I am only

Ok so I went to Bahrain. Highlights:

1- They didn't have Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.

They did, however, have The Final Destination… IN 3-D!

I honestly couldn't say no. And I'm glad I didn't. Because it was friggin amazing. It was the goriest one.

Honestly. Before the opening credits have even rolled, you'll already have seen...

#$%#$SPOILER ALERT%^#$$....

Two people being sliced in half… loads of people being crushed by concrete… people being burned alive… poles and broken pieces of wood slicing through people... umm... a tire flying through the air at turbo speed smashing into a girl's head from behind, leaving her lying on the ground with her head all blown up into smithereens…
Look up 'The Final Destination Nadia's death' on YouTube if you're interested… You know you're dying to.
Anyway. You need to get your butt down to the nearest theater to watch it.

The dialogue is awful, the acting is pathetic, but it's awesome. There's just something in me that secretly likes peeking through my fingers and biting my ring to keep from shouting the vile curse words going through my head when I see blood and guts and intestines.

2- Went to the bookstore again.

My copy of Everything is Illuminated hasn't arrived yet -_- Even though it has been 3 weeks! They said it should arrive next week. But in any case. I bought a book called She by H. Rider Haggard; it looks interesting. Then I went to another mall and I went to the same bookstore (different branch) and bought yet another book. The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. It's an addiction. I'm spending all my Eid money on books.

And now! New novel excerpt.

It's a combination of Leila's character, thoughts I've shared with my cousin, and feelings I think all humans are afraid to let themselves feel sometimes. Here goes.

(random, but i was listening to this while i was writing)

The Postal Service - The District Sleeps Alone Tonight

-

It is another slap in the face from life that I have morphed into the hermit I am today. I - the social butterfly, seemingly excelling in everything I try – would rather be alone than surrounded by a group of people who say they care, but never in quite the way I want them to.
It is also another slap in the face that I've come to realize I don't like being on my own. I don't like being left forlorn with my thoughts. They take me to places, little nooks and corners in my mind that I really don't want to visit… Or, rather, I'm not ready to yet.
I am a loner who doesn't want to be left alone.

Am I really the only person who feels this way? Or do I share these thoughts with other people... with you, but you are just too afraid to voice them?
I think you should. Voice them. You never know, it might end up like that time when you told your best friend in second grade that you are dying soon, because you have a worm in your eye socket that's been twitching on-and-off for two weeks, and it's probably already made one hundred and three holes in your brain, and she said, No, you silly goose! Those are just your muscles! Twitchy eyes are normal!
No, you silly goose… Feeling empty is normal.

So let me ask you.
Do you ever get the feeling that you just don't want to talk to anybody? You're tired of smiling and laughing at jokes and pretending to be happy, but at the same time, you don't understand why you have to fake being happy in the first place, because, last time you checked, nothing in particular was bothering you?

You tiptoe around life. Hardly anything warrants a reaction from anymore. You stage your smiles, your laughs, your tears, your gasps of shock. Facial expressions become difficult for you to arrange, because you feel (or, rather, not feel) the same way about everything.
You run into your old 3rd grade teacher, and she tells you that she remembers you used to be sad and withdrawn all the time. You start to question your childhood, and whether or not you were ever truly happy. You think long and hard about the last time you had a good, genuine belly laugh that rumbled from the center of your very being and made your insides hum… and it scares you that you can't remember.

You start to hate your friends for seeming so… normal. For talking about TV shows you stopped watching; for giving a crap about their future, when you can't seem to bring yourself to care about yours.
You start to feel as if the world is one big theater, and you are just an inexperienced crew member who's been pushed on stage. You are clumsy and awkward; you stumble everywhere you go. You search endlessly for other people who seem to be out of their element, just like you, because you know that'd make them fit perfectly into your own… But you don't find anyone.
Your edges are jagged, but everyone has been artfully mended at the seams. Everyone is pretending to be someone they're not; fitting into their self-assigned personas, playing roles they think they ought to be playing. They listen to "cool" underground bands that'll make them come off as artistic and cultured, regardless of whether or not they actually like the music. They style their hair a certain way and wear clothes that "express their individuality," as if individuality is some sort of ultraviolet beam that's supposed to radiate from strange clothes and funny-looking haircuts.
You begin to stay away from those people, those actors, because no one can get close to you without tearing themselves up trying to fit into the constellation of your jagged edges - and you don't want to hurt those people, who glide gracefully across the stage, seemingly at peace with the characters they've created.

Despite the emptiness, you want to be alone. People have stopped being comforting, but being alone never was – it isn't supposed to be. And that, in a sense, is comforting: at least one thing in life still makes sense.
At least when you're alone, no one keeps asking you what's wrong. No one will refuse to take "I don't know" for an answer. You keep waiting and hoping for the feeling to pass, so you can finally go back to being yourself again… except, for the life of you, you can't remember who that is.

