A wish

I wish I could write something that doesn't mean anything to me now and hope it would with time.

 
 

يوميات جامعية #01

نور، طالبة في كلية خاصة في نهاية العالم -كما تحب أن تصفها- لذا فهي ليست طالبة جامعية و لا تتمتع بمزايا طلاب الجامعة. و لكنها محاطة بطلاب طب في كل مكان. ليس في هذا الأمر شيء غريب بحد ذاته، لكن تجد نفسك متعب نفسيا عندما تكون في الباص في ليلة الجمعة و انت في طريق العودة إلى سكن الكلية تستمع إلى نقاشات عن التشريح. تغمرك رغبة في أن تدير رأسك و تقول لهم أن يأخذوا راحة من الضغط النفسي الذي يجعل ابتسامة بسيطة على وجوههم عمل شاق غير تلقائي... هذا القلق و التوتر الذي يعيشون فيه سيجعل حياتهم صعبة (لكن في الواقع الذي يزعجك في الموضوع انك بدأت تقرأ و تريد دقائق فقط لتغرق في كتابك حتى تستطيع بسهولة تجاهلهم و لو قضوا الرحلة في مناقشة عضلات و أوتار و غضاريف).

أمضي العشر دقائق بعد الساعة الأولى من المحاضرة في إمداد عقلي بالسكر. لا اعترف بإفطار صحي قبل الساعة 10. قالت لنا طالبة بأنها لا تفوت هذه الوجبة الهامة بعد أن سمعت بأن تفويتها يزيد فرص إصابتك بمرض الباركنسون. كما ترون حياتنا سلسلة و مواضيعنا شيقة. هل تريد أن تشخص بمرض (أو عدة)؟ ما عليك إلا أن تصاحب طالب طب.

لذا تحملوني (و تحملوا لغتي الركيكة). ليلة الأربعاء هذه نقضيها في السكن. لا ضير في ذلك، من الجيد أن تجد نفسك في مكان يجبرك أن تكتشف أمور عنك لم تعرفها من قبل فتيقن أن التغيير لا مفر منه. تسعد به أحيانا و يخنقك أحيانا أخرى.

تصبحون على خير.

مشروع تدويني: مذكرات جامعية

يوميات جامعية، فكرة الجميلة هالة، سأحاول بقدر استطاعتي الالتزام. سأدع كتاباتي تتحدث عن نفسها. 

المشتركون:

هالة

www.wing2sky.blogspot.com

ذهلاء

http://hope-plant.blogspot.com/ 

   نور

http://umazazing-wateva-ido.blogspot.com/ 

أصيلة

http://a0a0k.blogspot.com/ 

 

Midnight Thoughts: Of Cheese, McEwan and other unrelated things

Let me tell you about a time during the night when there's a heaviness in your stomach, in your gut. You wonder if it's the cheese you've eaten a couple of hours before fully knowing cheese isn't a good idea at night. You should know better, in a few years you'll be a "doctor" and doctors should know better. Anyway, it was once in a while kind of thing not the end of the world, you tell yourself wanting to figure out what's weighing you down.

So you go back to the heaviness in your gut. You let one more hour pass and decide maybe the cheese is only a contributing factor. There are other things. For instance, your indecisiveness. How you don't take a stand for yourself and tell those around you "this is me and this is how I'm going to be", and believe me with enough assertiveness they'll accept it and won't think you selfish in the least bit. At least I hope so.

Another issue could be the dead bodies you're dealing with 4 days a week. Now I'm sure they're doing us a great favour yet when you're staring at the body, at whatever exposed of part of him/her. You think in terms of muscles, this person used these muscles to get on his knees to propose to his wife (the dead bodies are American hence the Americanised thought) or perhaps he buried his own son with them. That's quite a dark unusual thought, my brain could have instead imagined the simple every day acts of "eating, drinking, sleeping, walking, etc." Yet that was my train of thought, one can't help it sometimes. There's also the spy novel you're reading, wishing an atheist author would adopt you (the thought which gets you a disapproving comment from your sister which you reply to saying you'll convert him or mutter that you'll probably get kicked out in a matter of a few hours that is if you were lucky enough to get in his house in the first place). Your thoughts are of course far-fetched but a reader can dream, exactly when this spy novel has an avid reader as a leading character. Maybe you were better off living in a hostel, smiling at strangers you'll share the place with and might get to know well with time than being adopted by an author. They say writers should only be read and not dealt with because that might ruin whatever thoughts you had of them in the first place. Who would want a childish 20 year old medical student worried that she had cheese at night when she knew better?
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Silence

You don't understand my silence. I thought with time you would. I had a firm belief you'd give my silence space to grow then shrink on its own. Yet you want to crush it into little pieces, you present your loud personality and expect me to "let it go".

I won't explain, please don't make me. If words were my friend at the moment they wouldn't leave me this silence. I am left with hurtful things to say, I will say things I regret.

