Monologues of My Mind

Friends

2010-12-11T19:11:00.000-08:00

I was reading back my blog a few days ago and I realised I write a lot about love. About falling in love and losing love, living with love and living without love. The thought that came to me was that love often brings with it uncertainty and insecurity, perhaps even fear. I contemplated a different kind of love – one that is only giving, that knows no insecurities and requires no reciprocation to survive. I thought immediately of my friends. So this one is for all the best friends in the world and for friendship...

This one is for the friends that smiled for you when you fell in love, and warned your boyfriend to take good care of you. For those who sat with the phone held to their ear at 4 in the morning, listening to you cry after a fight with your boyfriend even though they had to wake up at 6 for work. The partners in crime that take time off work just for naughty afternoon shopping and drag you to social events to distract you from a broken heart. This is for the friends that come to drive you home safely at 2 in the morning, the friends who respond to your every facebook update so you don't feel so alone. The ones who recognize you have a right to feel as shitty as you do about the man who broke your heart even though they'd spent the last two years telling you he was not right; the ones who don't tell you you're a fool, but say you have a right to hurt. Because they're also the ones who have the strength and the courage to tell you to snap out of it, that he was never worth it, never good enough for you. The ones who tuck you in nice and cozy on the couch and bake you a chocolate cake when you have been chucked and bombard his email account with warnings to leave you alone, to stop messing with your mind.

This one also goes out to the friends that stood by you in thick and thin, the ones who wiped your tears when you cried, shared your happiness when you laughed. It’s for all the “boy”friends that showed you not all the men in the world are screw-ups, the ones that helped you believe that good people still exist in the world. This is for the friends who swear they'll beat up the man who had the poor judgment to cheat on someone as wonderful as you. It goes out to the “other-gender” best friends who stuck around even when you abandoned them because your possessive ex-boyfriend went loco every time you even spoke to them. The ones you can laugh with without them wanting to kiss you and the one that hug you without asking for anything more. The ones that love you exactly the way you are and hurt with you when you're drowning in your darkness, because they see your pain and can't do anything to help you.

This is for the friends, my friends, who have made my life meaningful, my days beautiful. We might fight, sometimes, disagree, sometimes. We laugh together, cry together. We have lost together and gained together. What I was, where I come from and what I have become – you have seen it all, yet you love me exactly the same. We may not see each other for a century, yet the day we reunite, we would pick up exactly where we left off.

Friends, friends are something else altogether. Friends are God's way of saying: here, I know you will face many difficulties, but here are the people you can count on, the ones that will correct you when you falter, encourage you when you fall and love you when you least deserve it...they're like family but better because they love you without any moral obligation.

This is for all of you – a massive thank you, and a humble apology. For the smiles, the tears, the time and love shared. Thank you.

Yes, I Do Demand.

2010-10-28T03:52:00.002-07:00

“Demanding”, when used as an adjective has a strangely negative aura to it – instantaneously the noun it describes becomes belittled, viewed unfavourably, somehow lacking the right to any respect or esteem as a result of being “demanding”. He, she or it are automatically assumed unreasonable and insensitive, perhaps even selfish. But when you really think about it, “demanding” in fact describes he who has made, is making or makes demand(s). And this isn’t necessarily a bad thing – after all if you don’t ask you don’t get. Without demand slaves would never have gotten their freedom, women would never have gotten the vote and you would never have gotten your way ;) Indeed, demand is what keeps our very stylised market economy ticking. What is produced, what is sold and how much for comes down to what we ask for – so what is so wrong with being demanding?

Demanding, when used in the context of a relationship, however, has proven to be lethal to the fate of the couple. When one partner feels the burden of a relationship more than another or when one loves more than another. Take it from me, I would know, because I am demanding. Wooed with flowers, romantic dates, beautiful poetic messages and emails, I, and perhaps many foolish women alike fall into this trap of expectation; we become accustomed to our lovers’ full attention, their affection. The passionate kisses, the impatient desire when they walk through the door and can’t wait to hold you. When suddenly it comes to an abrupt stop, and we dare to wonder why... well we are being demanding.

He no longer texts nor calls you when he finishes work – he no longer takes you out for a “date”, wines and dines you, neither buys you a gift, whether big or small. There are no more surprises, and no more spontaneity. What is a woman to think, that he just can’t be bothered anymore? Is it complacency, taking for granted the fact that you already belong to him... so why should he make any effort to “impress” you or “please” you? The funny thing is that now more than ever, 10 months into a relationship, I want to spend time with my partner. Yes, when you first meet someone it’s all very new and exciting, you speak until late in the night about this and that, have dinners together and buy gifts for one another... but why does that desire suddenly diminish? With the passing of time, you become increasingly linked with another person. Your thoughts are of them, your entire life and everything that you are is theirs. That persons small likes, dislikes, their habits become your daily routine, the familiarity and comfort you so much look forward to after a long day outside. He has become home. When suddenly the man who fought to have you in his life has neither time for you nor a desire to spend time with you, and we dare to wonder why this happened, well, we are being demanding. By demanding what is rightfully ours, the time of somebody who has taken us as theirs, just a small gesture, something to show us they care, that we mean something to them...well, we are being demanding. Yes, we are being demanding..

Perhaps You Remember Who I Am?

2010-10-18T15:18:00.000-07:00

Some days, I cannot remember who I am. I look in the mirror and I am alarmed by what I see. The pale skin and vacant expression; the eyes that should house shame, guilt, regret, are empty. The girl who stares me back is unfamiliar, unrecognizable, irreconcilable. She repulses me, shocks me, disgusts me.

I am both terrified and confused, unsure what to think or what to believe. What is the truth, that what I feel, or that what I see? They say a mirror never lies so how can I possibly convince myself that I am who I believe I am, not what the mirror shows me and what the world can see?

It’s the most frightening feeling of all, staring at a reflection you no longer identify as your own. Your actions are read back to you but you cannot recall making those choices. Your mind is burdened with loss, with grief, with humiliation and with pain… yet your image is deceptively calm, blank almost. The mirror reflects not the storm that stirs in your mind, but only your inhuman façade. Who is the person that stares you back, no remorse, no regret on her face?

Who am I? Am I kind or am I cruel? Am I compassionate or am I cold? Do I have it in my heart to share, to give my time to another, a few words of comfort, a loving hug or even a listening ear? Or am I too inhuman for such emotions? Do I love you, or is my love just a selfish, self-satisfying craving for attention? Do I feel passion, or it is obsession, a painful addiction?

Am I ambitious, or am I not? Do my actions tell a story of one who values what she’s got, fights to preserve what is dear to her… or is it one filled with risks, some-one who will chance all that she has and all that she is, for want of a better life, a bigger gain? Am I vulnerable therefore cautious to minimize my loss… or am I ruthless, out to maximize my gain?

Once my father’s pride, I wonder today if he is ashamed of what I have become. My mother’s hope, her joy, her entire life – I wonder if she looks at me and sees just disappointment, a big waste of time.

