The truth about living

Writing has always been my salvation; a distraction from all the nasty things that's happening around me, an ark floating me away from the flood of negativity. In writing, I am most lucrative but when it comes to depicting a feeling as devotional as love, my body trembles, my eyes squint, my hand shakes and sweats like crazy, and my pen freezes till all I can see are the distorted lines in my journals like steel bars trying to crush my windpipes. I am still searching for the right words, and I am the writer in the room. But words can only get us so far, words cannot give meaning to something that, on its own, has none at all. Silence will only hone our poetry.  Nevertheless, I don't believe anybody has ever found solace in love. We either receive too much, too little. Sometimes, it goes unspoken, unreciprocated, unfulfilled, rejected and unpalatable, or completely different from what we originally wanted. I don't understand how come a 4-letter word gets so complicated. We ...

I'll tell you about the most fastidious of all our possessions. It is a structure weightless as a smile, fragile as a cracker and soft like a jellyfish, but shoots out its inciting venom once it wraps its arms around you. We forge it thoroughly as days do go by with absolute endearment. I made mine of paper; cards deposited together in layer upon layer. And before I knew it, I have already had a whole house on my own. And like a child with his coloring book, I started choking it up with all my favourite tinges. I embellished the place with all the posh chandliers dangling from rooftops, all the memories in frames placed carefully on every shelf and all the paintings hanged on every wall. I let people in, I created bonds .. more like kinships and I gave them benefits of the doubt. My first, my second and my last mistake. If my trust was the gun, then my heart was the bullet in their chamber. SNAP, just like that, they pulled the trigger. My fallen body was the earthquake that wrecke...

I haul the shovel along with the coldness of my feet to the garden of remembrance; the only place in mind where the sun doesn't shimmer and the stars don't say goodbye. The moonlight is hustling to fight off the grayness that is eating away everything beyond skylines. I start digging the hole in which the cadaver will be buried. I look down at the casket we have carried shoulder to shoulder and snap it open one final time. If the dead ever could speak, you would know how morphed he sounds; given-up with a tinge of sanity and wisdom. Every skin crease mirrors a broken innocence for he has loved, he has endeared and he has been hurt. His expression is one of anger and disdain but nevertheless looks at peace. I murmur the rest of my prayers before I pick up a handful of dirt and throw it onto the coffin as it is lowered into its ultimate place. I repeat till it's no longer visible and that's when the tears gather in my eyes like the great Terracotta army awakening for batt...

I am made of ice; a sculpture that deflects the petite spears of light going through my body into the unresolved destinies and possibilities that linger ahead. The days to come are formless and the paths cross each other in the same way that water splashes when a wave hits a colossal mountain rock sitting at the shore. It is like playing an inane game of chess without knowing who’s white and who’s black. I have no clue what my next move is or the one to follow. All the pieces look the same; the Knights .. the rooks .. the bishops. All are fighting a battle that’s not theirs; a battle weaved in pure fiction. Are you aware of that uncomfortable feeling when you don’t know what is going on with your life? Who is doing what? And where is leading where? I don’t know how to classify things into the categories I used to put them in. I don’t know where people fit in my little messy circle. My mind is full of hogwash and my heart is torn apart all over the place; back and forth between reality ...