You pass a dusty car on the road, and you notice the message someone has scrawled on the windshield – "I am only." And instead of wondering, "Only what?" You think to yourself, "That is a complete sentence."

I am, only.

-

fin! So here's the deal. I'm thinking about discarding the whole novel idea (not that I was seriously considering it in the first place) and just sticking to short pieces and thoughts like these - something my fellow blogger and friend Wuthering made me think about. My plot isn't really shaping up, and I don't think most people would appreciate a "novel" that basically consists of thoughts :P

So, 1- What do you think?

2- Ever seen any of the Final Destination movies? Do you like 'em? Or am I just weird?

Take care, lovely people who still read my strange strange blog.

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deafening silence

aloha! how are you kind people doing?

here's something new i wrote for my shnovel.

shnovel cos it isn't an actual novel, but, here we go :p

-

The world is full of paradoxes and oxymorons.

Deafening silences.
Military intelligence.
Unbiased opinions.
Natural make-up.
Wars against terror.

And feeling like a stranger in one's own home.

As I lay here on my bed, on the covers I've owned for six years now, covers that I've outgrown, covers that aren't being replaced no matter how many times I ask my mother to – I listen to the sounds of "my family's" chattering and laughter.

Me not being with them is akin to me being there.
What difference does it make?

I keep waiting for someone to knock on my door, to wonder, "Where the heck is that girl?"
But my waiting is in vain.
Because everyone knows I don't belong there, with them.
I should know that better than anyone.
If I go out there, I'm only going to end up running back here.
The only place where I don't feel claustrophobic. The only place where I don't feel like a fraud, like a sore thumb sticking out. The only place where I don't feel like clawing my way out of my own skin.

Because in here, I don't have to be anyone. I don't have to play a part. I don't have to laugh at all the right jokes, gasp at all the right places, smile at all the right stories, I don't have to tell any of my own.
I don't have to watch as people scramble to fill empty silences with empty words.

In here, silence is the language everyone speaks in.

In here, silence has a sound. It pulses from the very being of the room, from the off-white walls…
It's okay, it whispers to me.
It doesn't all have to make sense.
You belong here.
And you don't even have to try.

-

fin.

so, tell me something interesting; i'm kind of bored.

p.s. i need a new website to post music from. the one i've been using sucks. i just found out all the stuff i posted before doesn't even play anymore.

what the cricket?

so yes. any suggestions would be handy dandy.

see you!

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promises and ceiling fans

hey folks.

you know something?

insomnia sucks.

it really does.

so here's something i just wrote.

it's very sappy, and i can't believe i'm posting it.

but i surprise myself everyday.

-

They lay on their backs on the uncomfortable bed, knowing very well they'd rather be there than anywhere else in the world.
He traced an "I love you" on her thigh, and she felt it in her heart before anywhere else.

She inched closer to him, rested her head on his chest. She synchronized her breathing to his.
We are one now, she thought.
I'm yours, he thought.

She listened to the low whir of the turquoise ceiling fan; she listened to his slow breathing; she listened to his steady heartbeat…

Until his heart was the only thing she could hear. It pounded and echoed in her head like thunder, blocking out all the peaceful sounds from just a few seconds before.

She pulled away abruptly and lay down on her back again.

"Are you okay?" He asked, finding her hand and holding it.
"I'm fine," she said.
"You don't seem fine…"
"It's nothing," she laughed apprehensively. "It's just…" And she fell silent.

He watched her for a bit, sensed her embarrassment. He gently placed two fingers under her chin and made her look at him.

"It's me," he whispered. "Tell me."

"It's really nothing. I've always been just a little spooked out by the sound of a heart beating. To me… it sounds like a time bomb ticking away… A reminder of how easily things could go wrong. Like it's counting the seconds we have left on this earth… Until one day, we'll hear it beat for the last time."

He was quiet for a long time, until she was certain she had scared him. She cursed herself and her inability to hold her tongue.

And then, finally, he spoke.

"You may be right… But to me, it's just a reminder of how vulnerable we are. We humans have grown too cocky; we think we are invincible. We do hard drugs, drive fast cars, smoke lots of cigars - and death always hits us like a brick wall; it always shocks us. I think our hearts just serve as a reminder of how fragile we are… But also a reminder of how strong and otherworldly love can make us."

He took her hand and placed her palm on his heart. She stared at him for what could have been an eternity, or maybe just a second.

And then she rested her head on his chest again, and listened to the heart she knew she'd keep safe for the rest of her life.

-

extra cheese for me, please.

also, i realize it's in third person, unlike the other excerpts i've posted, but... i'm having trouble deciding whether i should do it in third person, or first person.

i think first person is the right way to go, since i'm planning on writing from other characters' perspectives, too.

i dunno.

decisions, decisions.

so in my next post i'll tell you how i made the polaroids from my last post.. for those of you who asked.

thanks to all of you who told me they liked them.

i like you too.

take care

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I'll be as real as faeries

Just a quick one today.