Today, I cannot remember who I am. I stand searching in the mirror for some familiarity in the ghostly image that looks me back, shameless, soulless. I am offered no solace, no clue and no answer. I turn my back to the mirror, dejected, and I find you stood behind me. Like my shadow, never separated from me. I search your eyes for recognition. Perhaps you remember who I am?

L.O.V.E.

2010-10-17T13:46:00.000-07:00

Love is just love. Somebody told me that we all love in our own way, show it in our own way, express it in our own way. Whether you tell of love or not, love will still be love. Whether you buy a gift in the name of love or not, love will still be love. Love without telling so will still be love. When someone wishes for your happiness without a care for their own, that is love. When somebody can walk away from your life simply because that is what’s better for you, that too, is love. Love expressed in a million words is the same as love felt in silence, a love without need for words at all. Perhaps this is because love is to be shown, not told. But what then, is love? If love has no measure, why then, my love, is her love different to yours?

She loves you unconditionally, without any bounds. You need not even ask and she will leave everything for you, she will leave who she is for you. She will leave her life for you. But your love is reserved, measured, considered. You are cautious, calculated, as though she is one of just many. She can neither touch you nor hurt you. She neither has you nor holds you – the key to your heart is beyond her reach, forbidden, unattainable. Your mind runs a thousand places at a time..

Her mind is just here, always, with you.

You tell her that you love her, just as she loves you too. So why is her love different to yours?

She loves you with all her heart, from the depth of her soul, with all that she is. She could sacrifice a thousand lives without you for just a moment with you. You could sacrifice a sacrifice a thousand moments with her, without even a thought… where is she going to go after all?

Who says love is the same, that love is love? Yes love is love... You either love or you don't... but the difference, my love, is that hers is a woman’s love, a woman’s heart. She loves you as a woman would love, and you, you love her as a man would love.

Valentine

2010-10-16T13:05:00.000-07:00

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.

Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.

Carol Ann Duffy

Search.

2010-10-15T01:18:00.000-07:00

Day after day, reckless, helpless

I search.

I search for soul, I search for love

I search for peace,

Maybe I search for salvation.

Bewildered, overwhelmed

Burdened with loss, burdened with pain

I search in desperation

For some meaning in life.

Some sense, some reason

Some explanation for my being.

A lost traveler,

Without direction, without destination.

Only destiny.

Unaware of my own actions,

I forget that I live,

I too must eat, must sleep

I just search.

Maybe it was for you that I searched.

Why then, do I still search?

I Hurt.

2010-10-14T06:14:00.000-07:00

In a society scared to feel, I wonder if I am alone. I wonder if I alone want to reach out to the girl sitting on the park bench, crying. I wonder if I alone want to help the lady worn out with age shopping at the supermarket, slowly, painstakingly fulfilling a task once so effortless for her. Her young have flown, her partner did death do part – for whom does she live? Her nest, her heart, once blossoming with love are now barren. I wonder if I alone want to stop being alone – strangers whilst in company, lonely whilst in crowds. Why do you see me but not my pain? Are we afraid of ourselves, our own reality, our own feelings? Why do we meet strangers without any compassion, without any care… just expectations and prejudices? People talk about how great love is, but that's bullshit. Love hurts. Even if love is great, the pain it brings is greater. Feelings are disturbing, they are confusing. We are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. But how can we deal with love if we are afraid of pain? Thoughts alone are not enough, words alone are not enough. We may gather all the knowledge in this world, but we are not smart enough to learn how to stop feeling. Pain wakes us up, it reminds us of our weaknesses and our imperfections – pain reminds us that we are human. If we refuse to feel, if I can’t feel your pain and you can’t feel mine, how then can we be human? We try to hide our pain but we're wrong. Pain is something to carry, something to wear. We feel our strength in the experience of pain. It's all in how you carry it. That's what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If we feel ashamed of feelings and hide them, we're letting society destroy our reality. To feel is my right, to hurt is my right, to cry is my right. For I am no machine, neither a doll. I too, have a heart. Why then, must I hide, why must I hide my hurting heart, when I know that you hurt, just like me?

2010-10-12T14:11:00.000-07:00

I Loved You This Much.

2010-10-11T14:52:00.000-07:00

Today I am empty. Nothing to give, nothing to share. Nobody to hold and no-one to care. In a world full of people, I roam alone, a single soul. Today my eyes, dark hollow tunnels will tell you nothing of love, of warmth or of compassion. I mourn not my loss, I long no more for my past. I feel pain no more; I neither grieve nor cry, neither think nor feel. All is spent.

Today, you would not believe that I am capable of love. That I was once capable of love, of giving love and sharing love, of receiving love and keeping love. I loved you so much that today my love has run out.

I loved you enough to do anything for you, everything for you – give my heart, my soul, my days and my nights, my life to you, and for you.

Enough to give you all my time, my efforts and my thoughts, my talents, my trust, my prayers. Willingly, silently, just for the simple happiness of loving you.

Enough to keep my promise to you, pledge my loyalty to you, rest my confidence in you and guard my faith in you. To cherish your friendship, accept your relationship and embrace your companionship. I appreciated your flaws, adored your character, respected your values and saw you for who you were. Whether right or wrong, whether good or bad, in moments of ecstasy and in the long nights of pain, I always loved you exactly the same. Without doubting you, without accusing you, I would always have loved you exactly the same.

Enough to spend the rest of my life with you, be there for you when you needed me, when you wanted me, and never ever want to leave you or live without you.

I loved you enough jaan, that one moment of your love would have been enough, enough for me to live the rest of my life, and maybe a thousand lives more.

Yes, I loved you, I love you, and I love you this much.

Today, though, I am empty.

2010-10-09T13:06:00.001-07:00

I Search for a Face

2010-10-09T12:50:00.000-07:00

I search for a face, in your face.

Your soft skin and toothy smile

So innocent, so naughty

I wonder if he would have been like you.

Mischievous and marvellous,

Wild and wonderful.

Your tiny fingers that always want to play

That never stop exploring the wonder of today.

Your tiny fingers that from the very start

Reach out and touch your mother’s heart.

I search for a face, in every face,

I wonder if he would have been like you.

2010-10-08T14:36:00.000-07:00

2010-09-23T11:19:00.000-07:00

On Love, Life and Loss.

2010-09-11T18:31:00.000-07:00

Love is a funny thing – those not in it will ridicule it, resent it or maybe renounce it... but it’s all well and good that we make up our mind to stay out of love – in fact it is not a choice we make, it is a choice love makes for us. Love is a sly, unrelenting predator, carefully, silently sizing up its prey – those who need love, want love, miss love or least expect love - and uninvited, unexpected, it takes its catch by the throat, by the heart, leaving no option but surrender.