If it was the other way around, I would respect your statue-like silence, your aura wouldn't leave me any other choice but to submit while I struggle to have you leave my silence in peace. You don't know that I leave myself no time to think things through which is why I have these sort of days. I pick up a book, my kindle, start a conversation or at best sit idly (the idle state includes my mind). I choose to dwell on other people, other places, other things. I leave my here and now somewhere else, on a parallel universe if that's possible.

I want peace. I really do. And my words may pass your ears by as if they were spoken in a foreign tongue. Words are deceiving anyway. But my silence... you don't have to understand it, just give it a few grains of respect.

I am

I'm often told I'm mature. I like to think I'm still a kid, and use that as an excuse. I can't get by without books. Classics are a passion for me. I can read pretty much anything as long as it's fiction. I can't stop myself from buying books. I don't re-read books. I have a guilt complex. My smile is a sort of grin and I don't think people smile as readily as they should. I don't understand sarcasm. I'm allergic to all kinds of smells (except for food, maybe). My family will always see me as the kid who needs looking after. I've been to 6 countries and I've lived abroad for most of my life. I ask the silliest questions. I own a guitar, learned for 2 months and now it's abandoned. I'm boring. I sometimes live on twitter. I think it's among humanity's finest inventions and takes the concept of wasting time to a whole new different dimension. I have a complicated relationship with facebook. I absolutely adore blogs. I hate the assumptions people make about you so freely. I don't have a favorite color, book, food, tv show, movie, place, shop. I'm a bit more self-centered than the next person. I write for my personal well-being.  I have a serious fear of being a hypocrite. I admire people's self-assuredness. I face a lot of expectations from those around me. I'm pro at making empty threats. I take what you say to heart. I'm clueless and a broken-record. I'm an annoying optimist. I want so much. I don't expect that much from myself. I live in my head and it's not so healthy. There can be so much good in people without them having the faintest idea of it. I hate those who give themselves airs for all the wrong reasons, not that it's ever ok to have airs. Friends, the TV show, makes me laugh hysterically. I can't do anything alone (I have a twin sister, it comes with the job description). I will blabber incoherently if given the chance.

A Game of Life

You move me from tile to tile, my roles are changed at your will. I become your knight, your king and your queen. 
My original white is switched into black when you feel that black suits me better. 
You forget which one I am, I’m lost amid your many players. No longer your favorite piece, I accept whatever move you have me make.
The rest of us were packed suddenly, replaced with a crystal set you never play, keeping it for show.

The last thing we heard you utter was…checkmate.

 Photo courtesy:http://weheartit.com/entry/30373244

Here...yet again

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 this makes me happier than when I'm told 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'm covered with two blankets because it's too cold. I could switch off the AC but I like living in extreme conditions sometimes, 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?

I just wonder who knows you best, is it you or those around you? Can you listen to people spelling out your personality for you or shall you defy their ideas, after all you've been with yourself the longest. And are we to judge ourselves based on intentions or our actions or is it our words, that is if they managed to convey our inner most thoughts. I suppose I'm repeating myself more or less but I always wondered... Some have the courage to tell you you're this and that very firmly and they make you even believe it. Some say people are easy to read, but do you know something? There's always something that is lost between us. Something that I choose to hide, you choose  to ignore or just lost somewhere in the translation. So you can't seriously think that you know all that makes a person, it's more like that you know fragments and you piece them together as best as you know how. You put something of you when you try to figure someone out, and there...that's how you can't presume to know them like the back of your hand. I suppose I feel strongly about this because we really should make more of an effort to understand someone.

On a different note, I have an ambitious reading list for the Summer, let's hope I manage to read them all and then some. Currently reading The Handmaid's Tale by Margret Atwood. A promising read, and I'm excited!

So... Enjoy your summer people. Make it worthwhile :D

Language

I didn't know your language. And you didn't understand mine. So we invented our own. We kept it hidden from the world, laughed at its ease and marveled at how well we got to know one another. I thought with time you'd understand my language while you thought we should leave our own behind.

But to lose myself, to become submerged in your world was something I could not do. Had you left me to myself one day, I'd have nothing to live on. You possess that amazing skill, of building yourself again from scratch while I struggle with the little that I have.

Let our language join the extinct languages of the world. Let's become history, a memory the world forgets. Let what we once were become a lesson taught to the naïve. Let's become an example. Return to your homeland and never forget your letters. I cease to speak that forlorn language we once created and you shall cease to understand it. Because my friend, that is the way of the world.

The Art of Hearing Heartbeats - Jan-Philipp Sendker

"Love has so many different faces that our imagination is not prepared to see them all."
"Why does it have to be so difficult?"
“Because we see only what we already know. We project our own capacities—for good as well as evil—onto the other person. Then we acknowledge as love primarily those things that correspond to our own image thereof. We wish to be loved as we ourselves would love. Any other way makes us uncomfortable. We respond with doubt and suspicion. We misinterpret the signs. We do not understand the language. We accuse. We assert that the other person does not love us. But perhaps he merely loves us in some idiosyncratic way that we fail to recognize."