Thoughts of you, warm my bones...

She left the building. Her body was cold from the air-conctioners. She knew she was lucky and couldn't complain. Yet, the wave of heat was welcomed. She sensed how even her bones were chilled, felt the heat trying to remove that coolness.
A line from a song played in her head, "Thoughts of you, they warm my bones." What did that truly feel like? She knew she was fooling herself. She not only wanted to feel chilled because of cold weather, she wanted to be warmed by that cozy feeling. These thoughts didn't occur so often, yet were there. Love. What did she know? Nothing. It wasn't important. Right now, there was her future to contemplate. It was going somewhere, this thought reassured her, but where? How was one supposed to know anyway? It was definitely vague, not very clear. 
Future images of herself were almost nonexistence. Did other people have future images of themselves, or did they not? Could she ask? Dare she ask? Why not? Could it pop up in a conversation, it most certainly could. Yet, the need for the right moment to introduce the question, the right mood of her friends, she always ruined such questions or  thoughts, remembered to voice them at the wrong time and the urge to share them became too much. Once they were out, she regretted it. The precious thought became silly, was lost in the loud conversation and she was left wondering why couldn't she keep a thought to herself?
Everyone could do it, it seemed easy enough but why was it so difficult for her? To be completely honest, it wasn't like she tried that hard, didn't even know what it felt like to keep a deep though to herself. That made her feel empty inside, though it wasn't true that feeling of emptiness never left her.
Yet she knew the thought of sitting outside was silly. She wouldn't endure the heat, and that it would make her upset. She couldn't shake it off though. Sitting alone out there, simply being. How could one resist thinking of it? Soon, these thoughts drifted away and were replaced by a vague, familiar feeling. Inside of her head, life went on. Outside though, she wasn't so sure. There was life outside. People, friends, family and so much to live for. 
True enough, there was her sister picking her up. She saw the car, and all she could think of was going home.

22/6/2011

The comfort of books

There was a parallel universe she existed in when she read. It was a blank world. Just her sitting there reading. Another's parallel universe, if matching her own liking for books, would have been under a tree on a beach in an exotic place, or on a bench in a park, or at a crowded train station. Fun as that imagination might have been, she had yet to experience reading in those places.  Of course, she read in a park and on the beach, but those were rare occasions. She found the notion of being engrossed in a book in the outside world very romantic and often felt proud of her ability to read with noise around, she often preferred it as it expressed her choice to ignore the world louder.

Why was there an urge to ignore the world, she often found herself wondering. A part of the world gave its opinions, disapproved, judged, rejected, hated, belittled, frowned too readily for her comfort. She had no idea how to face that world, when her head was cool it told her to remain passive and say nothing. Such thoughts saw the day of light sometimes, but most of the time there was regret at how they got to her and she let them, or at how she always tried to say something but failed to get it across and mumbled something till she silently accepted defeat.

Guilt settled in later, she knew she'd give herself to guilt but frustration and anger came first. Was she even capable of anger? Everybody is, if rightly provoked. She hid her anger well, but not her frustration. She didn't know why she tried to hide a few things, the world will know sooner or later. Something you say or do will give it away no matter how hard you try. She knew herself to be a simpleton, or perhaps liked that idea of her self because it was the perfect excuse for some of the things she did.

Yet. There was another part of the world, an accepting, kind world. It was there, always there. So when she wanted an escape, she thought she was simply escaping the "evil" part, but in reality she wasn't. She was shutting away the kindness too. She only realized that recently, and it scared her that she was capable of that. Why did she want to shut the world outside when it was as ready to accept as it was to reject? But losing one's self to a book, life fading away, and not having to think of your worries but of the worries the characters are facing is very tempting. And comforting. Life could be much worse for her, books told her that. But the real world can tell you that, too, except in a harsher way. A way she couldn't handle, perhaps.

Hiding behinds books, words, characters and an alternative parallel universe. What good does that do?

2/8/2011

عن الانتظار

هل تعرف إنتظاراً لا يعرف الكلل؟ 

سألته في عقلها. لم يجب. وقوفه لوحده دون أن يوجه نظراته صوب أحد كان كافياً بالرد. لا يمكن الإجابة على كل سؤال، لا يوجد أجوبة لجميع الأسئلة التي تعيش داخلنا. 

صمتت للحظة. جوابه لم يعجبها كثيراً، بالتأكيد يوجد أجوبة لجميع الأسئلة. ألا نؤمن بازدواجية الأشياء؟ الماء و النار. الحب و الكراهية. الأبيض و الأسود. الفوز و الهزيمة. إن كان هناك سؤالاً لابد له من جوابٍ. كل ما في الأمر هو أننا نبحث عن أجوبتنا في الأماكن الخاطئة. 