Needless to say, relationships can be even funnier. For some relationships depend on love, some on need, some on care, some trust, some duty, some on respect... but very few on all. As a woman it is tempting to fantasize of a love that is altruistic, all-giving, all-embracing and all-forgiving. Hey, I’m sure at some point you will have been advised or indeed advised somebody yourself that in the process of becoming somebody’s “better half”, you must not sacrifice yourself and who you are. I recall many-a-time that I have comforted sobbing girlfriends with tissues, chocolate brownies and the usual “He wasn’t good enough for you anyway – you deserve so much better than him!” As it goes this is rarely the case. The prospect of falling in love and the actual deal are two very different things. Alas, the greatest paradox, namely love, thus unfolds.

Following a devastating first relationship, I was wary that falling in love was walking on fire, on glass and on cloud nine all in one go – a heady mix enough to destabilize any rational human being - for in dealings of love it is the heart that leads and the mind...well the mind just mindlessly follows, a silent puppet. Anyone who has loved, and lost will know the pain involved in piecing together a heart shattered into a million tiny fragments – and to risk having to do it over again? Uh-uh. I immersed myself in anything and everything possible - university, work, family, volunteering, sport, working out, hanging with friends ...anything to evade bumping into the all-too-familiar enemy. Determined and charged with aspirations I committed myself to my education, my future and my ambitions. I vowed to harden my heart to time-wasting, petty things like love, relationships and men.

Guess what? Yep, the plan didn’t quite work out. Love knocked down my defence pretty quickly, and I can honestly say that I have never loved a man as I love my man today. But that is okay, in hindsight, it was pretty much inevitable. What strikes me as odd though are the kind of changes my personality have undergone – no longer ambitious, I now feel homey. No longer determined, I now feel dependent. And while it’s tempting (I AM a mild sort of feminist after all!) to blame all of this on my man, a man – I have to be true to myself and admit it is all my own creation, my own choice.

Up until this point in time I had genuinely felt that I must find the man who will love me exactly AS I AM (well, as I was now). I would not have to budge an inch, not change a single thing about myself. What a fool I was. While my man took me exactly the way I am it was love that changed me, changed my wants, my needs, my desires and my choices. It taught me to share and give, care and consider. I no longer wish to pursue that dream that takes me miles away from the love of my life, I no longer strive to fulfil that ambition that leaves no space for a family in my future. There is no longer me – just us. But my identity has not been lost – just a new one has been gained.

2010-09-08T01:00:00.001-07:00

Blessing

2010-07-04T20:05:00.000-07:00

The skin cracks like a pod.
There never is enough water.

Imagine the drip of it,
the small splash, echo
in a tin mug,
the voice of a kindly god.

Sometimes, the sudden rush
of fortune. The municipal pipe bursts,
silver crashes to the ground
and the flow has found
a roar of tongues. From the huts,
a congregation : every man woman
child for streets around
butts in, with pots,
brass, copper, aluminium,
plastic buckets,
frantic hands,

and naked children
screaming in the liquid sun,
their highlights polished to perfection,
flashing light,
as the blessing sings
over their small bones.

Imtiaz Dharker

Un-ACCEPT-able to me actually, and I’m not even sorry.

2010-06-21T19:10:00.000-07:00

When Queen Elizabeth I granted a patent for overseas discovery little did she know she had commissioned the framework in which Britain would forge irrevocable, perpetual ties with the countries it would go on to conquer. When Spain and Portugal pioneered European exploration of the globe during the Age of Discovery, subsequently establishing large overseas empires, Britain had been a mere onlooker envious of the riches these empires had bestowed. Thus began centuries of rivalry that led to the creation of the most extensive empire ever known - At the peak of its power, "the sun never set on the British Empire" - by 1900 a quarter of the world's population were British subjects. Thus on the basis of this potent imperial power did Britain gain its global influence, its cultural and linguistic dominance, it’s unprecedented wealth. Looting the resources of its colonies, exploiting its subjects, to power Britain rose.

Its seems bizarre though how Britons today dismiss imperialism as a distant memory – when in fact it is the most recent and modern of empires built on principles of free trade and capitalism. The very mention of the empire seems to bring embarrassment – shame. Shame that Britain plundered the Kohinoor from India, sold Africans in the barbaric slave trade, left behind a conflict-ridden apartheid in South Africa. And ashamed they should be.

Logically, such embarrassment often connotes acknowledgement; recognition that an error was made – realisation ought entail guilt, and shame ought entail reconciliation, compensation, reformation. Alas it would seem not.

Often I have looked a native English person in the eye, only to observe a distinct, residing resentment, questioning my presence in their country. I have noticed a bitterness in manner when English people have to submit to the authority of an individual of an ethnic minority in the workplace. It’s almost as though their expression is accusing, asking “Why are you here, if it weren’t for you, that position would be mine...” There is a contempt for foreigners, for immigrants, for the hardworking Polish labour, and the refugee-seeking Somalian peoples – Go back to your own countries, I hear the silent cries, and stop crowding ours. Now, though, there is no room in Britain for these sentiments to be explicitly conveyed, unless you join the BNP and thus sign up to featuring on the national hate list. The shame of harbouring such feelings, the fear of stigmatisation, being labelled a racist mean often such views are suppressed, hidden away or avidly denied. But how can we deny their existence? We are plagued by this rat called racism, implicit so the enemy’s face cannot be known. We know not where it dwells, in whom it is concealed – only that it exists; perhaps not in the explicit, “I hate you because you’re black” Ku Klux Klan form, but as a silent foe, easily disguised to deceive onlookers, making it all the more dangerous, divisive.

I had recently written a post about how I find it absurd the content of someone’s heart, and whether or not we will love them can be determined solely on the basis of the colour of a person’s skin – if I am honest, I find such petty-mindedness and hypocrisy really quite intolerable. But you know what, I vastly overestimated the progresses of humankind in terms of open-mindedness, acceptance and inclusion of one another – taking another person for what they are ;the content of their character, the nature of their heart, the sanctity of their soul – Oh hell, we are too far removed from that. From some recent experiences I am beginning to form the impression that love is some far-fetched, un-heard of, obsolete concept who’s presence let alone featuring in interactions between people of diverse backgrounds, is far even from consideration – it seems even standing one another’s presence, tolerating one another is more than enough - and here I was hoping for affection and acknowledgment, approval and acceptance? I think not.

Whilst diabolic pessimism is neither my intention nor my nature I find it increasingly difficult to maintain my insistence that we live in a world of cohesion and unity. So proud I was to have gotten to 20 never having seen or experienced racism... at least not hateful, visible racism. But harsh evidence from day-to-day experience now forces me into the realms of contemplation, consideration of the possibility that I had just been keeping my eyes closed – maybe I have been aware of it all along, but because it never affected me I chose to remain in my blissful oblivion. That my community, my county, my peoples are united seems unfortunately to have been a fabrication of my imagination, my own childish utopia – rather than the reality I so desperately hoped it to be.

Slow Dance...

2010-06-18T16:24:00.000-07:00

Have you ever watched kids

On a merry-go-round?

Or listened to the rain

Slapping on the ground?

Ever followed a butterfly's erratic flight?

Or gazed at the sun into the fading night?

You'd better slow down.

Don't dance so fast.

Time is short.

The music won't last.

Do you run through each day

On the fly?

When you ask "How are you?"