لقد خَالطتُ الكَثيرَ مِن الأصدقاءِ في حيواتٍ شتي، حَاربت مِن أجلِ القليل وخَسرتُ آخرينَ بمرورِ السِنين. والغريبُ في الأمرّ هو أنني افتَقد الطَريقَ وليس الرفيق. أزور مَنزِلنا القَديم من وقتٍ لآخر حيث تُهاجمني ذِكرياتُنا سويًا، فعلي هذا الجدارِ كُنا نَكتُب ونُرسم بأعوادِ الطباشيرِ المُلونة، كُنا نتسَلقُ هذه الشجرةَ وتلك كمَجموعَة مِن القردةِ العابثةِ. أتتَذكرُ هذا الرواقَ الضيق الذي اعتَدنا دومًا أن نَحسم فِيه سِباقَاتنا يا صديقي؟ هُنا بالتحديدِ كُنا نلعُب بالكرة، تشَاجرنا كثيرًا ولكن في النهايةِ كُنا دائمًا وأبدًا ما نَهتدي لطريقنا مِن جديد. كُنا حتمًا بلهاءَ لنُؤمِن بأَن هذِه الصداقةَ ستدوم للأبد. كُنا صغارًا نجهَل ما ستفعلُه بِنا الحياةُ. أصبَحت حيواتُنا كالجُحيمِ وقد غَيرت الأيامُ قلوبَنا فأصبحت كالحِجارة أو أشد قسوة. أنا آسفُ، لم أجد طَريقنا هذه المرة وعَجزت عن المسامحةِ. ولكني وجدتُ أصدقاء جدد؛ أولئك الذين وقَفُوا بجانبِي عندنا غَادرت. It is hard enough being an anxious introvert with the engrossment of all the ardent feelings in being friends with somebody which people often misi...

They were born into the darkness inside our heads. They whisper to our ears in the harmony of the night when we are bitter, cold and alone; masking the tunes of our hearts. They feed on our anger, dread and sometimes on our pains and fears. They force themselves aboard our thoughts and see the worlds through our starry eyed souls. They touch upon the details of our imagination. They feel our seclusions and depressions while numbing the rest of the sensation that we've got left. Anxiety nurtures their remains and distances make them louder and more tense. You can see them crystal clear written with an ink darker than blood on the skin of the strangers. Like an invisible bruise that disappears when other people look. Some of us might have been graced with a singular voice that fights back against all the nonsensical ones. It does all the self-hugging but the score will always be nine to one. We all have them. But these little monsters take different forms. We like to give them our o...

يخْتلِف النْاسُ باخْتِلافِ أعْمارِهم. لا أقصِد عَدد السِّنين، فهُنالِك عُمرٌ آخَرْ افْتِراضِي لا يتَحدثُ بِه الكَثِيرون؛ عمرٌ باطِنٌ فِي عَقلِ كُل وَاحدٍ مِنَّا يزْدَاد مع كُل تجْربةٍ تزْرَع فِينا الحِكْمة أو تُغير آفاقَ تفْكِيرنا، مع كُل مُعْضِلة نمُرُّ بِها، مع كُل موْقِفٍ شعَرْنا فِيه بالهَزِيمة أوْ الضَّياع. لا يظْهر عَلي تجَاعِيد الوَجه ولا علي شِيب الشَّعْر. أُحب أنْ أُطْلِق عَليه 'عُمر الحَياة'. تسْتَطيع أنْ تُميِّزه فِي عُيُون النَّاظِرين إنْ اسْتَعمَلت بصَيرتَك. تَفْتح نافِذةَ الرِّوحِ فتَجِد غُلامًا لا يَتَعدي العَقْدين مِن الزَمَن يَنْظر إِليكَ بِعَيْنَي شَيخٍ زَاهدٍ شَهِد مِن الحَياةِ مَا لا تَتَخيْله أذْهَانُ البَشرِ وَآخرٌ يَنظُر إِليك بِعَيْني طِفلٍ بَرئٍ لمْ يرَ نِصفَ مَا يَبْدو عَليه مِن الكِبَرْ. نَكْتسبُه أحْيانًا عِنْدما نُقَابِل رَفيقَ دَربٍ يَمْنحُنا القُدْرةَ عَلي الحَياة، أوْ عِنْدمَا نقَع في الحُب. أجَل، نخَافُ مِن وَقع هَذه الكَلِمة أوْ بِالأحْري نَخَاف مِن غِيابِها. وَلكنِّي أتَحدثُ عَن الحُب الذِي لا ننْتظِر مَثِيله، إنَّه الشَغفُ بِالأشْياء أوَ ال...