 نسأل من لا يملك الأجوبة. نتراجع عن أسئلتنا بسرعة. تابعت... من تنتظر؟

واصل تحديقه بأرضية الشارع. لن يبدر منه ما يعطيها مجالأ أفسح لتفضح أسراره، بدا واثقاً من ذلك و للحظة صدقته. لا تملكين ما تستطيعين به كشف خبايا الآخرين، و الفضول ليس ميزة تمدح. لكن... . 

لا يهم. مخيلتها سابقت الوقائع. دعت أن يذهب قبلها لترى من ينتظر.

هل ستنتظرني؟

جلست في زاوية الغرفة. لم أرد أكثر من أن أكون في تلك اللحظة، معك. أراقب كيف تمضي يومك. كنت هانئة بالسكوت لم أشعر بالرغبة لان أتكلم لمجرد الكلام. هناك ما يقال بدون حروف. انا من المؤمنين بهذا المبدأ لكنك ترغب بالحديث عن كل صغيرة لتعرف معناها. ألم يكن من الممكن أن بعض الأمور ليس من المقدر لها أن تفهم.
مشكلتي أنني أستسلم بسهولة، لا أدافع عن حقي لا أثور و لا أعاتبك. أتقبل كل شيء، و لا أحد يلاحظ و إن لوحظ سيفهم بشكل خاطيء. لي اعتقاد راسخ بأنك تنتظرني أن أعقل. أن أفهم الرسائل المخفية التي تحاول إرسالها لي. اتجاهلك أحياناً، لا اجد منطقا فيما تقوله لي. ولكنك ستنتظر لترى النتيجة. اعلم ذلك. هل نريد أن ينتظرنا أحد؟ بالتأكيد لكن الأمور ليست بتلك البساطة. فما هو دافعك؟ أظلمك مرارا و تكرارا على ما يبدو. بدون قصد. لا أتعمد ذلك لكن يبدر مني الكثير الذي لا يصلك. الاسئلة التي تدور بعقلي، لا أسألها. أخاف من أن أظهر أهتماما زائداً و أصبح على الرف.
هل من الصح أن أسألك ماذا تريد؟ ما قولك في أن أكون من يصارحك يوماً دون أن تتجاهل سؤالي، دون أن تشعرني بأني طفلة مدللة لا تعرف ماذا تريد.

Scarred tongue and minnie mouse

My tongue is scarred with all the unsaid, all the words I kill inside it, all the syllables that are crushed mercilessly in my mouth. All that's replaced with meaningless phrases that are more of my brain's reflex to things. Do I fear my own thoughts or people's (lack of) reaction to them? Why do I stop myself, and why is that when I don't I'm only convinced that I really should stop myself?

My body is more of a battlefield. All the undone, untried and unsought. Those emotions I cool and and all the sobs I stifle. It's heavy with all this load that's meant to be released and set free with the breeze.

----

It's been so long since I just let myself go here on my blog, this place is mine and it's a medium for my thoughts but I refuse to let my thoughts in here. I woke up at 8 am today, barely slept 5 hours straight. I think it's because of my horrible sleeping routine during college days. I shouldn't really get comfortable with my  holiday. In a week we'll be back for a summer course. I wonder why there's a summer course here. Why this torture when they're very aware of the fact that it gets to more than 50 C outside. We all suffer in different ways, that's for sure.

I was told that I looked like Mini Mouse 2 days ago. My friend then assured me it was meant as a compliment. I think that'll stay with me for a while. Perhaps I have a cartoonish look to go with that cartoonish personality. Perhaps I only delude myself with these ideas, but our brains like to indulge in our whims. I think the greatest compliment I've got about my looks was when I was 15 maybe. One of my mom's friends told me I had my mom's smile. Since then I've got that comment more than once and it never fails to make me happy. I don't know, but it doesn't make me as happy as when someone says I'm pretty or whatever. I guess that does sound a bit snobbish, there's just something else about being told you have one of your mom's features.

I covered with two blankets because it's too cold. I could switch off the AC but I like living in extreme conditions, or making myself think so at least. I don't know a lot of things and I don't presume to guess, perhaps you're not meant to know because you wouldn't understand or perhaps understanding would hit your core and you're never the same again. Perhaps we change with every breath and remain essentially the same. Who is to be the judge of these matters?