tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42301516342247714182024-03-19T05:42:32.341+02:00nameless babbleundefinabilitisUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger130125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-36477308315119442212012-08-12T07:22:00.000+02:002012-08-12T07:22:13.033+02:00Pseudo Desire?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Lately I've been thinking about the mechanisms that govern human desire. Why do we want what we want? Or, to be more specific, what makes us obsess about certain things when we know we'll never be able to have them? Is it simply a matter of them catching our eye, and then the knowledge that we will never be able to attain them working its magic through the power of reverse psychology? Or is it something deeper, something subconscious that interests us, keeps us--quite literally--captivated by the things we want? Or am I just trying to make myself feel better by painting the illusion of a bigger picture, by convincing myself that I'm not acting like a toddler who clamours for a toy simply because it's been taken away? But what if I <i>am </i>that toddler, but that toddler also wants the toy because of a deeper reason that transcends mere possessiveness? I know what you're thinking. If you'd have taken another toy, the toddler would've reacted in the same way. It's not the toy that matters; it's the fact that it's no longer there.<br />
<br />
Is it true, then? Is our desire for certain things completely unrelated to the nature of said things? Do we want them because of the circumstances, because someone took them away or they're no longer there? Is that the reason we miss people? Not because we want <i>them</i>, but because we feel like they've been taken away? Darwinists would probably attribute that to some sort of evolutionary possessiveness that our ancestors needed in order to survive; what's mine is mine, don't take my shit--you get the gist.<br />
<br />
But what if we <i>really </i>want what we want? What if the absence of the object of our desire is merely a reminder of how much we actually want it? You know, the whole you-don't-know-what-you-have-until-you-lose-it mindset. Can the same concept be applied to things we know we'll never have? Does knowing you can never attain something make you think of how much it would have meant to you if you were given the chance to actually have it? Think of every time you wanted to buy something but couldn't; didn't you think of all the awesome uses you would have put it to had you been able to purchase it? You might think, Yeah, but I <i>know </i>I wouldn't have put it to any of those uses had I actually bought it. But is that related to the question of whether or not your desire for it depended on it or on the circumstances? Couldn't the intervening factors of laziness and procrastination be to blame? Or is it all connected?<br />
<br />
Is that why we expect things we know will never happen? I feel like "expect" isn't the proper term. The word I'm looking for is a cross between "expect", "hope", "want" and "wish". Do we <i>really </i>want these things to happen, or do we just enjoy the feeling of struggle? Does it all really come down to the concept illustrated by Miley Cyrus's song <i>The Climb </i>(you may laugh) that the journey is what really matters? Do we chase after things just because they will never happen? I know I'm basically asking the same question over and over in a myriad of different forms, but it's because they all lead to the same thing: <b>Do I really want what I want (to have/happen), or do I feel like I want it just because I know I will never have it/it will never happen? </b></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-20521743946064812462012-04-11T00:09:00.007+02:002012-04-11T00:27:48.222+02:00Papa Alien's Last Letter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Dear son,<br />
<br />
I write these words in acute physical pain, as you can probably already guess. I chose to write them myself, rather than dictating them to the young man you employed for that specific purpose, for the sole reason that my mental anguish outweighs any weariness of joints I might be experiencing. It saddens me to know that I will be shortly leaving you; I know you are well-equipped for the journey of life, but a father can never be too cautious.<br />
<br />
I address you now as a young man, full of hope and faith and optimism. As a child you were exactly the same, save for the added feature of intense curiosity. You wanted to know how we came about to live on Neptune and why we'd done so, whether there was life on other planets and if so, why we'd left it. I found it a staggering feat to keep up with your questions, especially since I felt that detailed explanations might be too complex--better yet, too <i>corrupt</i> for your pure brain. I tried to shield you from the truth, and you gradually let the matter drop--whether that was as a result of forgetfulness or deliberate abstinence, only you and God shall know--but I feel that, with death so hot upon my heels, I had better explain what it is only fitting for you to hear from me.<br />
<br />
Years ago, my son, the majority of the population of the Solar System was concentrated on a tiny ball of green and blue called the Earth. (I suppose you can already guess how self-centered the inhabitants of this planet were just by its name.) They did not look like us; God created them in different colours and shapes, as he has us, but most of these Earthlings strived to achieve a uniform appearance. You may have come across the terms "fashion" and "mass market" before; these were things the Earthlings in power used to control those below them. The division of power itself upon the Earth was quite intriguing. Being rich was almost always a guarantee to regency; however, other factors could come into play as well. You could be powerful just because you had a powerful relative! Most fascinating, I know. What is even more remarkable is that you could be <i>respected </i>for things you had no hand in, and which everyone knew you had no hand in--these feats ranged from simple things like eye colour to greater things like ghostwritten novels. It was quite a social structure, this Earth was--which brings me to my next point.<br />
<br />
The Earthlings were of a strange mix. Some of them pledged steadfast allegiance to science while others held complete belief in myth (for they believed them to be two completely different things). Others still dabbled in both. Most Earthlings, despite their declarations, believed in a theory that stated that their world would come to an end on the twenty-first of December on the year two-thousand-and-twelve. Now, my son, you must understand that these Earthlings had a flair for the dramatic. They believed the end of their world would come in the form of a magnified natural disaster or a swerving comet or some such thing. They were also, as I mentioned above, extremely self-centered; they believed the end of their world meant the end of the entire universe.<br />
<br />
As it was, time passed--as it is prone to do--and the fated day came. Some Earthlings hid in fear in their homes, while others put on shows of bravado, walking with more gusto with each passing second. These people did not know the secret. Those who did, however, were busy getting onto the vehicles that would transport them here, to Neptune. They were a mixed crowd. They did not believe in the term "misfit". <i>Everyone </i>was a misfit, hence the theory annihilated itself. They believed in the uniqueness of everyone, and most of all, they believed in everyone's right to be respected for that uniqueness. The Earthlings had called them "idealistic". Perhaps they were; the life we live now was but a mere dream on the now-abandoned Earth. But they took a stand. The first voyage was made up of about ten thousand people, but the spread of the news ignited hope in most Earthlings' hearts, and they too desired transportation to Neptune. There was a key factor of differentiation, however: only those with a sincere desire to repent, to change their ways, to live by peace and love and equality were allowed to board the shuttles. I shall not bore you with the technical details of the test the first voyagers devised; you can find that out on your own, if you search thoroughly enough. Eventually, the only life left on the Earth was that of the souls that had no desire to change; those who only wished power, and would have it at the expense of corruption. You'll notice that throughout this narrative I have used the past tense, but the truth is, they might still be there now, and we would never now. We do not want to know.<br />
<br />
Excuse me if my handwriting is a little faulty, or my explanations a little defective, for I am an aging old man, and although that is no reason for me to fail you, it shall have to suffice. I hope this letter reaches you after news of my death does, for I fear lest you should abandon your promising career in the false hopes of nursing me out of sickness. Some sickness you cannot be nursed out of, son. But that, that is not sickness. That is life fulfilling its ultimate promise, its purpose. It does not lie or cheat, and I hope that, by bringing you to this planet, I have allowed you to experience an existence where humans do not either.<br />
<br />
Your loving father</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-73622715011637667062012-04-09T21:14:00.006+02:002012-04-09T21:42:07.815+02:00The Conundrum<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>First off, I'd like to take the time to thank you if you're actually reading this post. I know one should write for the joy of writing and all (and I do), but there's always that fizzy excitement when you know that someone actually reads your posts (especially if you procrastinate studying to write them). Second of all, if I know you in real life and you happen to be reading this, please a) don't feel offended or b) mention it to me ever, because that would just be awkward. I also apologise in advance for my poor phrasing and lack of organisation--my feelings sometimes overwhelm my ability to remain coherent. Last thing before this rather lengthy prologue winds to a halt--please keep in mind that this is a highly subjective post, so it might be a little unfair. Thank you.</i><br />
<br />
