Dear Diary, Love Spring

Anonymous asked: are you arab? =D

No. I live in Saudi Arabia though. :P

I choked on the salad I was eating.

My life is complete.

I am going to start posting stuff here again. I must. 

all these things around you

Dear Diary,

Where are you.

There’s this wall of sound and I’m wondering where you are.

There’s all these things around me and I’m wondering why you don’t want to see these things that I see.

It’s the power of the moment.

The power of what you can do over what you are afraid to try.

Where your mind is but your brain isn’t.

All these things, my mind in the clouds, I’m wondering what it’s like to not exist.

I’m wondering what it would be like to look up at everyone from the center of the earth.

I’m wondering if the life you’ve lived, the life that brought you to me, would have left you with someone else.

With me watching from behind glass, seeing you in a different life.

And what the best is for you, what the best is for me, the spectator of lines and lives.

And then I have to think: is someone watching me from behind the glass right now?

Are you watching me? Wondering what I’m doing? That I didn’t find you again, looking at me as I become the things I see?

Where I am now isn’t where I wanted to be.

Where I wanted to be is where I could never be.

And what I want to see is all these things around me, all these things around you, as the center of the earth heats up my brain.

And then my mind escapes somewhere and I’m lost.

I’m gone.

And the fire inside me, that fire that surrounds me, it surrounds you.

And I’m behind the glass now and I’m wondering why you don’t see all these things.

And I’m hoping that one day, one time, you’ll have an itch you can’t scratch, and you’ll know it’s me.

And I’ll be there, watching, and I’ll smile: I’ll know that somehow, you still know I’m here.

Somehow, I didn’t stop existing.

Somehow, I became immortal for as long as you knew I was there.

Love.

Dear Diary,

I can toss the dice and still get the losing end. No matter how hard I change the rules, they will always end up turning on me. It’s the draw, although luck seems to evade me. What if and what now? I doubt it would change any second today. It was like this from the start, and I don’t see myself turning a corner from one day towards the next.

Sometimes, when the days are rougher than most, I can’t help but re-watch the scenes of my past. There’s a point into which everyone seems to have a good laugh and a better day. But for me, why do they always end up one inch shorter than the marked line? It’s like I was born with fate guiding me towards the deeper tunnels. Always paddling, but there is no shore in sight.

I can’t deny that I do lose hope. From time to time, I slip and wonder what’s the point of this all? If odds are measured and my losses are strained from the crop, I should know better. With my net, there’s no doubt of the outcome. I’ll feverishly wish for that one bright spot. I’ll drum up the heavens with songs and hymns meant to plead for that first ray of light. But two million lost chances. Seven hundred missing bolts and pieces. My misted eyes and bruised hearts are enough to tell me, perhaps defeat is one of those things you just swallow in one single gulp.

Sometimes, I listen to my breaking heart. It tells me to just forget and pretend that it’s okay. That there are two different fates, and unfortunately, mine fell on the darkest edge. But my head was made out of hays and balls of fluff. They bounce and they itch, but they’re too stubborn to be anywhere else. I can give up. I can turn my cheek and see from the undersides of the world. But what’s the joy in that? I’m going to do this, and no one can stop my winning lap.

Love,

an old man at dusk

When the sky stretches onward into dusk and the clouds turn to tumbleweed and scatter, the old man places his worn hat on his knee and sighs, and laughs a sorry laugh, and thinks: you must know there are places where we linger. There are shadows, sounds – in corners of the market, a room in which we slept, places where, after our smell subsides, we remain. Ghost-like. A vague memory recedes – hoarfrost. a woman turning in her sleep. We are the ghosts, we live on the breath of the lost. It is our pasts, half-real, not quite visceral, which haunt us. Our long-laden wants and fears, songs almost forgotten, which remind us of the transitory. We look in the mirror and there, acutely, we recall – the face of a child; we once were children. We once were. This, the old man thinks, and fades, and prepares himself to echo fantastically once more! and end.

reality

Dear Diary,

What if I told you that you’ve never seen the sunset—

only atmospheric refraction off the water or horizon.

And the colours you perceive are less than a third

of what really is—impossibles, radio waves, infrared,

microwaves, ultraviolet, x-rays, gamma— the stars

at night are dead, long-lost; light from thousands

of years past. No two people look at the same rainbow.

It doesn’t really matter that butterflies taste with their

hind feet and hello didn’t exist until 1833. The universe

is beige. We shed our skin every year. No part of us—

cells, blood, limbs, hair—remains from childhood.

All this is known, and yet, the men still don their suits

and shoes, the women white dresses. We go to work,

worry about making eight dollars, feeding our children,

going to sleep.

Love,

Dear Diary,

Today, I got chased by a kitten.

Love,

Dear Diary,

Snow falls. 

A secret between the mountain and me. There is no one else around. She sends me off with this intimate moment. A soundless farewell. Words, song, fanfare, lights and crowds would not suit me, do not suit her. We need not speak, only stand together, I at her soft and white and unrefined alter.

This silence of heavy snow. It is mine. As a ballerina on a muted stage with no one there to see. We dance together uninhibited. We sing of silence in darkness.

I stand on the porch, the overhanging roof protecting me; the warm glow from the kitchen door left wide open spills a perfect rectangle on the snow. The dog returns with big white spots across his head and back.

My little world. Unrealistic I have been told. But who defines real when I feel taste touch and smell what one might call serene, but see no deeper than the smooth surface? Snow, thick and heavy like a warm blanket tucking me in to a world I am about to leave. The satellite dish is covered. Communications are cut. I am isolated. Why are we told that is a terrible thing when I find myself so safe within these silent arms? I am content talking to the dog.

There is no sound, no smell, no movement of air, only the softly falling flakes in a quiet dance, a silent film in black and white, I stare out the window and wait now for the lightening of day to reveal more to me. And for a moment my mind is as tranquil and subdued as the world around me. My little world.

Love,

1. I won NaNoWriMo, by the way.
2. I just gave my stats exam and I now may have time to do normal things like breathing and eating and cutting my nails.
3. I think I am going through a mid-life crisis. My mom says these things can’t happen to 17 year olds but what does she know…
4. I am going to start writing on this blog again. Maybe.
5. I have 666 unread e-mails. Join the Cult.
6. I hate school.
7. I wish I was a gypsy.
8. It took me three attempts to get the spelling of gypsy right. Doesn’t anyone else think there should be an “m” in gypsy? It just belongs.
9. Hello to everyone who followed me sometime in this month. I was barely around in case you noticed (you probably didn’t). I am not sure why anyone would follow me out of their free will, but thank you.
10. I am sleepy. I say stuff which makes no sense when I am sleepy.

KAA? Because, me too.

I feel so sorry for Jake (KAA’s son). Apparently he has a bunch of stalkers. Well, that is the price you pay for having such awesome parents.

thedreamsofpirates started following you

Hello! I like pirates.

LOL. I tried to stalk an author’s boyfriend once to see what he was like. I don’t think it’s too bad. But then, I’m guilty, too

*high fives* We can be SAFAF* buddies. :)

*Stalkers of Authors’ Friends and Families 

On a scale of normal to you-need-professional-help, how creepy is stalking your favorite author’s son on reddit?