Do you hear the reply?

When the day is done

Do you lie in your bed

With the next hundred chores

Running through your head?

You'd better slow down

Don't dance so fast.

Time is short.

The music won't last.

Ever told your child,

We'll do it tomorrow?

And in your haste,

Not see his sorrow?

Ever lost touch,

Let a good friendship die

Cause you never had time

To call and say "Hi"?

You'd better slow down.

Don't dance so fast.

Time is short.

The music won't last.

When you run so fast to get somewhere

You miss half the fun of getting there.

When you worry and hurry through your day,

It is like an unopened gift....

Thrown away.

Life is not a race.

Do take it slower

Hear the music

Before the song is over.

We Are All Alone

2010-06-11T02:37:00.001-07:00

“It doesn’t interest me where you live and how much money you have.

I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary, bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done....”

To get up and get on, with your head held high, composure regained, dignity salvaged is tough - amid devastation pain must be concealed; smile for the camera, for the show must go on. Each person has a story, each a struggle, yet these secrets they harbour deep in their heart – ferocious and defensive they hide from the world emotions, pain, the loss been suffered, the mind’s weaknesses, deep insecurities and dark memories that haunt the soul. Buried in a clandestine chasm of the conscience, we attempt to erase the very existence of secrets that can jeopardize our own existence – we lock the door to the dark chamber and throw away the key with our denial, adamant to fight our demons alone. For pride and shame we obscure the fears that make us human, impose upon ourselves an exile – a compulsory withdrawal that both isolates and unites one with every other.

We are all alone, but in being alone we forget that we are together.

They say that that a life without passion, a love without passion is empty, meaningless – Passion, lies in all of us, sleeping, waiting and though unwanted unbidden it will stir...open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us... guides us...passion rules us all, and we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love...the clarity of hatred...and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we'd know some kind of peace... but we would be hollow...Empty rooms shuttered and dank. Without passion we'd be truly dead But what when your everything is inseparably defined by passion, your every emotion of every day is infused and engulfed – your love, commitments, relationships, ambitions and fights all bound in the raptures of passion, how does a fragile heart deal with the extremities that threaten to shatter dreams and break lives? Perhaps sometimes passion must be put on a leash – contained within to restrict its power – buried beneath self-discipline to show the world that I am in control.

I Loved, and I Learned.

2010-06-08T06:43:00.000-07:00

I have made mistakes this year, all of which felt immeasurable at the time— unrectifiable, and unforgivable...all of which today seem relatively insignificant, but still, they are important because, I learned from them. They taught me lessons on life, lesson on compromise, and lessons on love. And so the embarrassment of having committed these mistakes lies masked by acknowledgment, embracement, and recovery through understanding. I learnt that lessons in love cannot be learnt by talking about love – love can only be taught and love can only be learnt by feeling and fearing, losing and destroying, giving and sharing love. A life without love is no life at all... and though often it is hard to admit, love truly is the most important thing if not the only thing needed to live a happy life.

I think that sometimes the most difficult person to understand is yourself. As you get older you quickly become more and more aware of all the layers that make you. Your choices, your grief and your weaknesses. There are too many layers. There are layers to yourself that feel normal but repulsive, complete but contradictory all at once. That is the most frightening feeling of all: when you wake up in the morning and you can’t remember the person you were last night. You look in the mirror and you can’t recognize the person you’ve seen each time you’ve looked in the mirror over the past twenty years Your actions are read back to you and you can’t recall yourself. You are ashamed of yourself.

I began this year in a cosy hotel room in the middle of Watford. At midnight I kissed the man I felt I had been looking for all along. A kiss of excitement, passion, anticipation of a long relationship to come – highs and lows, many pitfalls and reckless nerves – all happily welcomed.

In the secrecy of our small apartment, I learned my first lesson about real love—it persists even after two people have torn each other down. Even when they have argued to hurt, fought to kill - real love builds you back up. I learned that real love, however misguided, is forgiving. I realised that no matter how hard you try to forget someone, you only carry them longer in your heart, the harder you try.

Sitting solitary on a cold night - I learned that no matter how kind and giving and honest you are, you cannot make anyone love you. I learned my own weaknesses, my desire to please, my easily wavering mind. I learnt how futile it is to expect that I be loved, when I don’t even love myself. I can’t embrace myself, accept my shortcomings and be proud. So how can i expect another do what I cannot? At the end of the spring I learned that real love truly loves you unconditionally, but this love, I also learned, can quickly become obsessive, addictive, a burning need that will captivate you, keep you under its wing, even at the expense of your own well being.

I learnt to understand the most unforgivable of actions in the most horrible way. Lying, deceit. In my naivety I was brutally, gut-wrenchingly, and fearlessly honest. And in that honesty, I finally recognized to myself the real weight of my actions. I learned that some things are simply unforgivable, no matter how badly you want to cling to the notion that forgiveness is possible.

Amongst crowds of people, yet desperately alone in my anguish, I learned to accept my mistakes as my own. Most importantly, I learned to accept the blame for my own misfortunes, and my abandonment.

On a very dark night, I learnt to say goodbye – to my past, some old memories and to old friends. I learned what it means to miss somebody. And in the missing of them, I learned how much I truly appreciated them. I learned that real love persists, despite inescapable cycles of conflict and resolution.

Amidst illness, depression, anxiety and fear, I learned that it is not so much about understanding the difference of opinion, but the indifference of it. I learned that despite how much hurt is inflicted, or how much time has passed, or how much love is shared and lost and shredded, there is room for forgiveness.

On cold nights as I circled my university campus, alone, reaching out for comfort, I learned that the best friends you can ever make are the ones that trust you enough to be there to fall back on. I learned that these friends are the ones you owe the most to, because they trusted you first.

And finally, in the heart-wrenching loneliness of my lover’s bed, I learnt the agonies of humiliation, encountered the dark chasms of indifference. I spotted a missing link, and I remembered everything I had learned at once. I remembered a love, the bitterness of its departure, the sheer pain of the emptiness it leaves behind, accepting all of the blame so silently, and finally feeling peaceful. And I learned another lesson in the art of starting over, however slowly or reservedly. I learned that the things you are most patient in waiting for are really the only things worth waiting for.

This year I learned to accept the fact that layers change, so people change, so relationships change, so love inevitably changes. Sometimes love changed is love lost, but lessons lie amongst the residue that remains.

This year I have loved, ohh I have loved, and I do not regret.

2010-06-06T14:01:00.000-07:00

The Point.

2010-06-06T13:22:00.001-07:00

So here we all are, 7 billion of us, crowding this otherwise beautiful and unspoilt paradise. 7 billion of us living our lives simultaneously – cohabiting, competing and cooperating all at once - fighting for resources, in some cases fighting for survival. Each morning the race is on; from the moment the alarm rings, we are in a battle with time, fighting to utilize every second of our day to achieve progress; progress in our journeys, in our days, in our learning, in our careers and in our lives. Each morning as I sit on the train to go to university I can’t help but look around in awe at the masses of people fighting to pile onto the train, then fighting to push through the station barriers when they get off the train ... “I can’t be late, my job is important,” I hear their inner minds screaming. In making this observation, I am in no way distancing myself from, nor ridiculing, this very real, perpetual endeavour – I too, on a regular day, am one of those who is rushing and pushing and running and shoving – just to come out on top. I too have desires, ambitions, aspirations and dreams. But sometimes, just sometimes, the absurdity of this pursuit baffles me. What are we struggling for, and what are we chasing after? Money, happiness, love, world records? We all are chasing something.