I have this thing where, if I happen to be thinking about a particular problem or issue at a certain time, it consumes my whole existence. Literally. I get so caught up in it that it begins to seem like the propelling force behind everything that happened or did not happen throughout my entire life. The current unlucky subject is misanthropy.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.dictionary.com/">Dictionary.com</a> defines misanthropy as "hatred, dislike, or distrust of humankind." Now, if you're following me on Twitter (this might also apply to a select number of individuals who know me in real life), you'll know that I continually complain about fellow members of my species, and how I hate them, distrust them, want them to shut up, etc etc. I think I might have also made the point of them reminding me of everything I hate about myself, which makes me hate them all the more. The truth is, there are a myriad of different reasons behind these claims, as well as a sort of <i>Step-Up</i>-like battle of feelings and thoughts.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The simplest and most obvious question would be: Do I really hate people? Coming to think of it, I guess it would depend on your definition of hate. I'm a pacifist; as a general rule, I don't approve of physical harm, and feel guilty whenever I engage in it in a non-joking way. That doesn't mean that I don't get engulfed in feelings of desire to bring about physical harm; it just means that I know I'll feel like crap if I do, so I don't. I also don't approve of using <i>duaa</i>, or prayer, as a means of hurting someone. I also think it's not <i>mustahab</i>, or advisable, in an Islamic context. Which brings me to the next issue.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm a Muslim. I'm far from being an ideal one; however, I do want to be. I know that Islam frowns upon misanthropy; there are many Quranic verses and sayings of the Prophet (PBUH) that declare as much. Despite that, I don't take any steps to eliminate these negative feelings. Don't get me wrong, I'm not some sort of aggressive nutjob (with all due respect to nutjobs) who goes about blowing up local diners because of the repulsion they feel towards their fellow men. I have friends. I do nice things. I don't go and bash people's faces in. I don't start fights, be they physical or verbal. Thus the argument has led us to the second question: Why do I say that I hate people?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">There are so many reasons I don't even know where to start. I think I'll start with the most obvious one: Insecurity. Like everyone else, I have my insecurities. The difference is that I don't know that many people who attempt to eliminate them, which leads to said insecurities becoming magnified. I know what you're probably thinking: Other people weren't put on this planet to wash away your fears, you need to do that yourself, etc etc, and I completely agree. Nevertheless, I am something of a weak person, and little things keep happening that make me feel worse. I won't go into much detail...or, you know what, fuck it. Fuck being cautious. I will go into much detail. I'm not pretty. I don't exactly have the funniest personality, the wittiest humour, the sharpest brain. I don't play sports or have overt artistic tendencies. I am what they call "mediocre"--not the blonde mediocre type you see on American TV whom everyone likes, but the kind they don't show, the kind who gets by but never really lives. I'm the kind of girl you see and don't try to get to know, or if you do, it's only for a few hours, and then <i>poof!</i> You'll never try to keep in contact or see me again. It's not that I'm invisible, per se--people know me, they say hi to me, I get invited to stuff--it's just that, I feel like, to most people, I'm a bystander. An extra. Someone who's there but isn't really central to anything. The number of times I haven't gotten invited to stuff that nearly everyone else running in my social circle has aren't a lot, but they're still more than I care to admit. And what I hate is how my own friends give me awkward glances when that happens, or, even worse, talk about it like it's okay, it's normal, we've all gotten used to it. I know I should have by now. But I haven't.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So I guess that's one reason. The fact that I feel like I continually get rejected has stopped me from trying; I've become hypersensitive to anything that could possibly fill me with that juxtaposed desire to break down and cry while at the same time beating someone the fuck up. I know I'm victimising myself here, but I never said I was perfect, or even remotely close, I just mentioned how people react to my imperfections. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Another reason is that people genuinely piss me off. I know I can't expect everyone to be like me, but I'm still working on my cope-with-differences strategy. Girls who act dumb, guys who act macho, adults who act like they know it all, people discussing trivial things, people who rank our country's "image" as a thing of greater importance than the number of people actually suffering in it, people who think that equality is dumb; all these are just samples of things I encounter on a near-daily basis which annoy me to great lengths. I also get especially annoyed when I meet someone who reminds me of my own faults. What else? I guess how people sometimes screw up and act like it's my fault, how some people don't live up to the simplest responsibilities they thrust upon themselves, how people sometimes act like the entirety of the human race was created for their convenience, and so on. I also don't like anyone who doesn't like me--childish, I know, but I can't help it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So where's the conundrum, you might ask? Well, I've already partially mentioned it. I know I'm not being a good Muslim by constantly being so negative. And there are times when I <i>don't </i>want to be so negative; times when it feels like my brain is a Tumblr blog, full of appeals to smile and live life to the fullest and always do good, no matter what. But I just don't know <i>how</i>. How can I constantly do good to people who annoy me, or who reject me? How can I embrace the imperfections of people who never tried to embrace mine? How can I act like certain dogmas don't repulse me? And, most importantly, how can I take chances on people when almost 90% of the people I've met have never taken a chance on me?</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-74402454223177536122012-01-27T23:32:00.000+02:002012-01-27T23:32:40.901+02:00This Scent<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>Inspired by <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=elsh3J5lJ6g&ob=av2e" target="_blank">this song</a> as well as countless quotidian and not-so-quotidian events.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
This scent<br />
Never goes away,<br />
This scent<br />
Often leads me astray,<br />
This scent<br />
Has plagued me night and day,<br />
This scent<br />
Of pure<br />
Dissent.<br />
<br />
This scent<br />
Is wholly unreal,<br />
But this scent<br />
Has such a corporeal feel,<br />
This scent<br />
Is one of irresistible appeal,<br />
This scent<br />
Of pure<br />
Dissent.<br />
<br />
This scent<br />
Has taken its toll on me,<br />
This scent<br />
Has me hooked on its ambiguity,<br />
This scent<br />
Is one of rare inanity,<br />
This scent<br />
Of pure<br />
Dissent.<br />
<br />
This scent<br />
Roams the corners of my mind,<br />
This scent<br />
Can be nauseating at times,<br />
This scent<br />
Has propelled me through the lines,<br />
This scent<br />
Of pure<br />
Dissent.<br />
<br />
This scent<br />
Tells the story of a girl,<br />
This scent<br />
Is her life unfurled,<br />
This scent<br />
That makes her hurl,<br />
This scent<br />
Of pure<br />
Dissent.<br />
<br />
This scent<br />
Is overtly nonsensical,<br />
This scent<br />
Coalesces in this poem's vernacular<br />
With the scent<br />
Of mystery,<br />
Ubiquity,<br />
Enigmatically,<br />
A scent<br />
Of pure<br />
Dissent.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-1178561400559900122012-01-14T11:44:00.000+02:002012-01-14T11:44:57.542+02:00They're Not There<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>No. No, no, no. It can't happen. I can't let it happen.</i><div><i><br />
</i></div><div>The sun creeps up the horizon and slowly encompasses the world in its post-twilight glory. The feeble yellow rays land gently on her messy bun of loosely tied frizzy hair, exposing its magenta tinge in much the same way that a magician reveals a hidden rabbit. She cowers instinctively from the light, a visceral tug inside her causing her hands to reach up of their own accord and cover her hair.</div><div><br />
</div><div><i>I can't let them find me. They can't find me. They've already taken away too much.</i></div><div><i><br />
</i></div><div>And yet, she can't move. She remains paralyzed on the floor, not even able to rock back and forth to soothe her frayed nerves like they do in the movies she's seen. Looking at her from the outside, all you'd see would be a ball of grey topped by a dark covered head. She almost looks like a pencil. Except she can't write, can't express, can't move. Can't move, can't move, can't move.</div><div><br />
</div><div><i>Their eyes sting. I have to protect myself. I have to throw off the force of their being.</i></div><div><i><br />
</i></div><div>She remembers, yet she forgets. She remembers what it was like before. She misses the good parts. But she can't remember them without recalling the bad days, the days when she felt like no-one understood her, like she might as well grow an extra head for all the difference it would make in the way they viewed her, in the way she viewed herself. She hated being hurt by them, but she hated hurting them more. It made her feel like she was one of them, and she didn't want to be. She wanted to be part of something, something that wasn't that, something that wasn't them. They'd upset her too much already, whether they meant to or not.</div><div><br />
</div><div><i>I can't hear them.</i></div><div><i><br />
</i></div><div>The distinctness of the noises fades away. The sounds become enmeshed in one big aura of hustle and bustle. They become easier to ignore, easier to withdraw from. The pounding subsides. She can hear the hum of the birds and the chirping of the crickets. She can hear one of her favourite songs playing. She can hear the soothing sound of her mother's voice and the laughing guffaw of her father. She can hear her own laugh, less gruff but still raw, still pure, still happy.</div><div><br />
