt plea, a self-confessed verdict I probably have been carrying for as long as my identity crisis but with a little more drama. Instead of harboring my self-criticism to remain confined in the esoteric corners of my mind, especially that I have been scratching this itch to write about it for weeks now, I am sharing it with the universe in hopes that liberation, enlightenment & guidance can meet me halfway and revert me to that age of innocence I yearn for. Or maybe not.

Guilt, according to the online Merriam Webster dictionary, means:

• responsibility for a crime or for doing something bad or wrong
• a bad feeling caused by knowing or thinking that you have done something bad or wrong

and my favorite:

• feelings of culpability especially for imagined offenses or from a sense of inadequacy : self-reproach

Having lived in a predominantly patriarchal Muslim Arab society for three decades, guilt is planted and harvested carefully into every little action we make or intend to make whether we are male or female. We are supposed to embrace it to allegedly elevate us and makes us pious. I beg to differ on that one but I am not going to focus on the religious adaptions of guilt especially that I am not very religious at the moment. Rather I will subtly highlight how guilt, and its close companion, anger, have sown and reaped its growth in me, controlled, weakened and ultimately guided me for too long.

I read in an article somewhere that anger, shame and guilt are consequences of each other yet not in any particular order. This led me to realize that indeed one can feel guilty and then angry or angry then guilty and in the end nearly always ashamed. I experience that often, but not in any particular order either but once guilt follows, after having been angry frequently, immediately after I would question why I constantly felt guilty about the things I say or do, Recently I came to the conclusion that anger is deeply rooted in my character so much so that I allowed it to control many facets of my social behavior and obviously left some bad lasting impressions on myself and others.

In sleep paralysis it is claimed that a mythical creature of harm sits on the sleeper’s chest while the sleeper, who is normally sleeping on the back when this happens, is stuck between deep sleep and the return to wakefulness as this creature suffocates and gives nightmares to the sleeper with the body completely paralyzed and the mind conscious. Guilt, to me, resembles that, since it does squat and stretch on my chest, day in, day out, plunging me into a state of wakeful paralysis instead and imbedding all sorts of nightmarish ideas, glaring at me, feeding my inner furnace to bellow out flames of anger and impulse annihilating chances for redemption and well, just embarrassing the shit out of myself.

In retrospect, I have been observing, and continue to observe. people and their momentary lapses of guilt and how they display it and handle it. Some people will ignore it un-apologetically and dismiss it, or they would pin the blame on something or someone else to avoid being labeled guilty or bear the responsibility of being ashamed. There are professional guilt trippers who relish in making others feel guilty whenever they can impose it on them. There are others who weasel their way out of it save any morale. There are those who just do the right thing, apologize, feel a little blue and move on. But some people, like myself a professional guilt tripee, dwells on it. But mind you, I too, am guilty of everything I just mentioned above. And because of that I dwell even more. Sometimes I would entertain the thought that I am just another masochist who is self-loathing and enjoys the occasional self-victimized suffering, or maybe I do not, but I still care to admit that possibly because of my personality or the many disappointments in life or where I was raised and taught guilt manifested some sort of complexity within me. I have experienced many types of guilt that developed from my teen years to my current prime that still leave me confused and even close to retarded on how I should deal with my anger and ensuing guilt. It’s like I am asking for it when I hate it the most and when I do apologize to the world it is not enough neither to the world or to myself because I am gladly, directly or not, reminded to reprimand myself, feed and fester this guilt into proportions so deformed that defeat my initial attempt towards a solution.

In further retrospect, my anger has taken me to the places I am not proud of, such as failure to say the right things at the wrong times, being too impulsive and infamous with mood swings, too impatient, too out of a particular tone, too something or the other, not good enough, carrying questionable vibes, being hurtful and damaging figuratively and literally, not taking care of my health, procrastinating, judging, not staying in touch with certain friends and families and a whole bucket of other stuff that is just..shit.

How has guilt become a positive enabler? I am still in the process of filtering my anger out and this guilt that are sewn into my daily existence hanging loud and clear on my sleeve and paying my dues all at the same time. But namely it has kept me grounded and cautious with a guard now higher than I ever hoped it to be in spite of my earlier hopes to just be who I am; a free-spirited, liberated, outspoken, self-loving, loved, appreciated sort of human being; but not now, not for a while. My mistakes and failures remind me of the hard work I need to do if I am yet to partially succeed into becoming the better version of who I wish to be, whether on my own or with the help of those who really care. Being the skeptic that I am towards myself and others, it has taken me tremendous effort to not doubt my own intentions when I mean to be good. And it will take me even more effort to refrain from feeling pereptually guilty or even saying that I am sorry when I actually should not be.

One day.