But each man dead is alone so why should we love? Each man dead is uneducated so why should we learn? Each man dead is a pauper so why should we earn?

Have you ever stopped to wonder why we are fighting so hard when truly, all that we achieve is only to be relinquished when we die? Have you ever wondered why we strive to make progress, when really the only progress we make is towards death? The deep mysteries surrounding the reason for our temporary existence on earth date back probably as far as humankind itself – and they remain yet to be resolved – why are we are born, when we are only going to die? Life is clearly a brief interlude, a short-haul journey of 75 years. Planet Earth is our transitory residence but while we are here is there something we are meant to achieve? Where have we come from, what are we doing here and where we go when we leave this material world?

Such questions, one may say, have no answer – and to “waste” your life in seeking answers is to forgo a gift – the very beautiful gift that is life. Life is to be lived, and lived to the full, with abandon, with joy, with love and without fear. I do agree with that, but some days...when the conscious mind is lost and despite being amidst a crowd, one is acutely aware they are lonely in their thoughts, in their fears, their sorrows and their anxieties... Tired of racing, exhausted of the constant fight to keep pace, tempted to pack it all in, give in, give up and let go... on days such as those, I really do wonder... what really, is the point?

Tick Tock... Tick Tock...

2010-05-31T05:45:00.001-07:00

The clock ticks twelve

Another day is done

Bid the date farewell

A new day has begun.

Days, hours, seconds

Fly by without a pause

Not a moment for reflection

Not a minute for repose.

Each night I lay awake

And lament the day gone by

My wayward clock runs on

And time flies on by.

Never a minute to stop,

To look, think or appreciate

The beauty that surrounds us,

Rush rush, we can’t be late.

The day comes to a close

What did I achieve today?

Did I touch a heart, cause a smile

Or was I too busy to play?

The clock ticks twelve

Another day is done

Bid the date farewell

A new day has begun.

When I Argue With You

2010-05-26T04:20:00.000-07:00

They say arguing is a constitutive part of a healthy relationship – as the old saying goes, the course of true love never did run smooth, and while it's nicer when everything's rosy, the odd spat can apparently do your relationship a bit of good. Conveying all those pent-up feelings, I suppose, can be viewed as cathartic, a means to express to your partner what is on your mind, rather than bottling up and suppressing emotions to the point that their ultimate release is explosive. Of course, mutual communication is vital to the long term survival of a relationship, but sometimes we can easily become so impassioned in advocating our viewpoint, or so embroiled in our anger, that we forget that the person we are dealing with is the very person we would fight the world for – the person we love most deeply in our life. Let me share with you the definition of the word argument – and then I will leave you to decide whether arguments you have with your spouse really are productive.

ar·gu·ment (ärgy-mnt)

a. A discussion in which disagreement is expressed; a debate.

b. A quarrel; a dispute.

c. Archaic A reason or matter for dispute or contention: "sheath'd their swords for lack of argument" (Shakespeare).

i.e. there is an issue on which two people have conflicting viewpoints, and they share and reason these viewpoints with each other. Well, if this is how you argue with your boy/girlfriend then hell, argue on!

It is, however a mere textbook definition – perhaps somewhere in the same league as fiction or even fairytale - in reality, arguments can take a much uglier form. Shouting, screaming, tears, and insulting the other person are just a few symptoms that a “bad” argument can entail. It is a matter of seconds before a disagreement becomes a row, a row becomes a fight... and a fight becomes an attack. Often so prolonged and so heated, we forget the very reason for the dispute in the first place and are entangled in a long match of accusing and counter-accusing; we recollect past events, mistakes and quarrels to use them as a catapult from which to propel our next insult, our next blame. By half time this vindictive game has resulted in two people so enangered with one another that any malicious words that will cause hurt to their “opposition” are spewed, like a disgusting drool. The final whistle, full time – the risk that the relationship has been permanently damaged is too high - too much has been said for any hope of reconciliation.

Why is it that we let momentary anger get the better of us, allowing it to destroy a relationship built upon foundations of friendship and trust? Walls of love, affection, respect and commitment, a roof of care is ruthlessly torn down, bulldozed over by selfish egotism. A lifetime of memories and feelings, matured and concentrated like a good wine, only getting better with time, come down to nothing. Why, when we are by very nature control and power-seeking freaks, are we SO unable to control our own anger?

Do you want to know the actual root for my perplexion? Let me tell you. I am something of an economist – when I say that, I mean that I bide by the view that we are all rational beings, and any actions we take can be analysed against this one conviction. Rational people respond to incentives – they want to maximise their pleasure, lessen the pain; they consider the future consequences of present choices. My confusion, thus, is as follows – how, when we have the ability to evaluate incentives so accurately and calculate so effectively our personal gains, do we mess up? Does letting go of our ego really give us more pain than the heart-wrenching sorrow of losing some-one we love? In the dark shadows of pride, ego and arrogance, only isolation can survive. Desperate loneliness. The sooner we realise, the sooner we stop giving ourselves so much pain.

One of Those Days

2010-05-21T14:12:00.000-07:00

Do you ever have days when you just feel really sad? You don’t know why, and you don’t know what, but you just feel melancholy, lonely... and perhaps bitterly disappointed about something? I think you know what I mean, don’t you? Well, today has been one of those days – I feel pensive, contemplative and morose – and that too about something I can’t quite seem to place a finger on. I watched an episode of my favourite (Hindi) TV soap, and I cried. I spoke to my mum on the phone (who by the way I live with for half the week, so it’s not like I haven’t seen her or something) and I cried. As I hung-up, I began with a heavy-heart to read the news, and guess what, I cried some more. I felt homesick and quite honestly pathetic too – which only made me feel worse.

From a “birds-eye” perspective, to any on-lookers, my life is nothing short of “perfect”. I am in want of nothing, neither material nor emotional – I have loving, caring parents who never fail to stand behind me when I falter. They have provided me a beautiful home, and a secure, priceless childhood. I have a boyfriend who loves me like I have never known love before, some-one who shares everything that is his, with me, selflessly. I have some great friends who I can call at any time of night for any reason what so ever, and I study at one of the best institutions in the UK... I even have a job that isn’t half bad! So then what, what is it, you may wonder that I am so bothered about? Why am I dissatisfied?