</div><div><i>I can't see them. </i></div><div><i><br />
</i></div><div>As her eyes adjust to the darkness they are engulfed in, images begin to appear. She sees herself with her head thrown back, hysterically laughing at something. She sees herself talking to the woman on the street with her four children, before the accident that killed her. She sees him walk towards her and ask her what was wrong. She sees the day she found out she'd been accepted at college and could start over.</div><div><br />
</div><div><i>I can't smell them.</i></div><div><i><br />
</i></div><div>It isn't there anymore. The smell of rats, alley cats, fleas, urine and food gone bad. Instead, her nostrils pick up a scent of homemade fried chicken, of <i>ta'leyya</i>, of chocolate, of pasta. She can smell roses and salt and wind on the beach. She can smell one of her favourite shampoos. She can smell the scent she always picked up whenever she came back home after a long holiday.</div><div><br />
</div><div><i>They're not there.</i></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-5919000489092066232011-12-30T21:27:00.003+02:002011-12-30T21:27:52.176+02:00Paradox?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The contradictions. Oh, the contradictions.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I wonder how someone so juxtaposed could possibly exist. It's like my mind and soul are experiencing a never-ending whirlwind of thoughts, emotions, ideas, dreams--too bad I can't make much use of them.<br />
<br />
I want things to change, but I don't. I want them to collapse, but I don't. I want to be happy, but I don't. I hate everyone, but I don't. I know I'm right, but I don't. I believe in myself, but I don't. I'm okay, but I'm not.<br />
<br />
Bottom line is, if being conflicted were an achievement, I'd be a Nobel prize winner by now.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-22777190052598577222011-12-29T03:06:00.001+02:002011-12-29T03:08:15.269+02:00I'd Stop For You<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">"Life goes on."<br />
<br />
The words were written in normal ballpoint pen, the handwriting of their writer cursive and flowy. They were the conclusion to a long, winding paragraph which appeared to be an attempt at philosophical musing out of which she was undoubtedly meant to derive comfort.<br />
<br />
She didn't.<br />
<br />
She'd come across those words in almost eighty percent of the cards, letters, emails, even telegraphs which had been sent to her over the last few days. She knew their senders meant well, but she didn't really appreciate the phrase. "Life goes on." What is life, anyway, she felt like asking? Isn't it a relative concept? Is there really a big, entangled, messy mash that contains us all? No. Time may go on, but "life" is different for everyone.<br />
<br />
She looked at those same words again, her pen poised. She wondered if the person who wrote them--her mother's aunt, in this case--knew how much they hurt her. It wasn't just their bluntness--she felt like they were telling her, "Hey, we know you're hurting, but, guess what, time won't stop for you, so you better forget your pain and catch up with the rest of us!"--but the fact that they reminded her continuously of the magnitude of what she had lost.<br />
<br />
His words echoed in her mind as she read every condolence note. He'd said them just once, but they'd been engraved in her mind. It was the closest he'd ever gotten to being romantic--he wasn't prone to what he called "mushy crap", and neither was she--but those words held far more meaning and truth in them than anything she'd ever been told in her life.<br />
<br />
It had been the week after they'd gotten engaged. He'd said something stupid, and she'd wondered jokingly why she'd ever agreed to marry him. He looked at her, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes. At first she'd been confused, wondering if maybe the words had hurt him, although they joked like that all the time. Then he spoke.<br />
<br />
"Because I'd stop for you. If you ever fell, I'd stop for you. I'd try to catch you, of course, but if I couldn't, then I'd kneel down beside you and cry with you, yell with you, go on a wild rampage with you--whatever it took, till you felt better. Then I'd help you up, be your crutch, maybe, and walk with you. I'd walk with you till you could walk on your own. And if you ever fell once more, I'd stop for you and do it all over again."<br />
<br />
They'd laughed, even though they both knew he meant it. He never brought it up again, but she'd kept the words firmly in her mind, locked inside a cell of their own, her comfort in case anything went wrong. Little did she suspect that what would go wrong would be an accident of such magnitude, the type of event that stretches a person and tears them apart, limb from limb.<br />
<br />
She found it ironic that the only person who could help her, the only person who could bring her relief, was the one person who was gone. She thought of those words every day from the moment she woke up to the moment she went to bed. She thought of them as she put the kettle on to boil, she thought of them as she ate, she thought of them as she read and reread every single one of his emails and texts, she thought of them as she thanked people for their kindness and assured them that she'd be all right, and she thought of them as she prayed. Still, it wasn't enough. There was always this nagging feeling that something was missing; his reassuring voice. She could hear it in her mind's ear, but it wasn't the same. She needed it to flow through the air, to cause waves of sound that would ultimately reach her and make her feel like things would be okay.<br />
<br />
"Life goes on." She realised that she was still holding the pen, still staring blankly at the piece of paper, which was now moist with her tears. What was she supposed to say? She'd devised a standard answer, but she was sick of it. It was hypocritical. She needed truth. She needed honesty. She needed realism. She needed someone to acknowledge that no, her life would not go on. Right now, her life was in a rut and it would stay that way for a while. She didn't want to move on. Maybe she'd feel differently in the future, but for the time being, all she wanted was to stay right where she was. Because what was moving on, really? A dilution of the pain? Putting your hurt on the back burner instead of at the forefront of your thoughts? Whatever it was, she wasn't up for it. Not now.<br />
<br />
She put down her pen and clawed her way through the unkempt room to her bed. She'd managed to take one of his sweatshirts when she and her parents had visited his widowed mother in the house she used to share with her son. It didn't have his smell--it emanated an aura of fresh laundry--but in the middle was the logo of his favourite band. It wasn't much, but it made her feel like she had a tangible part of him with her. She never wore it, but hugged it tightly whenever she went to bed, as if she could squeeze the comfort out of its fibres and allow it to seep into her soul. As she held it now, she felt her heart skip a beat, and muttered, so quietly her voice was almost inaudible, "I'd stop for you too."</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-10172974365015756532011-12-27T01:34:00.001+02:002011-12-27T01:37:21.989+02:00The Problem Is...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>This is a rambling post. Consider yourself forewarned.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
I have a confession to make. Actually, scratch that; it sounds really defensive. Let's just go with, "I have something to declare." Or does that sound like I'm going through customs? You know what, forget it. Let's just get on with this--whatever "this" is.<br />
<br />
I occasionally Google stuff along the lines of "What's wrong with me?" or "What's my mental illness?" I'm not exactly sure where this scores on the normal-weird scale since I only know one other person who uses search engines for stuff like that, but still, I'm pretty sure it's not exactly characteristic of most humans. As far back as I can remember, though, I've always been convinced that I have a mental disorder of some sort. Now I'm pretty sure I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder--there were two particularly excruciating spells of it a few years back, but thank God those are over--but I still have this continual need to find out what other disorders I have. Am I bipolar, anxious, paranoid? What else is wrong with me?<br />
<br />
I guess that's what it really comes down to. No, scratch that again, that's <i>one </i>of the things it comes down to. I tend to victimize myself (even if just inside my head) and act all rejected and shit. Or am I really rejected? Don't get me wrong, I've experienced those OMG-I-have-the-best-friends-ever moments and everything, but on the whole, I've never really felt one hundred percent accepted, now more than ever. Or should I say, I've never really felt like I completely fit in, like I can be my absolute, total, unfiltered self with anyone. Maybe that's just the way life goes, but there are times when I can't help wishing there was someone with whom I could share every single contradictory side of me. My sister comes pretty close, but even she doesn't get let in on everything. Maybe that's normal? I don't know. I don't know what normal is.<br />
<br />
I feel like my entire life has been an ode to hypocrisy. I make fun of things and then I do/say them. I say, "Hey, live and let live!" like some kind of hippie and then I go and mock people for choosing a way of life that I may not necessarily agree with. Is that right? No. My conscience aches. It aches for a lot of reasons and this is just one of them. Maybe that's why I can't find someone who'll accept me for who I am: because I never did that with anyone else. I never opened up my mind and heart in practice and not just in theory. I never said, "You know what, you guys, I'm done. I'm done making fun of people for the choices they make. I'm done acting like I'm better than them because I know I'm not. I'm done pretending that I don't envy the courage of those who plough on ahead, regardless of what those around them think," and then actually implemented it. Instead, I instigated mindless conversations about meaningless things, because what else could I have done with my time, right? And then I have the <i>nerve </i>to sigh and wonder why I don't fit in!<br />
<br />