I hated it. I hated how everything made me feel; tender, dilute and feeble. I hated why things came to an end and how it destroyed me. I hated that I got to know terms like 'defeat', 'hurt', 'loss', 'depression' and so much more. I hated how nobody could relate to my pain or how they pointed their filthy fingers at my face and joked about the scars that I have. The moon only understood what it meant to be me. Unwanted, alone and cratered by imperfections. I hate that I feel so thankful and sorry at the same time when I am not supposed to be both. I hate how I can't be myself anymore. I feared darkness so much that I became blinded by one. It took over me a..nd ... people just turned their backs ... th..ey left. But you know what, it's totally fine. I learnt that I should judge myself by my standards, not theirs because at the end of the day, it's just me, and me only. I also learnt that to have a certain vulnerability within doesn't mean...

اعتَذِرُ لِكلِ صَديقٍ خَذلتُه ولِكلِ رَفِيقٍ تَخَليتُ عَنه فِي وقتِ احْتاجُني فِيه، اعْتُذرُ لِكلِ شَخصٍ أَذيتُه، لِكلِ شَخصِ حَاوَلَ التقربُ فصَدمُته عِبارَاتّي القَاسية وإِهْمالِي الغيرُ مُبرر. اعتَذِرُ عنْ كِل كِلَمةٍ جَافِيةٍ خَرجت مِن فَمي لتصِيبَ قلباً نَابِضاً فتَركَتُه مَيْتاً.  اعتَذِرُ عنْ كِل كِذبةٍ بْيضاء قُلتُها لتضَمد جَرحاً أو تطيبَ نَفساً فوجَدتُ صاحِبها يَذُوقُ مَرارة الألمِ. اعتَذرُ عَن مَواقِف مَرت ومَواقِف تَمنيتُ لو لم تمْر. اعتَذِرُ عنْ جَهلي ومُزاحِي العَابِثِ وحَمُاقاتِي اللامُتناهية. اعتَذرُ عنْ مَشاعرٍ خَاطِئة وعنْ مَحبةٍ كَاذبة وعن أمِلٍ زائِف. لمْ أمتَلِك يوماً الشَجاعةَ الكَافية للمُواجهة، ولكِني خُضتُ الكَثيرَ مِن المَعاركِ .. حَاربتُ ضَاحِكاً وقَتلتُ بِدمٍ بَارِدٍ وفِي النِهاية خَسِرتُ وسَقطت طَرِيحاً عَلي أَرضٍ مُلطخةٍ بِدماء لا أَدري لِمن تَعود. والآنْ لا أَقدِرُ عَلي المُتابعةِ؛ جَسَدي عَليلٌ وقَلبِي مُحطمٌ وعَقلِي سَقيمٌ ونَفسِي تَعِبةٌ. أنَا أَرفعُ رَايةَ الاستسلَامِ. لا أَعرفُ منْ أَنا ... أَصبحتُ وَحِيداً ... أصْبحتُ ما أَكره. أَنا حقاً ...

We often go through experiences that may be resemblant to one another more than you think but we feel things differently. You’re the only one who knows why you feel things the way you do, why you can’t move on or why you choose to let go because it is obviously not your place. So, I think it is clear to say that there’re no right or wrong, there’re no good cops or bad cops. There’s only the perspective of the narrator who is enforcing sympathy towards one side over the other. However, the reality might still be cold, thoughtless and hard to comprehend, but beheld only in the hearts of those who are willing to see the truth. I had a friend once who went through some hardship -which I know nothing about because I am a terrible friend, I guess. He posted about how melancholic he felt on social media (because that’s where people sincerely open up about the on-goings of their lives). As jaded as I was at the time, I never bothered to approach him. Weeks passed and he basically wanted to un...