My life is finally settling into something of a routine, a mellow rhythm, and by my approximation, this is perhaps what is weighing on my mind – I enjoy spontaneity, deviation, and going with the flow. There are times that I feel like I am confined, chained down, handcuffed in a life that isn’t really my choosing. I am studying for a degree when I would rather be travelling, and modelling somewhere in India, spending time with beautiful smiling children at an orphanage. I work a job that I find mechanical, like I am just one, single, insignificant cog in a large corporate machine; my job satisfaction is minimal, or in fact pretty much zero. Is this it? I find my mind wandering, questioning... is this life, is this what life is about? As a small child, I always looked forward as I am sure most of us did, to “growing up”.... “When I grow up, I am going to be an astronaut...I am going to fly to the moon...” All those expectations, big eyes filled with wonder, a curious mind at a tender age painting a thousand Technicolor pictures of the world that is out there, that is yet to be discovered. But I suppose when expectations are so high, nothing, really, can deliver. That thrill of not knowing is what is missing. It has disappeared - I know now (okay, at least I have some idea) which way my life is going – and trust me, I am happy with my choices, but the disappointment is perhaps the loss of that anticipation. I am disappointed. I had thought it would be something more, something... surreal, maybe magical. But reality has hit.

And it has hit hard.

Life has some rules, and those rules must be played by. We must work to live, feel pain before we find pleasure and face rejection to know love. I have learnt it now. I always thought I would be free, not bound by the shackles of social protocol – free as a kite, to fly high in the sky... I forgot, though, the strings of a kite too, are held by another.

" The Silent Treatment "

2010-05-16T11:34:00.001-07:00

I think I need not delve into pinpointing in some longed-out, extravagant, elaborate language what EXACTLY I am talking about here. All of us, at some point, will have been at the giving or receiving end of this nerve-racking, soul-sucking prescription – and I bet those of the latter category will never be able to forget the thoughts that raced through their mind at the time. They say that the opposite of love is indifference. The opposite of hate, is also indifference. The complete and utter ignorance of your existence by another human being, some-one who you often care very much about, does nothing short of shattering your self-esteem. You can’t possibly imagine what you have done that is SO terrible, that you suddenly cease to matter for another person. In those solitary moments, hours, sometimes days and weeks spent in the despondent search for respite, abandoned and isolated you are filled with anxiety, panic, fear, guilt, regret and desperation – desperation for just one chance to put things right. Broken down layer by layer, worry ebbs its way closer and closer to the centre of your soul. Before you know it, you are consumed by anguish that rips out your heart, engulfed by trepidation as your hunt, or your wait, continues, for the key that will end the silence...

Silence, in itself, is a funny thing. Sometimes it is a bringer of peace, sometimes intense pressure. At times it is laden with awkwardness, at other times it is a mere relief. Silence can weigh heavily on the mind, or can equally relieve the mind of burden. The funny part, though, is that silence conveys this myriad of emotions without so much as a sound. How can it be, that nothing is said, nothing is heard but we gage the “tone” of a silence? Strange. Silence is uncomfortable when you have no words but beautiful when you need no words. It can be the calm before a storm, or similarly the resounding still after a violent battle. Silence shared by lifelong lovers that need no words to talk is the same as the silence that can create chasms in lifelong relationships, pushing two people so far apart that they can never meet again.

What really pinches my heart, though, about this whole “silent treatment” is that I am not seen as worthy of even one chance – I don’t deserve the respect, or honour of a single opportunity to speak, or be spoken to, so as to resolve any issue that may have been. Surely to put a problem in the open is the only way one can even attempt to resolve it? To speak is an opportunity to clarify, soothe, apologise and rectify... but silence snatches this gift, denies this essential right. What people don’t know, though, is that it doesn’t take much for a short silence to become a long one... for a long silence to become an eternal one, to become a big black hole into which are sucked relationships, love, memories and happiness.

My Pet Hate

2010-05-13T19:39:00.000-07:00

Do you know what I hate? Like actually hate with a rampant passion?

Hypocrisy.

Can’t stand the thing, gets me going. It angers me, frustrates me. A mere sniff of it has me in a burning rage. Like when people are nice to your face but then go gossiping and spreading rumours behind your back (why, the conniving little j***!!!). Or when somebody “preaches” that stealing is an awful thing to do and they would never do it... but then they use your milk that you had kept for yourself in the staffroom at work. YES, you know what I mean now don’t you?

You see, what hypocrisy comes down to is denial, and what denial entails are lies. Lies about yourself, lies to other people because you don’t have the courage to be yourself and even lies TO yourself. You don’t have the courage to tell somebody to their face that actually, you don’t like them very much, so you would appreciate if they minimised their interaction with you. Or you can’t simply ask your colleague if you may use some of their milk, as you have forgotten to bring yours today. Why is that so difficult?

Back-bitching or “borrowing” from a co-worker without asking is something we all (yes, including me) have probably done, but I bet you, we would never admit to it because it’s really not something we are proud of. I suppose you are thinking why something so petty annoys me so greatly... well let me tell you. I am not upset by the fact that my entire workplace now thinks I kissed so-and-so on a drunken night out... nor am I lamenting over the suspect disappearance of my consumables from the staff kitchen – it is actually the least of my concerns. But you see, what bothers me is that we live in a world where people are afraid to tell each other the truth. Honesty, integrity, commitment, fairness, principles.... they seem just to be big words, great, admirable and desirable qualities... but not good enough that we choose to live by them anymore.

Having pointed out the day-to-day manifestations of this horrid and chronic disease called hypocrisy, I will hasten to add that this particular syndrome is also rather contagious. It begins with a small proportion of your milk vanishing; unsure of who your culprit is, you remain mum and the days go by. The anonymous thief realises he has “gotten away” so nothing prevents him from endeavouring in his daily “pinch”. Before you know it, he is a serial offender (that sneaky little b******) and you are fed up. “Well, if he is pinching other people’s milk, then why the hell not me?” you think to yourself. And so it goes. It’s not long before everyone is “borrowing” everyone else’s food without asking and you soon end up in an environment of mistrust that is counter-productive and frosty.

Again, though, I have to admit that office politics too are not the top-most of my priorities (though it is much more preferable to work in a place where you don’t have to guard your possessions 24/7). It is hypocrisy on a much larger scale that is truly damaging. I am thinking along the lines of the oppression of women, or the war in Iraq. In a world of sovereign states, each with a right to self-determination and non-intervention, it seems strange that the US of A invaded Iraq, that too on humanitarian grounds when on the other hand they had previously so obstinately abstained from intervening in the Rwandan genocide – a genuine humanitarian crisis. Maybe we all need to stop and take a look in the mirror – who are we kidding?

The Invitation

2010-05-12T00:21:00.000-07:00

"
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare
to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love, for dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon.
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain!

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own.
Without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and the toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being a human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you’re telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.

I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty even if it’s not pretty every day, and if you can source your life from God’s presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver moon, YES!

It doesn’t interest me where you live and how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary, bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you are, how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself; and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

“

Oriah Mountain Dreamer

Tory-LibUNDem Coalition

2010-05-11T15:32:00.000-07:00

So it’s decided - Gordon Brown has resigned, Nick Clegg has succumbed to some very persistent and persuasive courting...and as for David Cameron – well he got what he so desperately wanted; an invitation to Buckingham Palace for an audience with the Queen almost five full days after voting closed - a new Conservative government is to be formed. The grey clouds of uncertainty have cleared, and Britain (or Cameron atleast) can breathe a deep sigh of relief.