This post isn't really going where it was meant to, but that's okay. That's what I love most about writing; it's a thinking process as much as anything else. I was going to go on about not opening myself up to people, but I think I've come across a likelier reason for my inability to find a--a what, exactly? A best friend? A family member? A soulmate? (I nearly puked as I typed the last one, but you gotta be honest, bro.)<br />
<br />
The problem is, I don't even know.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-4335788655182874492011-12-25T20:21:00.007+02:002011-12-25T20:33:06.437+02:00Girl, Why You Keep Quoting Marilyn Monroe?!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">It has come to a lot of our attentions (meaning: it is not just yours truly who's noticed this, and yes this is an attempt to make my claim more justified) that a plethora of teenage girls these days are quoting Marilyn Monroe on almost every single social network or IM program they can get their overeager hands on. By "quoting", I mean crazily posting an insane amount of her alleged sayings. Posting quotes that one identifies with or believes support an argument is natural and we've all probably done it before--but what's with this craze behind getting Marilyn Monroe's word and wisdom out to the world? I've compiled a list of possible reasons below.<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Marilyn Monroe is part of the same alien takeover plan as Steven Spielberg.</b><br />
I mean, come <i>on</i>! What are the odds that the very same woman who caused a (global?) quoting phenomenon was born in the same century as the movie, <i>ET</i>, was released? Steven Spielberg's motives for directing all those alien films are already pretty shady, but when you add to them the fact that his career took off in very close chronological proximity to the life of Monroe, there's only one conclusion to be reached. What connection would Monroe have to extraterrestrial life, you might ask? Simple: they wanted someone to subdue the masses, and she did the trick. Not only have her "seductive powers" hypnotized males around the world, her words have had more or less the same impact on females, making her an undeniable asset to our enemies from outer space.<br />
<br />
<b>Girls think repeating Marilyn Monroe enough times will make them <i>become </i>Marilyn Monroe.</b><br />
A more plausible (yet equally possible) reason, this would explain a lot. A lot of teenage girls experience insecurity, and perhaps they think that by quoting Monroe they can show the world that: a) they know who Monroe is, b) their personality is just as "feisty" as hers, and c) they agree completely with what she says to the point that they have the potential to actually <i>evolve </i>(the correct term if they view her as superior) into her. This could be either a conscious or subconscious move; however, it is equally sad in both cases. After all, does not their beloved idol proclaim that "if you can't handle me at my worst then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best"?<br />
<br />
<b>The members of a secret cult use the quotes as a way to communicate with one another.</b><br />
Wouldn't we all feel like a bunch of oblivious bastards if that turned out to be true? Here we are, incessantly mocking those girls for their never-ending Monroe quotes, when all the while they've been fooling us all with their super-clandestine method of messaging! What other mundane Internet rituals have more furtive meanings? Is uploading a profile picture of a celebrity or a baby some sort of declaration that you work with the CIA, skilfully disguised so that only your colleagues should find it coherent? Does the usage of the semicolon in a grammatically incorrect way imply that one has become a Cullen? What does the encroachment of the letter U to replace E's and A's in Franco-Arab mean?<br />
<br />
I do not pretend to have any intense background knowledge on Miss Monroe's life, nor do I mean to offend her. Perhaps the reason is one of the above, perhaps it's a combination of them all, or perhaps it's something completely different. One thing is certain, though: that shit needs to end.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-87899862250647660222011-12-23T04:23:00.000+02:002011-12-23T04:23:45.355+02:00Smile...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">It's funny how 5 letters can alter the entire course of your day, maybe even your life.<br />
<br />
Smile, because you have no reason not to. Seriously. And it's, like, easy? And free.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-79016913573020477922011-12-20T22:29:00.000+02:002011-12-20T22:29:43.229+02:00My Name Is Martyr X<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">My name is Martyr X and they killed me while I was protesting peacefully, demanding the removal of tyrants and the establishment of the rule of peace. I was chanting, screaming at the top of my lungs, surrounded by people who share my goal. We were all there, united. We screamed, united. We were attacked, united. We were killed, united.<br />
<br />
My name is Martyr X and you may know me as any number of things. My name may be one of those trademark ones that rise up every once in a while, or I may have just been labelled a John Doe, identity anonymous, no-one to recognise me. It doesn't matter. My body could have been carried by mourning crowds to my final resting place, or it could have never even been found. It doesn't matter. For I am one, and I am all. I am anyone who died for peace and freedom. I am anyone who got killed for being at the wrong place at the wrong time. I am anyone who was ever attacked, violated, aggravated, or mutilated.<br />
<br />
My name is Martyr X and they say I deserve it. Why protest, they say? It's your fault! You crossed the red line! You didn't bow down to those who whip you! You brought it on yourself so don't expect empathy, sympathy or anything but malignancy. They mock, deride, ridicule, abuse, and curse my soul. How dare I ever exist, they wonder? It's a good thing I'm gone!<br />
<br />
My name is Martyr X and I've been a thug, a spy, a lowlife, a truant, a drug dealer, an arsonist, and a criminal for all intents and purposes. They call me names and they believe them. Those who know, lie; and those who don't, speculate. They flip through their loyal channels, reiterating the disgusting claims, nodding in agreement, yelling at any opposing view. Hidden agendas! they scream. Ruining Egypt! They must be executed, the eye-sacrificing, freedom-demanding, peace-loving protesters. They are our enemies! They have been sent to destroy us!<br />
<br />
My name is Martyr X and I have been exposed, every part of my body so brutally beaten until it screamed with ache, my blood flowing, my bones breaking, my eyes bulging. I have been violated, sexually abused and harassed, as if my body were there to do with as they please. But they can't reach my soul, and it provokes them. They think if I bruise badly enough, my heart will break too, but it doesn't. Not even when it's in the cold of the morgue refrigerator. Not even when it's drifting with the current in the Nile. Not even when it's lying, stagnant, in a pile of trash.<br />
<br />
My name is Martyr X and you can beat me; you can throw my cold, dead, disfigured body over the parapet of the bridge and out of sight; you can squeeze my throat or kick me in the stomach; but no amount of rifles, tear gas, tanks, rubber bullets or batons will ever bring an end to my spirit. My bruises will fade, my bones will regrow, and I will rise again, to fight again, and become a martyr once again.<br />
<br />
For my name is Martyr X and I am free.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-69247851577216721162011-11-24T23:47:00.002+02:002011-11-25T00:03:54.234+02:00I Am Egypt<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I am nothing but a mere million square kilometers of land,<br />
Daring to exist, daring to be.<br />
I am nothing but an unspeaking natural resource,<br />
Squandered away in the hands of the elite.<br />
I am nothing but wasted potential,<br />
Struggling to barely make ends meet.<br />
<br />
I am nothing but a haven of expectant hopes,<br />
Facing the toughest of challenges optimistically.<br />
I am nothing but a road to a glorious future,<br />
Paved by a momentous history.<br />
I am nothing but endless glory,<br />
Shining within the veins of everybody.<br />
<br />
I am nothing but pure hearts of gold<br />
Helping one another in moments of plea.<br />
I am nothing but laughter and jokes,<br />
Spoken ever so wholeheartedly.<br />
I am nothing but vehement delight<br />
At the simplest, smallest sources of glee.<br />
<br />
I am nothing but the contradictions I harbour,<br />
And to harbour them all I have the capacity.<br />
I am nothing but the ultimate compassion<br />
They would have for one another if only they would agree.<br />
I am nothing but an enigma,<br />
Philosophers have studied me with great incredulity.<br />
<br />
I am nothing but the will of my people,<br />
Fighting fiercely for their right to be free.<br />
I am nothing but the venue of tyrants' demise,<br />
Finally understanding what I have within me.<br />
I am nothing but an opposing force,<br />
To those who wish to oppress me, see,<br />
I am nothing but the heroes who inhabit me,<br />
For I am Egypt, and I am free.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-45936427103001969722011-11-03T00:05:00.000+02:002011-11-03T00:05:27.607+02:00Ghosts of the Present<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Things turned out in a way you never would have expected.<br />
<br />
You look at them and you wonder how. How the people you've known the longest can end up being the ones you tolerate the least; how the friends you thought you were so close to can make you feel like a worthless heap of nothingness; how the understanding you thought you shared turned out to be nothing more than a mere illusion you entertained yourself with. Or did it just disappear? You don't know. You look at them and you feel like you don't know anything anymore.<br />
<br />
You're at that juncture in your life where you question everything, no exceptions. Is your reconsideration of your friendship just part of that? Your dramatic alter-ego taking over, perhaps? Or is it something more?<br />
<br />
You all grew up. Maybe you just don't share the same things that once pulled you to each other anymore. Maybe the only thing holding you together now is the rope of time and company, gradually stretching until it's in danger of being brutally severed by everything that repels you from each other.<br />