How many people have you killed? How many thoughts have you euthanized in your path of self-destruction? How many versions of you have you sent down hell to become who you are now? How many were enough before you started losing yourself? For how much longer will you have to mutilate yourself in order to find a secret behind the ruins? How many pale shadows of forgotten names have you had to erase from your poor memory in order to convinvce yourself you aren’t a murderer? How many corpses have you hidden behind that red door where people usually conceal most of their sins?, And as long as there is no blood stained on your shirt and hands, you will be the saint people say you are. You started worshipping the lies everybody wanted to hear and the best lies are the ones you told, I will give you that. You stopped looking for monsters under your bed the moment you realised they are inside you. You became more of a wolf than a hound; thirsty for blood, ready for the hunt and hyped for his ne...

"Who did that to you? Who fucked you up so bad that you've completely shut down anyone who tries to help you. You don't want to embrace your feelings, you push kind people away. Who fucking did that to you? I am sorry you loved someone so foolishly that they made you feel like you don't deserve them. I'm sorry they have made you believe that love is an awful thing that hurts." -In one aspect, I don't think you should be, I want to believe that I fell in love with the prettiest girl of them all; She is smart, funny -she got that sense of humor that makes you laugh without offending anybody, she is beautiful, good looking, cute and on top of all of that she is humble and shy ...... [sigh]. I mean on a scale from one to ten, she would definitely score a quadrillion or even 10^80; the total number of particles in the universe, which is generally thought to be so large that our language doesn't have an agreed upon word for it. She's got that X factor t...

I always wondered if depressed people know they are. Do they choose to not see the signs? Or do they just refuse to ask for help? -There have been more than one setting where I decided I was depressed. For me, it took some nerve to let people know I was sad but I never said the words. They won’t understand what happens to your body when you go from an extreme high to the lowest low, When getting out of bed becomes the most hazardous moment of the day; Your body is aching from all the things it has lost. Your heart is numb from all the feelings it was forced to bottle up. You scream but in a voice that no one can hear, in words that nobody can read. You cry your lungs out but no one is there …. You won't be there. Suddenly, everything turns darker than vantablack, your whole world comes crashing down like shards of glass in a jiffy while you stand there breathing just a little, with your dull eyes staring blankly at the empty life you have and the talismans that kept you sane for so...

There were symphonies screaming about how people's journeys were destined to continue side by side but I guess life decided not to listen to music that day and fate was a very weighty word to throw around. Because not every story that was filled with strife must be eventually crowned with happiness. Some stories end in tragedies and others just do; abruptly leaving so much void and questions unanswered. And you know what is worse than dealing with loss? It’s not that their heart stopped beating, but it’s that your heart still does and you start blaming yourself a million times for it -Call it survivor’s guilt or whatever…..I don’t care. You weren’t prepared to deal with such loss. You were never taught how to look into your friend’s eyes and see anguish beneath those false smiles he is improvising to cover up the fact he is still in deep seated, unrelenting pain. They tell you wounds heal and scars fade over time but how can they when you are never really the same. You try to lear...

I hope none of you, guys ever fall in love. I hope books never tell your stories together or people never remember your names while looking at the constellations of the stars that shine so vividly in the moonlit sky of the darkest of nights. I hope you spend the rest of your lives unloved and unfriended. I hope you never find that one person who makes you feel whole and keeps you always in check. I hope you fight your demons alone and treat your own wounds. I hope there are no words to describe your farewells. I hope nobody finds their 'happily ever after'. I hope you never hurt anybody or get hurt. I hope every new chapter of your existence starts with you and you only. I hope you don't have to stop and underline the words: love and loss when you scurry through the pages of your old diaries. You don’t know how hard it is to be tormented by the unrequited love you gave someone. You wake up every single morning feeling dead cold and all you can think of is that 'someone...