Or can it? While the temporary palaver of the power-scramble has been averted, and a sensible means to instil government subsequently realised, what remains now are the deep-rooted reservations of the British electorate, as to whether this is what they really voted for.

A Tory-LibDem coalition? Tory-LibDem? This unlikely, mismatched and antagonistic marriage, never before thought of, never before heard of has indeed become a reality, one prophesised by many to be doomed for failure. While I am prepared to give Cameron and Clegg a chance, I cannot deny my concern over the inevitable clashes the two leaders will face when attempting to reach decisions of any kind. A mere glance at their respective manifestos will tell you why.

If you voted Conservative on Thursday, you voted to rule out any possibility of joining the Euro, you reject electoral reform and support the continued presence of troops in Afghanistan. If you voted Liberal Democrat, on the other hand, you encourage membership of the Euro, you want to see constitutional reform and hopefully, a single transferable vote system, and you want our troops to withdraw during the next parliament. The Tories will have you a raise in the Inheritance Tax threshold to £1 million while the Lib-Dems promise to impose a “mansion tax”. The two parties are as divergent as north and south, as different as chalk and cheese. So how on earth did chalk and cheese unite?

The answer to this question is deeply alarming. Since Thursday the two leaders have been negotiating behind closed doors, shrouded in mystery and hidden from the watchful eye of the electorate and the media. We were not to know, and in fact STILL do not know, what each party is prepared to sacrifice in order to form this coalition. The Conservative Party is now considering electoral reform – but this isn’t really what nearly eleven million people voted for on Thursday, is it? While the possibility of being governed by an unstable administration does worry me, the more pressing issue perhaps, is the possibility of being lumped with a government that none of us chose – after all, who knows, for now Cameron has forgone one point in his party’s manifesto in order to enter number 10... who’s to say he won’t surrender an awful lot more?

Un-LOVE-able To Me, Sorry.

2010-05-09T22:29:00.000-07:00

You may have been wondering why I randomly posted a copy of John Agard’s creation for you to read – I mean you can read it in a million other places on the net already...I will explain.

Half Caste is a poem I had the pleasure of studying for my GCSEs (and rediscovering a few days ago as I ploughed through old school books in ardent nostalgia); At age 16, I have to admit, this masterpiece provoked the very first contemplations of racial identity within me. Up until this point, I had lived in my blissful oblivion, differences in skin colour virtually invisible to me. Despite a proud Gujurati background (we generally tend to stick with our “own kind”, living in clans, almost, in certain select pockets of the country, like Wembley, Kingsbury and Southall), my parents chose to raise me in an environment where I was a fully integrated member of society, never stopping to consider for even an instant that my skin tone was very much darker that almost everyone around me. I was accepted, and clearly, ignorant.

On second thoughts though, maybe I was implicitly aware of my racial differences to my peers. Inspite of being born and raised in England, I always had a strong affiliation towards and pride for my roots – my parents are after all the laying stone of my identity. Whenever asked where I was from, I would proudly respond “I am Gujarati, my parents are from India”. And this was fine, I was accepted for being exactly that. However, upon reading Agard’s beautiful poem, a multitude of questions began suddenly to criss-cross my mind; If I had parents coming from two distinct cultural backgrounds, where would I say I am from? Why is some-body with a mixed heritage called a “half-caste”? If anything, they are “double-caste” right, with the luxury of being able to indulge in and embrace two beautiful, unique cultures, all at once? A symbol of cultural amalgamation, “a tangible, loving expression” of human beings coming together, and loving each other, regardless of colour, creed, race or religion. Why then, were they ever considered as some inferior form of human being? It was at this point realisation hit me that simple biological differences can be given very irrational and cruel social interpretations. Skin colour variations are after all, genetic in origin, and determined by concentrations of melanin. Yet this clear scientific truth is still to be accepted in many societies. Perhaps the “old-school”, explicit racism, characterised by colonization, enslavement, apartheid and ethnic cleansing is now at bay (I say this, but just off the top of my head I can recall numerous counts of ethnic cleansing in the 21^st century alone), a more introverted, implicit, imbibed and entrenched form of racism is taking grip today. Islamophobia, the viewing of Muslim’s with a fearful and suspicious eye is just one manifestation.

As far as “being racist” goes though, I am going to have to proceed to be a bit racist myself, if I may, and point out how race affects “degree of racistness” – what I mean to say is that my own lot (the Indian bunch, in case you forgot), are perhaps the most racist I have encountered yet. Dislike black people, they are too dark. Avoid white people, they are selfish and don’t even associate with “Paki’s”. Oh let alone pick and criticise other races and religions, we don’t even spare our own kind. Hindu’s and Indians the world over are ludicrously entangled in an out-dated (and ironically, false and fabricated, nothing to DO with ancient scriptures) caste system, which supposedly dictates that fishermen can only marry daughters of other fishermen, and shoe-smiths can only marry daughters of other shoe-smiths. Sounds ridiculous right? Let me tell you some more...

Marriage in India (Hinduism, Islam, Jainism and Zoroastrianism, to be specific) can be likened to an open market, where buyers and sellers come together to exchange “goods and services”. Lets label the man the “buyer”, his “buying power” determined, obviously, by his wealth and his earnings, but also his education, his family and family background, and finally (though this factor can easily be overlooked should he hail from a sufficiently prestigious family) whether or not he looks half-presentable. These buyers view the marriage market as their opportunity to usurp “ a good catch” – a one-off purchase, a bargain – the fairer, slimmer and meeker “the catch”, the more profitable the deal. Yes, you guessed, the woman is the “seller”...or perhaps she is the product, marketing courtesy of her desperate parents, wanting to see off their “duty” and wash their hands of her. How fair skinned you are as a woman very often determines how affluent your husband-to-be will be, or indeed, whether or not you will marry at all. It is not unknown to drown in a vat of milk, at birth, a girl believed to be “too dark-skinned” to marry.

While it is not my intention to ridicule several millennia of cultural traditions and beliefs, as a citizen of a multi-cultural society where I am free to express myself, and readily included without any pressure to conform to social norms, I feel suffocated to even think of such narrow-mindedness. How can skin colour, a beautiful, natural (atheists, forgive me) God-given gift be the reason for subjugation to irrational, misinformed and inhuman prejudices? Perhaps the creation of such social divisions is the very reason behind the multitudinous wars that plague us today; but an expectation, or even a mild hope, that we can love without any boundaries, and accept and celebrate people for what they are is just a wildly utopian fantasy of mine. The colour of your skin makes you un-love-able to me. Sorry.

Half Caste

2010-05-07T08:50:00.000-07:00

Excuse me
standing on one leg
I’m half-caste.