<br />
You always put them first. But did they? You feel like they expect so much and give so little, but then flashbacks of things they've done for you come coasting through your brain. A wave of guilt washes over you. Maybe this is normal, you tell yourself. It's not like it's the first time you've ever felt disconnected. But maybe it's not.<br />
<br />
You don't know. You look at them and you feel like you don't know anything anymore.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-45315031252741164042011-10-21T15:19:00.002+02:002011-10-21T15:24:23.820+02:00Yes, I Am Still Alive<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I wanted to start off this post with a deep, somewhat poetic statement. I mean, that's probably one of the best techniques of blogging come-backs, right? Then I realized that all I really wanted was to write something that helped me let it all out; something that wouldn't be graded, marked, or commented upon by a teacher, examiner or anyone with the capability of altering my future grade in some way.<br />
<br />
A lot has been going on recently--but then again, when has it not? 2011 has been one hell of a year, and honestly, I wouldn't erase a single moment. Except maybe the pain, suffering and death some people had to endure, but even that went a long way towards helping the world shake off its drowsiness and get up out of bed once and for all.<br />
<br />
To me, things will never be the same. Deep inside, I know I learned a lot of things, and although it would be much more impressive to list them in a philosophical paragraph, I don't really know what they are. Besides, I haven't stopped learning. I mean, I've changed in a lot of ways, and not all of them are for the better. But I'm trying, and I'll keep on trying, and maybe some day I'll find myself on a road that can take me there.<br />
<br />
Friends. *le sigh* That's some funny business, isn't it? All of a sudden, you love someone who used to piss you off like crazy, and you stop trusting the people you thought you couldn't live without. It's not about some great betrayal (I wish it were, that'd make things a whole lot easier), it's about the small things, the little things people do and think we don't notice (or maybe they just don't care if we do). Friendship isn't about abusing people; sure, you sometimes take more than you give, and sometimes it's the other way around, but there's always got to be balance. And you'd think, after 8 years, the people "closest" to you would know what that balance was.<br />
<br />
The future's coming. Stupid, I know, but that's how I feel. In two years I'll be in college, and the decisions I make right now have a huge effect on where I'll be then. Scary. Like I needed more reasons to stress out. I'm perfectly capable of doing that over mundane, day-to-day things. Which brings me to the next issue: my poor, fragile heart. No, I'm not talking about some sappy unrequited love (that's actually pretty funny), I'm talking about the fact that I'm pretty sure that I'm going to end up with a cardiological ailment some day, owing to stress and spending 80% of my time being pissed off.<br />
<br />
You're probably wondering what the point of this post is (I would be, too). There is no point. Sometimes, things don't have a point, or at least it's one we can't see. They happen, and maybe later, if we're lucky, we get hit by a movie-like epiphany (looking off musingly into the distance and crying, "BAZINGA!" are required) and realize why they did, but for now, I don't know. And I'm guessing neither do you.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-90798706775863415012011-08-09T05:20:00.001+02:002011-08-09T05:25:58.228+02:00So The "Civilised World" Riots Too<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">With the Middle East being in the limelight and leaders of "developed" nations condemning the acts of the regimes the Arab Spring set out to abolish, who would've thought said leaders themselves would soon be the subject of all the media attention?<br />
<br />
Maybe we should direct that question to all those "Middle East experts" and "civilised citizens". After all, many of the former two groups haven't bothered hiding the fact that they view the Arab world as more or less underdeveloped. And as a matter-of-fact, it is not just those former two groups that posses that conviction. Many Arabs feel the same way as well, often commenting on the lack of civilisation of their own peoples. (Let's not deny it, Middle Easteners, we were all guilty of sarcastic comments of that nature at some time or other.)<br />
<br />
But soon, the protest movement widened to involve Spain (which, unless we're going all the way back to the Arabs of Andalusia, isn't geographically believed to be "in the region"), a European country. And Europe means democracy, right? It means freedom, social justice, equality, and all those other good principles we seek but can never seem to attain.<br />
<br />
Perhaps not so. Over the past few days, another European country has encountered dissent. The death of a man of colour at the hands of the police seems to have sparked what have now been three days of looting, theft, arson, vandalism and such--that is, if media sources are to be believed.<br />
<br />
However, I haven't come out of the Egyptian revolution a completely unchanged person: My lack of trust in the media, already on the increase, was cemented by the despicable reporting of many media sources, specifically Egyptian state television and newspapers, and their continuing pandering to the powers-to-be. And it appears our beloved unprofessional news portals are not alone. All over the world, the media has been manipulated until it has changed into a self-serving tool for its "owners" (you know what they say, money talks).<br />
<br />
What I'm trying to get out of this epiphany is: I'm not in London. I'm not walking the streets of Tottenham or Liverpool. I haven't seen any of the reported events in person, so I can't exactly be sure of what's going on, but what I do know is this: Poor people will steal, if it becomes a matter of survival. Dissatisfied people will attempt to make their dissatisfaction known, if it turns life into an unbearable mess. People use different methods to get their point across; you may not agree with some of them, but before you pick up your gavel, perhaps you should try to put things into context. The world has enough people condemning atrocities, but not enough researching their causes and endeavouring to put an end to them.<br />
<br />
Since I am not British, I will direct you to this (in my opinion) <a href="http://pennyred.blogspot.com/2011/08/panic-on-streets-of-london.html">commendable blog post about the London riots</a>, written by journalist Laurie Penny, as my parting words (a quote from John F. Kennedy) ring in your ears, "Those who make peaceful revolution impossible, make violent revolution inevitable."</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-64616066359555357932011-07-30T16:03:00.002+02:002011-07-30T16:07:40.676+02:00The H Word (And No, It's Not Hormones)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">So I'm sitting here with my Blogger dashboard open thinking of a subject to write about, when my eyes catch the words "the boy who cried wolf" somewhere on the screen and that reminds me of something I'd already been thinking about for a while now, which is--no prizes for guessing--honesty.<br />
<br />
I'm not what you'd call an honest person, but I'm not exactly a liar either. Okay, fine, I <i>might </i>be a liar; the lines are a bit blurry so I can't really tell. I consider myself to be like my fellow jaded 10+ humans who have long since become accustomed to blurting out an untruth whenever necessary to float around life somewhat unperturbed. In other words, I lie. And I do that for a variety of different reasons.<br />
<br />
First and foremost, there are moments when I feel like <b>I just can't tell the truth</b>, "can't" being the operative word here. You know those situations, where you think, "It's not my truth to tell." Like, for example, say someone you know did something, and this resulted in you having to explain to someone else, and the first someone doesn't want the second someone to know the real deal; what do you do? You lie, right? Because, you rationalize, what <i>can </i>I do? Certainly not tell the truth. And sometimes, <i>you're </i>that first someone, and someone asks you a question point-blank about one of your deepest, darkest secrets, and you don't want them to know; what do you do? And it goes on and on.<br />
<br />
Then there are all those <b>"white" lies</b>, you know the ones. Like when your friend goes, "Do I look good?" and you really do not have a single iota of liking for their current appearance, but you still go, "Sure!" Or when someone asks you, "What do you hate about me?" and you're like, dude, you DON'T want to know, so you go, "Nothing!" Or other, yet more painful moments when you're subjected to a situation where you feel like <i>not </i>lying would hurt someone's feelings, so you go ahead and lie anyway, until you don't even think about it and it starts out coming automatically when you need it, like some sort of life-preservation reflex.<br />
<br />
Of course, we've also got the infamous <b>lying before you even think about what you're doing</b>. This one has got to be the weirdest of them all, because you don't even <i>need </i>it. It almost always happens like this: someone asks you a question, you blurt out a lie before even thinking about it and then, to yourself, go, "What on God's diversely colourful Earth did I do THAT for?" Because it was a totally innocent and non-awkward question with an equally innocent and non-awkward answer. So why did you lie? Have you become a pathological lying machine with deception in every fibre of your existence that you can't even relay a simple fact without twisting it around?<br />
<br />
The truth is (I just realised that I write this down a lot; perhaps honesty is easier in writing?), it's not really that hard. I mean, I don't <i>think </i>it's really that hard; we only make it so ourselves. If you truly appreciated the value of honesty, and fully believed that--no matter what--it was the right thing to do, then with a reasonable amount of willpower, you'd go ahead and sail the stormy seas of life in a vessel built purely of beautiful, solid truths. That, among other reasons, is why I have decided to start my own personal campaign to Always Be Honest. With Ramadan just a couple of days away, it's the perfect opportunity to blot out the mistakes of the past and start being an honest, upright human being before I turn into a horrible lying, deceptive monster. Because, you know, once you go bad you can totally go back, if you only try hard enough (I hope so, because if this isn't true, then I am so screwed).<br />