I need to find a way to harden these tear glands
And maybe my heart in the process.
I'll numb myself down
I'll stop myself from feeling.
Because if feelings are what make me real
Then I don't want to be real
What has that offered me but misery?
I'll be as real as faeries
And a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow
I'll be as real as monsters underneath my bed
I'll be as real as love.

I hate it and I'll most prolly end up deleting it.

Hey tell me a joke!

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Sometimes

5:23 am in the morning, I was tossing and turning in my bed. I was so tired but I couldn't go to sleep! I had a migraine and a tummy ache and yet my insomnia was kicking in. My fingers were itching to write something. So I pulled out my big blue notebook and wrote something for the story I'm working on.
I know it's bad, and needs editing, but it shall do for now. Here it is:

[pssst! in case you didn't read the one I posted before, go here]



Sometimes I feel trapped by what others expect of me. Every move I make has to add up to the carefully painted characters I have fabricated; a different me for every different person I meet.

It might sound complicated, but it is actually a matter of simple mathematics. Here's how you do it: analyze the person you want to impress, add all the parts that will make you desirable to them, subtract all the parts that don't, and voilà – there you have it.

But it is also a matter of simple chemistry, and - just like in chemistry - some equations are reversible. You think you're only heading in one direction: the end products.
Little do you know that another reaction is simultaneously taking place, quietly simmering in your insides, turning your end products back into their original reactants, until you reach a point of equilibrium.

But to every rule, there is an exception.

And, surprise surprise, that little exception is me.

Because every night when I lay on my bed, waiting for sleep to creep up on me, that equilibrium is gone, and I am stuck with nothing but the lies I have told, the ugliness, the emptiness - the original reactants, with none of the fascinating chemistry that created the desirable "me."

I tell myself,

There are so many people right now in my life, and they're all very different.
They all bring out different sides of me.

I tell myself,

I am not being hypocritical; I am not 32-faced – This is just human nature.
Different people have different opinions, different personalities, and different ways of accepting things. And so I expose different parts of me and keep others somewhere close to my heart for later use.

I am not lying to anyone.

My heart still feeds on those precious secrets that I haven't told anyone of, and that's why I keep them there.

Once they are gone, I am exposed, raw, unmasked – and I don't think that what I am at the core is all that pretty.
I am not sure if something still exists under all these layers of personalities I've created.
Once they are gone, I have nothing.
Once they are gone, I am nothing.

When I told you that my heart feeds on my secrets, I was only telling you half the truth.
My secrets feed on my heart, too.

The more I keep to myself, the more alive I feel.
But also, sadly, ironically – the less alive I am.

Maybe I am not lying to anyone.
But I am lying to myself - if I still classify as a human being anyway.

Because no, it is not human nature to have two MSN conversations at the same time and feel like I'm two people at once; trying to live up to the separate images I've created of myself.

Some people see me exactly how I want to be seen: Funny, clever, social, maybe even okay-looking.

And some people see me exactly how I don't want to be seen: jealous or arrogant, a loser or a freak, a misfit or a conformist.

But in the end – Everybody sees me.

So why can't I see myself?

***

I slowly drift awake, and I don't know where I am, or who I am. My view is fuzzy, and painfully, blindingly white.

Am I dead?

But there is a dull, throbbing pain in my head, and somehow it is hard to believe I am lucky enough to be that.

Pictures begin to fill my head: a woman grabbing me by my hair, a woman kicking me, a woman smiling coldly at me, and a little, still, blue-faced girl.

That woman is my mother, I realize.
That girl is my little sister – or was, because she is no longer with us. She is in a better place, I've been told. Why can't we trade places?

I am Laila.

Except I don't feel like Laila at the moment. But then again – when have I? Will I ever?

I don't know who I am.
Or what I am.
Except stuck.
Stuck in this drugged body on a hospital bed.
A body that doesn't feel like my own.
A body that doesn't belong to me, and a body that I don't belong to.

Maybe because I don't want to.

Who is Laila? Where has she gone? Why has she left me behind?

All of a sudden, I am filled with rage.
Rage at myself.

Rage at my mother.
Rage at the God that gave me a life when I don't recall ever asking for one; then tells me that I can't take it way, nor give it back.

No refunds.
Especially when the currency you've exchanged with is grief.

------





So what do you think?
Tell me how I can make it better, please!






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Story

I've a stomachache. I think I have food poisoning. 3 weeks of Burger King and McDonald's for lunch can do that to a person....

Anyway. Here is something that I wrote a couple of months ago - An excerpt from a future novel (possibly?)





