This blog has evolved into a cathartic journal diary as if i dont already have 5 different rant accounts all over social media. Its funny, the way i cope with life, the way i resort to speaking online where nobody can judge me or know the real me and the way i am so closed off to everyone around me. It’s not like i havent tried letting people in, its just that my feelings scare me and the thought of opening up gives me a panic attack. One time i was telling my best friend of almost 7 years what i wanted to be in the future and i suddenly couldnt speak, like all muscles had given up in my throught and i could feel tears threatening to fall if i continue even 1 more second, and my hands started shaking too. Its amazing how i cant even talk about something as simple as my future without my body going into overdrive. I dont understand why my friends havent left me yet.
People who dont know me think of me as someone who has everything figured out, someone who is too “cool” to be having any troubles with life. And that brings us to my actual rant. Everywhere i’ve been, every person i’ve known has always loved me. I was the favourite child, the favourite student, the smartest the prettiest the wittiest the one all guys are intimidated by the one who has it all. All these people loved a persona of me. Their liking was based on a part of me that i showed them, my extended family loves the chirpy sociable me on eid get togethers, my teachers loved the shy well-behaved studious me, the guys liked me for my looks, my friends liked me beacause i went out of my way to make them feel good. They would run away if i showed them a part of me that was ugly. If i were vulnerable with them and showed them my insecurities, my fears or my real thoughts, they would all leave. I have never grown to live with the feeling of not being liked, never experienced being the least favourite and the thought of soemone hating me makes me want to throwup from anxiety. They like a persona of me and it should be that way. They like the chirpy, smiley, pretty, shy me and i cant show them the suicidal, ugly, anxious, depressed me. So i speak into the void where the people i know in real life wouldnt have to face the real me. And everybody would live happily ever after. Thats how i’ve planned to live i guess. Not the smartest idea but not like i’m planning to live that long either
I dont dream often about airplanes, but when i do, its always painful. Not in the literal sense, its just poignant or plain hurtful to the heart for some reason. Its never a happy dream. Another dream i have had too many times is about moving. Moving on or moving away or moving out, that i have yet to figure out. But one thing I’m sure of, its about moving from a home, my home, either one.
Yesterday I dreamt about boarding a plane to the new home again. I never board it per se, I just appear in the seats. Always on the aisle side. Never close to the window. I wasnt alone, all the extended family of mum’s side was on it too, i dont know which one or how many, but their presence was felt. We have to cross a sea, or a river, some body of water that is big enough to produce violent waves and dark clouds sans rain. We have to cross it and its night time. The clouds are heavy but there is no thunder or downpour. I sit in my seat, my fists clenching the armrest as my gut squeezes upon itself, giving me a nauseous feeling. I silently pray and shut my eyes close, i pray we make it out alive. We’re halfway through when suddenly a giant wave makes way for the plane. Its inching closer, threatening to engulf the plane in one go. I think of how awful a death in an ocean would be, how awful dying wet would be. The wave comes for us, and hits the base of the plane, rocking it a bit and leaving our feet wet, but we make it out of it. The plane stumbles but gets back on its tracks moments later. I let out a long held breath. We cross the other half smoothly.
When we reach our destination, i realize there is no destination. We made it out here, such a long troublesome journey and it went to no use. We reach a hotel that panders only to the rich. We get our cutlery from a cupboard but its made of plastic, my cousins and i stifle a laugh but eat in it nonetheless. The food is bland. This is not the ending i was hoping for. I fled home but i cant find a destination. But i made it through the storm, a bumpy ride but cathartic nonetheless. I think i’ve cleared the first step. Now i just need to figure out the end.
This blog started as an experiment, i wanted to network and grow with a community of writers, trying to find my kind. but now that i look back, it was nothing more than an identity crisis. when my brain decided this wasnt the real me i switched platforms, hell i switched identities. I am no longer a writer, i am a photographer. isnt that right. who am i even. the person in the mirror, is she real. are the experiences that my mind relies on as concrete, a proof of my existence or they just a thing my brain made up to keep me from facing my real self. i have put so much of myself on the internet it amazes me. was this me trying to find someone who would listen to me, or was it just an outlet for the things i don’t want to say to anyone but a screen. Things i would rather let get lost in a void of bits and zeros.
sometimes the urge is too strong and giving in seems like the easiest most comfortable option. your mind goes blank and the people you care about seem very small and distant, shrinking further, disappearing. there is no right and wrong no conscience no morals. the line between reality and dreams glitches, blurry. just one step away. all of it. it seems the easiest. last heartbeats, breaths last thought. right in your palms in your fist. it feels within your control. one thing fate can’t dictate is what you decide to do with yourself. do i really want to stop. ive stopped feeling already. do i want to stop the rush. i can make myself suffer. its in my own hands. i can chose to. i dont want to stop.
wean yourself off of life. kill off parts of ourselves. slowly, bit by bit. one at a time. so that its less painful, less hurtful, less noticeable.
theres a fight for dominance in my head
2 people have found abode in me
without my permission, against my will
they live like the most misbehaving tenants you’ve ever seen
one only drinks tea and one comes out late at night
there’s a fight for dominance inside my mind
a man and a woman have made themselves at home
without my permission, against my will
and when they fight i try not to look
not to feel, not to know what to do
i sit and wait for them to resolve
because you see as much as these two want to call it home
my body is but one mind, one heart, one soul.
it can only belong to one being at a time
i try thinking that, maybe they’ll understand
but tonight im losing to the man it seems
He wants me to cut my hair again
So I kiss a girl and make her feel pretty
I put flowers in her hair, capture the sun in her eyes, I paint her a ballad, do everything she likes
but its not my hands
not my lips
I am a hollow of a person, i can feel it. It’s like all this time I’ve been leaving parts of my soul everywhere i went, simply for the sake of letting go of it. disposing it off, ridding myself of the burden of carrying life.
Its suffocating, living. Its making me want to clutch at my neck because i can’t breathe. A paradigm, i want to die but i must live. Death. such a pretty word. Such a beautiful thing. Death. I wpuld name my lover that. If i had one. I had a lover once though. But now all i see around me is death. i am infatuated with it. i am infatuated with a woman too. her name is fear.
on Wednesday night 7th of february, 2018, at 2:08 am i cut my hair in my sink. The scissors we’re orange but when they cut through my hair they seemed to be dripping with blood, dripping into my sink. white sink with dots of red and hair. So much hair. On 7th of February 2018, wednesday night at 2.15 am i cried while i held the bleeding scissors and my bleeding hair in my hands. They slipped through my fingers and fell on the white tiles, painting a pretty picture. The tiny patches of skin on my hands where the scarlet hadn’t yet touched, watched in shame. look at the glory of what the blood has done. i took a picture. but there was no blood in the picture. lorde played in the background. please could you be tender, she whispered. and it seemed like my body was crying to my hands, telling them to be tender. it cant hold more. kill yourself already my head said to me. kill yourself already, kill yourself already. break the mirror and stick the largest shard into your stomach. do it with the scissors. bang your head on the tiles till its smashed. swallow rat poison it’s right there in the cabinet, second shelf. nobody to stop you now. drink that drainage acid and do the world a favour.
on 18th of February i had my first cigarette. left me craving for another. anything to make sure this hell passed faster. look at me sounding like those 12 year olds who claim to be depressed. why am i still alive.