<br />
<i>I feel like I should mention that this post was partly inspired by Sarah Dessen's book </i>Just Listen<i>. Thank you, Owen Armstrong, for making me think about something that had slowly winded its way into my life until I stopped thinking about its diseased impact. Also, I love you and I hope people like you exist beyond the pages of literature. Okay, that's enough for now.</i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-16508590088378472102011-07-29T23:53:00.002+02:002011-07-29T23:57:55.295+02:00Ramblings On Labels and Such<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I think I've already mentioned quite a few times on this blog that I'm not a big fan of labels. I believe the human spirit has more to it than can be described in a simple word or phrase, which is exactly why we should keep the labels for the jars of pickles (not that they don't have any personality or depth to them, but I think we can all agree that they are less complex than the human soul).<br />
<br />
I'm currently reading <i>El-Ketab El-Tany </i>(The Second Book) by Ahmed Esseily, and it has a chapter on labels that I really liked. Esseily (who refuses to be labelled) says that people stick labels on others to make it easier for themselves to deal with them, which I completely agree with. The truth is, people aren't two-dimensional creatures that can be expressed in a mere word, like I said. They're much, much more than that, and that is where labels fall short.<br />
<br />
What was dubbed "Friday of Unity" today in Tahrir Square turned into more or less the opposite of that. Self-proclaimed Islamists, Salafis and Ikhwan members flooded the square and began calling for an "Islamist state", while the other side, supposedly composed mostly of leftists and liberals, chanted for a "civil state". Because, you know, <i>that's </i>what totally matters: what we call our country. As opposed to what we actually <i>do </i>in our country to make it better for all those living on its soil, and all those belonging to it but living abroad.<br />
<br />
Frankly, I don't care. I don't care what the country I live in is called. I'm not going to go out there and demand that everyone adhere to the system that I find fitting. I'm a random person who changes her mind a lot so this whole belonging-to-a-group-of-thinking thing doesn't really work for me. What I care about is this: that I lead a decent life in a decent country. A country where 40% of the population is not below the poverty line. A country with clean streets and even cleaner minds. A country where people accept each other and regard their differences as good things, not bad ones. A country where you're free to do or say what you want as long you don't cause harm to anyone else. A country with a free, independent media that isn't abused by the powers-to-be to brainwash the masses into one sick, deluded concept. A country where politicians aren't continually trying to exploit the very people they swore to protect. A country where a policeman and an army solider are figures of security, not torture. A country where people don't cast generalizations or go around stereotyping everyone they meet because they know that no two people are really the same.<br />
<br />
That's the kind of country I want to live in. I'm pretty sure all the labels could argue that their system offers just that, to which I can only say, I rest my case. Maybe we could have a liberal-leftist-rightist-secular-religious state? After all, it does take all the colours of the rainbow, united, to form one beam of white light.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-73177306236272525522011-07-19T12:23:00.005+02:002011-07-19T20:32:22.111+02:004 Reasons Why I Hate Most of My Peers<i>I've been reading a lot of blog-posts, tweets and other such Internet content from a lot of Arab teenagers lately, especially Arab-Americans and other Arab youth living abroad, a lot of which tend to be sarcastic critiques of their Western wannabe Arab peers, which I can relate to in a sense. This got me thinking: Here I am, in this strategic position; an Egyptian teenager watching the whole youth scene going on around her, so why not plough on in a similar way to that of my fellow cyber cynics and expose my opinion about all this once and for all?</i><br />
<br />
I should probably warn you that I've never exactly been what you'd call a "people person". I went through the usual phase of pre-teen social awkwardness, but even after I got over my fear of talking to new people, I never really became a social butterfly, so to speak. I'm not really sure what that's about, but I have a strong feeling it can be attributed to my strange mood swings, OCD, and distaste in the human race in general (myself included). And in the usual fashion of us "non-people people", I shall now proceed to detail all the things I hate about my peers in order to distract everyone from my inadequacies.<br />
<br />
<b>1. Westernization at its very best.</b><br />
It's not just about choice of food or clothes; it's become a whole lifestyle. I'm not going to sit here and pretend that I'm the ideal model of an Egyptian Muslim girl, but at least I haven't been <i>completely </i>brainwashed into dying my hair and buying all sorts of clothes that make me feel like I belong on a Paris runway. Not only that, but it's become quite commonplace among Egyptian teenagers now to have a boyfriend/girlfriend, which is a well-known taboo in Egyptian culture. It's everybody's business what they choose to do in their personal lives, but one cannot watch this wannabe movement continue and not speak openly about it. It's like some sort of inferiority complex, and would actually be quite sad if it weren't so funny. Because when you watch the people around you start dating all sorts of random partners, one after the other (and occasionally at the same time), just because they have nothing better to do; you just can't help but laugh.<br />
<br />
<b>2. Trending talents.</b><br />
Amongst Egyptian teenagers, DJ's, photographers and rappers are cropping up everywhere. Now, I don't see anything wrong with wanting to explore something you could be talented at, or even wanting to do it professionally; after all, that's your business, right? And with a lot of people, that is the case, but you've also got those who do it because it makes them seem <i>cool</i>. Some people even go to the extent where they feel as though they called dibs on that particular activity and no-one else is allowed to take an interest in it without their explicit permission (acquaintances who were the inspiration behind this shall remain unnamed). And then, at the other end of the spectrum, you've got those who feel better once they've made fun of every single person doing anything that's become fashionable, without bothering to see if maybe the reason why they do it is that they actually <i>enjoy </i>it, as opposed to the herd of cattle theory.<br />
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<b>3. Drama queens.</b><br />
This is probably something that is also the result of the extreme boredom this age group faces. It's not a typical characteristic of everyone I know, but it is very common nonetheless--and <i>extremely </i>annoying. You know the drill; some people just happen to be gifted with the ability to turn anything into a big deal. It could be friends not calling them frequently (which inevitably makes them jerks), a break-up which must be followed by the usual mournful/vengeful Facebook statuses and BBM personal messages, or a simple occurrence which they decided to blow up for no apparent reason. Needless to say, these people can reduce anyone's faith in mankind, let alone someone who has already lost it completely.<br />
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<b>4. Parental complexities.</b><br />
Again we find ourselves faced by the two opposing ends of the spectrum. At one side, we've got the rebels; those who've got issues with their parents and sometimes end up making up all sorts of stories about them (and almost always, the lies get found out). However, we've also got the other team, who are a hundred and ten percent convinced that <i>anything </i>that comes out of their parents' traps is true. Usually that over-confidence is exerted in subjects they deem as "serious" or "complicated", like politics or religion. Because apparently, in two topics that are governed by relativity, there <i>is </i>a correct and wise opinion which you can attain by age and DNA linkage.<br />
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That's basically it for my not-so-objective piece of not-so-constructive criticism of those who are not-exactly-surrounding-me. Perhaps one day I will truly mingle and find out the truth behind all this crap firsthand, as opposed to from, you know, Facebook and stuff.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-8493922782029153112011-07-15T11:09:00.001+02:002011-07-15T11:12:47.872+02:00The End of Our Escape from the Muggle WorldAn issue has come to my attention. A grave, serious issue that I cannot believe I have neglected for so long when it is something that has the power to change all our lives forever, however long that may be. Close your tabs (or at least leave them unopened), ignore your downloads, turn off your music; for this, ladies and gentlemen, is a question that shall leave you all wondering profusely where in the world (or within yourselves) you can find the answer.<br />
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Without further ado, the conundrum facing us at the present time is...<br />
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WHAT THE HELL ARE WE GOING TO DO WITHOUT HARRY POTTER???????<br />
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No-one can deny the effect the <i>Harry Potter </i>series has had on all our lives. The books turned normal, dull evenings into enchanting times by sucking us into a world that was so unreal yet not at all far-fetched. The movies kept us waiting on tenterhooks for each new installment, eagerly imagining how what we'd read (if you only watched the movies and didn't read the books then you must be a Certified Idiot) would be translated onto the silver screen (or, you know, the small but beloved screens of our laptops).<br />