She approaches me, and I see it in her eyes. I see it etched into the creases in her forehead and in the faint lines around her eyes. I sense its charge in the room. Perhaps I can even smell its formidable odor in the air..

Her malice. It’s all-consuming.
I won’t be getting off easy tonight.


She grabs a fistful of my hair and throws me to the ground. I land on my back, winded. She lifts her foot and stomps at me, kicks me. I cower beneath her, folding my arms over my head and curling my body into a protective ball.
I can’t see her, and I wonder for a second whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. I try to take a look from behind my forearms, but she kicks me again, and I howl in pain. I feel myself unfurl as I writher around the floor. I’m not quite sure what’s going on, what to expect – what she expects.

Nothing seems real. Everything ceases to exist. Everything, except for the continuous blows and relentless pain: in my stomach, in my right side, in my shoulder, in my heart.

She yanks my hair again and pulls hard, forcing me to stand up. I bite my lower lip to keep myself from screaming. She pulls at my necklace with her free hand, and the chain cuts into the back of my neck. Something trickles down my back, and I can’t, for the life of me, determine whether it’s blood, or simply fear. She finally pulls hard enough for the chain to give way: it breaks, and the beads fall to the floor and scatter, one by one.


She suddenly lets go of my hair and I look at her face, scrunched up in anger, her features almost distorted. Her breathing is heavy, and she is simply standing there, inches away from me. I look around wildly, desperate for an escape.
I want to get out of here.

I want to slam the door behind me and run until I am several streets away from what is supposed to be my "home." I want to keep on running until the only thing I'd hear would be the pounding of my heart in my chest and my feet on the pavement, instead of the echoes of a thousand questions running through my head.

Why is she doing this?

Why is the woman who is supposed to protect me from everything – from monsters and ghosts, from strangers, from bad news and bad people... from a broken heart.. why is she giving me everything to fear?

What did I do to make my own mother hate the sight of me?

I’m suddenly struck with a feeling of emptiness. I imagine a black, endless whirlpool inside me. I feel it sucking all the hope left in me and trapping it in its center.

A question interrupts my thoughts, like a bubble breaking into the surface of peculiarly calm water.

Why am I fighting this?
What am I fighting for?
Maybe I should just let it be…

My mother takes a step towards me, and I snap out of my reverie. She smells the same as I’ve always remembered; of apples, and what I've always imagined the inside of a cloud would smell like – something sweet and indistinctive.
How can a smell so familiar bring fear... when it once brought unconditional comfort?

I take a step back instinctively, realizing too late the mistake I’ve made..
“Do you honestly think you can run away from me?” she sneers.
She raises her hand and I crouch down, my arms raised over my head.
My mother lets out a scream of fury.
“Keep.. your hands.. down,” she says through gritted teeth.
I pull them down slowly and realize that I am trembling all over. I back up into a corner, whimpering. My mother swipes at me, and I immediately fold my arms over my head again. Outraged, she bends down and yanks my arms away; then grabs my hair. She pulls it so hard, and I find myself wondering whether a scalp can possibly be ripped off someone’s head. I scratch and pull desperately at her arms but realize I am only making it worse.

My mother shakes me violently, pulling me by my hair from side to side, kicking me relentlessly in between.
I feel like a rag doll being beaten into pulp.
Worthless pulp.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s all I am.

She stops and releases my hair. I look around me, dazed.
Is it over?

Dark and fuzzy on the floor things catch my eye. With sickened horror, I realize that they are clumps of my hair.
“How can you call yourself a mother?” I ask, intending to scream, but my voice is merely a hoarse whisper.

Tears streak my cheeks, hot and scalding. A painful lump rises in my throat, and I swallow intensely, desperate to rid myself of any additional source of pain. I feel sore all over, almost to the point of numbness.

My mother stands up, a cold smile playing on her lips. She walks towards my musical keyboard and unplugs the voltage converter. She walks slowly back in my direction.
A chill runs down my back, and I am paralyzed with fear. I scramble to get up but fail to do so. I back up as far as I can go.

She wouldn’t… No, she wouldn’t…
She’s too close for comfort now. My heart beats wildly in my chest, threatening to explode.
She can’t…
“Please…” I beg. “Mama… please. No… please…”
She raises the adaptor over her head. I press up against the wall. There is no doubt left in my brain concerning what she intends to do. I look at her face, but it is wiped blank of even her customary mocking smile.
I close my eyes, just in time for pain beyond anything I have ever experienced to come crashing down on my head, jolting all my nerves, extending to every molecule in my body.

One last question - one last bubble - makes its way to my mind, as much as I try to suppress it.
If a life is virtually empty, is it still a life?
Or, more importantly, one worth living?

And then… surrounding me from all directions: a friend, for once.. offering me peace and serenity, instead of the usual uncertainty.........
Darkness.