I used to call my friends delusional when they grew affection for people I saw were only a potential ache to the mind and the heart or when they called a bunch of shitty people the cool guys. It felt weird the fisrt time I learnt that the girl acting so damn egoistic and entitled is actually nice or the one who is funny and sarcastic, turns out to be a bookworm.....The big dude with the frowny face who made me burst into laughter, that one person with the ugly personality who has a dark past or the one who is visibly quiet but filled with so much chaos. To meet new people is to handle them your book. Never do they know that the book is missing a few pages which makes it easy to misinterpret self-worth as arrogance or the purest act of kindness as affectation. You can't read a story without knowing what the characters have gone through to reach that point in time and place. I am not the first person or the last to be troubled by the human nature. But one thing I know for sure is t...

I'm starting to think that people usually perceive me as a writer and I remember saying when I first started writing that I don't want to be looked at as such. It's a responsibility I am not willing to take. I only write for my own self-amusement and relief and that doesn't qualify me for anything other than being a friendly neighbourhood thought-giver. Some scripts aren't so personal that I choose to share them with the world. Others are just better kept unsaid.

I may look like a guy who does not talk much but my hubristic subconscious mind wants to believe I have answers for everything. A friend once offered me a question; ”what’s your inspiration?“. I mean that’s an easy one. I could have told him that I want to be a physicist like Albert Einstein, an artist like Edvard Munch or leonardo da Vinci, a great sportsman like Muhammad Ali, a writer like J. k. Rowling and the list went on and on before I realised I am already attending at a medical school. I froze for a few moments in silence while my head drowned in the loud noise that lingered around us then I looked him in the eyes and gave him a hollow answer that I knew would satisfy his uncertain curiosity. I succumbed to the agitating thoughts that flow into my head in every inexplicable way and that question echoed in a voice so deep that makes Morgan freeman’s voice sounds like baby Groot’s. I knew I cannot be any of these. I don’t have the potentials to be an expression of divine. So, wh...

I still remember the day I received my first anonymous hate comment. I remember how the words meant absolutely nothing to me. But what kept me insomnic that night was the troubling thoughts of the fact that I had to wake up the next morning, dress up and go to college where I would meet that person disguised in his deceitful looks and fake smiles. It’s easy to imagine a world so free that you can say anything to anyone whether it’s a compliment or an insult. A place where you can send a secret message to a friend or a letter to a lover with all the kisses and forever’s. I was so nieve to think that anonymous means that you eliminate all barriers and limitations; social , mental, physical, intellectual, spiritual, moral …. even lingual. But a free world comes with all kinds of responsibilities because words can have meanings outside their literal cloak we force them into. Regardless of the fact that now I may be more open to any type of judgement, I am really appreciative to anybody ...

I  understand that life is not a wish granting factory. But sometimes pouring your heart out into a few words is the only thing that keeps you sane. This is one of my 'I am feeling down' wishes: I wish I could meet new people, make new friends. I am not saying I hate my old ones, I just wanna do these whole friendships all over again. I remember my junior year at college, I used to hang out with several squads of people; different bubbles. I used to make assumptions about them and imagine what their background may have looked like. Everyone had a new story to tell. There wasn't an image of me in their heads I should live up to or that awkward situation I wish I could have changed.  Now, I live a double life, forever walking two paths; the one that was chosen for me in people's minds and the one I could not take. My feet walk the path they have chosen, my soul wanders the road not taken, and my heart....my heart is forever torn between the two, my mind is weary and I am...

You know, the worst part about having commitment issues is not that you always feel disconnected when it comes to maintaining a long term relationship. It is not that you care less or hold your emotions for fear of getting hurt. In fact, It is the irony of being so anchored not to people but to things. We fear change so much that we became imprisoned by our own past. And inside that cell with the peeled paint and the writings we have left all over the walls, we are compelled to make it home, to pretend that life doesn't exist beyond the bars.  Like I remember the other day when my sister lost my pen and she bought me a new one; the same color, type and everything. I became so angry and frustrated and everybody blamed me for it. Because for me, It was not just a stupid little pen. That pen held memories; every diary, every smile, every mental breakdown, every panic attack I had for the past 3 or 4 months of my life. For better or worse, It was part of me that cannot be replaced by ...