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<i>Harry Potter </i>has definitely taught me (and, I assume by Twitter's current Trending Topics, many others) a lot, more than one could ever have fathomed a fantasy series capable of. Also, the fact that while reading the books or watching the movies (at least starting <i>Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban </i>and up, as the first two films were a bit meh) you feel like everything happening could actually take place in real life is undoubtedly at the core of their secret of success. No-one wants to read/watch something that has phoniness seeping out of every nook and cranny; it sucks all the pleasure and enjoyment out of the experience.<br />
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Over the past decade or so, waiting for the next <i>Harry Potter </i>book/movie to come out had become as natural and routine as waiting for summer or coming down with the flu.Therefore, I think it would be deemed acceptable by people around the world that we all proceed to shut down. Retreat to our beds. Lie down. Do nothing. Await our impending demise. For a life without the excitement of beholding any new <i>Harry Potter</i>-related artistic substance (and no, commercial dolls/notebooks/t-shirts/etc. are not included in the definition of that term) is not a life at all.<br />
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But don't totally freak out now. Because, you know, we'll manage. And not by feeding off <i>Twilight</i>, you Edward vs. Jacob freaks. Those books are good, but the movies make <i>The Bold and the Beautiful </i>seem like a wonderful piece of mind-blowing acting.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-16706606910352257962011-07-14T03:04:00.002+02:002011-07-14T03:20:56.106+02:00The Certainty of DeathLife. Death. Two words--or rather, <i>concepts--</i>around which our existence revolves. We never were, and then we come to life, and then we die once more. And in between coming to life and dying; we breathe, drink, eat, laugh, cry, love, hate, live; forgetting that one day, it will all come to an end, and then what will we have to show for that time spent doing whatever it was we were doing?<br />
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The certainty of death is something earth-shattering. In the usual way of humans, we tend to put off that thought the way we tend to put off a lot of things. Tomorrow, I'll get the work I've been meaning to do for a week done. Tomorrow, I'll call that friend who called me a year ago and whom I still haven't called back. Tomorrow, I'll get closer to God. Tomorrow, I'll meditate and think of my life and where it's headed. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. We lay so much on our tomorrow to unburden our today, which when you look at it, is utter foolishness since we can never be sure that tomorrow will indeed come.<br />
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I can die at any given moment. Death could come right now; or it could be moments, hours, days, weeks, months, years away. The truth is, it will come. One day, it will come. And how am I to know that years from now, I won't still be putting off everything I want to do? I do not trust myself to the extent where I can confidently say that if I delay the act of becoming a better person to a certain date, then when that date comes and I am still alive, I will live up to my word. <br />
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The simple truth? Death is imminent. Humans are foolish. Perhaps the secret of life is death. Perhaps the only way to have a fruitful life is to constantly remind yourself that one day, like the rest of God's creatures, you shall perish.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-4431222012830725432011-07-08T06:44:00.001+02:002011-07-08T06:45:29.929+02:00I Don't KnowAnd the fact remains: I don't know. I don't know why I sometimes can't put into words what feels like a stream of contradicting thoughts flowing through my head. I don't know why some things that shouldn't piss me off, piss me off. I don't know why I can't seem to move around or get anything done; why I've completely and utterly surrendered to the shackles of laziness that appear to bind me for all eternity. I don't know why you did what you did; why you do anything you do, for that matter. I don't know why it seems like one minute you like me, the next you don't. I don't know why it's not only you I get that feeling about, but almost everyone. I don't know how I can possibly have such a low self-esteem and yet think highly of myself at the same time. I don't know why no-one seems to like me, <i>really </i>like me, when I don't really think I'm that bad. I don't know why I can't make the distinction between building fences around me and jumping into other people's lives uninvited. I don't know why I'm too scared to do some things by myself. I don't know why I keep wondering <i>why </i>I have to do those things by myself; why 70% of my time is spent by myself. I don't know why I'm on this earth when I don't even deserve it. I don't know why I don't get up and do all the things I know I could do if I set my mind to it. I don't know why I don't get past all the how's and just <i>go </i>for what I want. I don't know why it's always a how that ends up bringing me down; usually a how-to-get-there, both literally and metaphorically. I don't know why I let them. I don't know why some people aren't nice to me when I make an effort to be nice to them. I don't know why I'm excluded when I thought I was a part of it. I don't know if it's my fault or not. I don't know what you want from me. But most of all, I don't know what I want from myself. Or do I? I don't know that either.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-32815100514334863532011-06-28T20:21:00.001+02:002011-06-28T20:24:54.961+02:00The Wait of AdjournmentCan any of us ever recall a time when we weren't waiting for something? A time which we were pleasantly enjoying without contemplating the future and all it would bring? A time when we were not reassuring ourselves that we didn't need to be happy right now; that some far-off joy was waiting for us and would come in time? And what happened when that much-awaited time came? Did we achieve what we promised ourselves? Did reaching a certain date and time bestow upon us all the cheerfulness we'd convinced ourselves we'd get?<br />
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Something I've recently realised is that Man is always setting aside <i>feelings </i>for the future. For example, you've been studying for your finals for a month now, and this Friday you will finally be liberated from the shackles of the education system (at least for a couple of months). You are continuously counting down till Friday, almost obsessively willing the days to pass so you can reach that happiness and contentment which you've set aside for yourself, which you believe you'll attain come Friday. And when Friday <i>does </i>come, what happens? Did all the happiness you'd been storing for the entirety of that dreaded month come raining down on you? Were you caught in the flood of excitement and pure, unadulterated joy that you thought you'd find?<br />
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The truth is, sometimes we set high expectations for an event that might not carry all the significance we believe it does. Sometimes we forget about the present and promise ourselves that all our misery will be worth it when everything we'd ever dreamed of comes pouring in. But why? Why do we do that to ourselves? Why do we not acknowledge our right to live out our dreams <i>at any time</i>? Why do we keep setting things, from accomplishments to sentiments, aside for tomorrow? How do we even know that tomorrow will come? And how do we know that it will carry with it all that we so foolishly thrust upon it?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-91838215458583386572011-06-26T06:11:00.003+02:002011-06-26T06:26:43.463+02:00The 'Free' In 'Freedom of Speech'Given that freedom of speech is a topic that I feel quite passionately about, I decided to delve deeper and explore this particular notion. But what exactly does it mean? Freedom of speech is commonly define<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">d a</span>s<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"<b>the right to express any opinions without censorship or restraint</b>". Most definitions state the government as the source of such restraint, and some state that it sometimes reserves the right to impose certain restrictions. This is your cue to stare incredulously. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;">Where is the need for incredulity, you may ask? Well, the idea that is undergoing discussion is called "</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><b>freedom </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;">of speech" (the word is in bold for a reason aside from decoration). How can you restrict freedom? It doesn't really make sense linguistically or using that good ol' machine up there (i.e. your brain, not your central air conditioning). Or does it?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;">For years, governments have censored media outlets and other tools dissatisfied citizens may resort to as a means of voicing their critical opinions. However, those who happened to slip below a government's radar and somehow find a way to inform everybody of their disapproval were almost always reprimanded in a range of ways, ranging from fining to imprisonment and torture. Being an Arab citizen living under oppressive Arab regimes, and watching the hypocrisies of politicians, people who claim to be seeking the greater good, people who just can't stop "defending themselves" (hint: their names start with a Z and end with Ionists), to name a few; I've reached the level of maturity where I can confidently say that injustice prevails the world-over</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;">. I've grown up listening to stories of activists detained, journalists arrested, dissidents detained and abused in State Security </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;">(which has been granted the brand new name of National Security; you can't say democracy never achieved anything)</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;">prisons all because they simply voiced their opinions and acted upon them. And it's not just about governments; people who are in power anywhere (be it the work place, high school, you name it) tend to set rules which others are presumably obligated to follow. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;">Is it logical? Why should a certain group of people prevent others from announcing to the world what they really think/feel? Why should stating your beliefs compromise you and your family's safety and well-being? Why should you waste your whole life keeping your beliefs bottled up because you're not allowed to let others know of them? </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><b>However </b>(yes, there is a however in all this), my observations in life have led me to believe that everything in life is relative. What you might be a hundred and one percent convinced of may hold absolutely no weight with someone else. It all depends on your viewpoint which is formed due to a number of cultural and societal reasons, among others. This is what freedom of speech is essentially about; respecting relativity and ensuring that all sorts of diverse opinions get a chance to be unleashed by their owners. Strangely enough, relativity could also be the thing that counteracts freedom of speech. As I said above, certain restrictions are sometimes imposed on freedom of speech, often after such speech is labelled dangerous or harmful to others. An opinion seen by one person as harmless could be seen by another as instigator for immoral/illegal/threatening actions. So where does it end? And who gets to define what is or is not harmless according to their own definitions? </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;">Want my two cents on all this? (Which I will give anyway, because this is my blog. And yes it does have my name on it.) Relativity may be prevalent, but most folk tend to reach an agreement after having a civilized, well-informed discussion. Certain regulations by international organizations have already been issued with regards to freedom of speech, but as we know, such "international laws" are very rarely followed (SEE: United Nations). The truth is, it all comes down to every person and THEIR definition of freedom of speech, as well as their efficient use of brain power that prevents them from becoming completely influenced by anything they see/hear/read.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><i>This isn't over. A topic as intriguing as this one cannot be wholly covered in one measly blog post. In fact, it can never be wholly covered at all, but attempts shall be made. Expect such attempts to be posted on this blog shortly. </i></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-13058994146639350332011-06-20T00:07:00.004+02:002011-06-20T00:24:05.981+02:00Sexual Harassment in EgyptConsidering that today (20/06/2011) is the day when bloggers/tweeters/anyone with a working Internet connection really unite to voice their objection to sexual harassment, and since my opinions on this topic are far more than tweets can hold without invading the timelines of everyone that has decided to click that little button underneath my name and follow my rants, I've decided to write up a post about it, in the hopes that it will not lull you to sleep.<br />
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First of all, as a female, I've been lucky enough in my life to avoid most forms of sexual harassment. By those I mean touching/rape/etc., but, of course, I haven't been able to avoid leering gazes or degrading comments as things like that are commonplace in the world we live in today, especially (although it saddens me to say it) in Egypt.<br />
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Since I haven't really lived in any other country for a length of time or with a certain number of years behind me that enable me to observe the happenings around me, I'll stick to what I know and talk about Egypt. I'll try to cover all the points of view I've heard over the years to avoid falling into sticky generalizations and stereotypes.<br />
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Most people I've come across in the middle class of Egypt are very much opposed to sexual harassment. In fact, I don't think I've ever <i>heard </i>(I don't know what they think in the safety of their minds) anyone say that harassment is in any way okay. However, the areas where people differ are the <u>a) causes</u> and <u>b) ways of elimination</u> of sexual harassment.<br />
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<b>1. It's the girl's fault. </b><br />
Now, this is unfortunately a commonly-held belief which really, really, REALLY and truly pisses me off. The believers of this idea have turned it almost into a mantra, blaming female victims for their attire (never mind the fact that some Niqabis get harassed as well) and depicting harassers as enticed men who fall into wrongdoing due to the allurement of the females around them. What is really sickening is when these people use religion to back up their arguments, using the part of it which orders people to dress modestly and completely ignoring the one which preaches looking away from others whatever their type of dress may be. This, of course, is a hideous double standard that a significant percentage of our culture portrays today, and that forces young women to dress a certain way not because of their faith, but in order to guarantee their security (which even then isn't 100% guaranteed), completely undermining the essence of religion.<br />
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<b>2. Harassers are the result of a broken society.</b><br />
This one I actually partially agree with. I also believe that it's a direct result of #1. After all, when a young boy grows up in a society where the general consensus is, "You can do whatever you want and not have to be punished for it just because you were born a male," this is the kind of thinking he will attain as he develops into a part of the community. So, in a way, it's not completely his fault as much as it is that of the people and ideas he is surrounded by. However, this doesn't completely put him off the hook. God gave us all brains for a reason, and not using your brain to find out whether or not the concepts you've been fed as a helpless child are true is just as much a crime as sexual harassment is.<br />
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<b>3. The only end to this dilemma is enforcing the death penalty.</b><br />
In all honesty, when I first heard that a law might be (or was really, I'm not sure) passed that sentenced convicted rapists to death, I was overjoyed. I mean, I believe rape is probably the worst thing that can <i>ever </i>happen to a person, as it's a horrendous crime that strips you of your physical and psychological well-being, personal space, dignity, and so much more. Then when I got to thinking about it, I realized that this really wouldn't solve anything. Executing a rapist may make victims and their families happy for a while, but in the end, how would this contribute to ending the problem? Would it make other such offenders stop? No, I realized, it wouldn't. That does not, however, imply by any means that they should be let off the hook. A harasser of any kind <i>should </i>be severely punished, but we need to find out the cause of this problem. In some cases, mental rehabilitation could go a long way towards changing this person's life, thus helping them <i>and </i>the people they might have harassed in the future. Acknowledging that each case is different, and helping the people who need help; <i>that</i>'s what might actually sever some of the roots harassment has grown into our modern society.<br />
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To sum up, sexual harassment is one of the prominent stains on our somewhat diseased community. In order to take concrete steps towards ending it, we have to stop spinning out useless excuses and tackle the problem head-on. A person (whether male or female, I know females are more likely to get sexually harassed but believe it or not some males encounter it as well) has the right to walk freely anywhere in this world without being subject to excruciating encroachments on their private space, be it verbally or physically.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4230151634224771418.post-59622249282964751872011-05-20T21:21:00.001+02:002011-05-20T21:26:03.477+02:00Radiate the Awesomeness Within You<blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you <i>not</i> to be? Your playing small does not serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we're liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." -Marianne Williamson</span></blockquote>I was struck by the mesmerising words of this uncannily true quote. I'd never looked at things that way before. Sure, I know the feeling of awkwardness you get sometimes when sharing your achievements; and also the niggling thought that you don't deserve said achievements. But the fact that we fear the light? It's almost like an epiphany for me.<br />
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The truth is, we <i>are </i>afraid to shine. We're afraid to put ourselves out there, to risk rejection and failure, to let ourselves reach our full potential, to do what we love best...all because we're afraid of being judged. Not just by others, but by ourselves. The human mind can be a powerful tool sometimes, especially when it acts against the person whose body it occupies. It can convince you of some daunting "facts" that make you feel insecure, unloved, unworthy and completely and utterly useless.<br />
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I mean, let's think about it: Who benefits by us dimming the lights of our inner sparks? (Okay, that sounded too New-Age-meets-therapy-round so let's go with:) Who benefits when we put ourselves down and remain in our positions, stagnant in the rushing current that is life? How does that help anyone in this world? How does that help <i>us</i>?<br />
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It doesn't. You know why? Because shutting out the things you like to do the most, hiding yourself from risks and avoiding trying out what you could potentially be a phenomenal success at just to avoid failure are all methods of depriving our beautiful, colourful, diverse earth from yet another person that could do wonders for it.<br />
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We all can be awesome. We just have to let ourselves.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0