Explain yuself
wha yu mean
when yu say half-caste
yu mean when Picasso
mix red an green
is a half-caste canvas?
explain yuself
wha yu mean
when yu say half-caste
yu mean when light an shadow
mix in de sky
is a half-caste weather?
well in dat case
england weather
nearly always half-caste
in fact some o dem cloud
half-caste till dem overcast
so spiteful dem don’t want de sun pass
ah rass?
explain yuself
wha yu mean
when yu say half-caste
yu mean tchaikovsky
sit down at dah piano
an mix a black key
wid a white key
is a half-caste symphony?

Explain yuself
wha yu mean
Ah listening to yu wid de keen
half of mih ear
Ah looking at yu wid de keen
half of mih eye
an when I’m introduced to yu
I’m sure you’ll understand
why I offer yu half-a-hand
an when I sleep at night
I close half-a-eye
consequently when I dream
I dream half-a-dream
an when moon begin to glow
I half-caste human being
cast half-a-shadow
but yu must come back tomorrow
wid de whole of yu eye
an de whole of yu ear
an de whole of yu mind.

an I will tell yu
de other half
of my story.

John Agard

Thief of Time

2010-05-04T16:30:00.000-07:00

Pro·cras·ti·nate.

pro·cras·ti·nat·ed, pro·cras·ti·nat·ing, pro·cras·ti·nates

v.intr. to procratinate is the action of avoiding, putting off, postponing or delaying doing something, especially out of habitual carelessness or laziness.

n. Procrastination refers to the counterproductive deferment of actions or tasks to a later time.

I will do anything, absolutely anything, right now to avoid writing an economics essay that I am due to hand in tomorrow morning. By anything, I mean, ANYTHING. Including writing about the worries and woes (and the well-deserved consequences, of course) of procratination. Don’t get me wrong – I had every intention when I woke up this morning, to promptly start and soon finish my task so I could enjoy the rest of my day sans any qualms - but you see, it never quite worked out that way, I just don't seem to have gotten round to it. There I sat at my desk at 10am, all ready and rearing to go, only to remember I hadn’t yet had my breakfast. Made my way to the kitchen, prepared me a fancy brunch and swiftly (not.) returned to my spot to embark upon the tedious project. Following hours of careful contemplation, just as I was about to write my first word (I promise!), I happened to take a glance around and realise the apartment was A MESS! The very visual summons of the imminent chores, begging, pleading to my feminine/domestic/OCD instincts could not possibly have been ignored; And if I was going to clean, I may as well do it properly... so I proceeded to "spring clean” my entire apartment; hoovered every nook and cranny, changed the sheets, did the laundry, shifted around all the furniture, polished the surfaces - you know the drill; I then suggested to my boyfriend that we take a “short walk”, as I felt I needed fresh air, turns out we had [a rather delicious] lunch out [at Nando’s, should you be wondering] and didn’t return until nearly 6pm. Great, I can sit down now, I thought, and finally start my assignment... Alas, I would have, but... but of course the dinner needed to be cooked.... and who would do it if I didn’t?! Thus, [despite countless protests from my boyfriend offering that he do the cooking] off I trundle to the kitchen to flaunt my most ostentatious culinary skills – that is surely productive use of time, no...?

SO dinner cooked, hastily devoured, dishes cleaned, lunch boxes packed ... and here I am, still searching left, right and centre for something to pass the time, the hours, the minutes and the seconds, til I am FORCED to begin that damned essay of mine – It is at this point that the wise words of Edward Young occur to me, propelling me into a myriad of reflections on my behaviour. Why am I postponing completion of a task that really, once I put my mind to it, will take only 2 – 3 hours, and will leave me subsequently “free”, in terms of both my time and my conscience?

I Googled my concern – and I must confess the results thrown at me were of little comfort in my anxious and guilty state. According to suite101.com, I am a chronic procrastinator who is doomed to loss of valuable opportunity, frustration, increased stress, poor professional and academic performance, lower self-esteem and, of course, wasted time. Delving a little deeper, I find that "procrastination can be a persistent and debilitating disorder” generally surrounding issues of anxiety and a self-defeating mentality. Supposedly, it can be associated with "perfectionism" defined as a tendency to negatively evaluate outcomes and one's own performance.

Now, a perfectionist - that I am. I mean I have edited this post about six times already. I am constantly looking for ways to improve anything I do, criticising myself and cursing my shortcomings. I am never satisfied or pleased with my efforts and I suppose I don’t really like myself very much. So could it be that my procrastination is truly beyond my control? A disorder I simply cannot suppress? Perhaps my prefrontal cortex really is suffering from low activation, reducing my ability to filter out distracting stimuli...? Not good. Owing to these bleak prophecies, I now feel duly obliged to commence my essay. Yep, at 00.08 hours, with just 5 hours remaining before I have to be awake again. Lesson learnt - never again! (Yeah, right).

P.S. I just remembered I haven't yet washed my hair... or brushed my teeth... or watched yesterday's repeat of Friends on 4OD.....

The Beauty of Life

2010-05-03T02:54:00.000-07:00

Life changes every minute of every day. A new moment is a new world, a new dawn is a new beginning. You lose friends and you gain friends. You realise your friend wasn't ever really your friend and that person you used to hate can make a really good friend. You learn to forgive, but you will never forget. You look for love. You find love, and you lose love. You realise all along that you have been loved. You laugh, you cry. You laugh so hard that you cry. You do this, you do that - then you really wish you hadn't done that. You regret, but then you learn from that, and you are eventually glad that you did it. You forget the pain, and remember what you gained. Experience enriches you, and difficulties build you. You have your ups and you have your downs. You see good movies and you see bad ones too. You wonder if your life is just one big movie. You look at others and wish you were them - you then realise who and what they are; their pains, their struggles and their weaknesses - and you are glad then, that you are YOU. You love life, you hate life. You celebrate life, you waste life. Remember, in the end though, you will find yourself happy living life, no matter what is thrown at you... because you realise that you have been given one chance, and this one chance is a blessing... it is more than a lot of people ever get.

Oblivious to Humanity.

2010-04-15T20:23:00.000-07:00

Love me unconditionally, or hate me infinitely –

Your feeling makes you human.

Weave an intricate web of dreams, or shatter another’s –

Your desire makes you human.

Tell me a myriad of truths, or a tangle of lies –

Your intellect makes you human.

Steal a heart and break it, or capture one and cherish it –

Your craving makes you human.

Bring a tear to my eye, or leave a smile on my lips –

Your effort makes you human.

Inflict a wound, draw my blood... or heal my hurt and ease my pain...

Your intention makes you human.

So then what is the difference,

Between he who kills, and he who revives?

One is blinded by his love for money,

One self-sacrificed in serving others.

One is the Messiah of Truth, One a Doll of Deceit.

One hides in fear of God, in fear of Love,

One lives life fearless, with Love for all.

The Only difference I see, if you can understand, is that

One is an angel, sent from above,

The other a puppet, ignorant, unaware and oblivious

To compassion

Oblivious to Humanity.

Spring Flings + Things...

2010-04-15T11:38:00.000-07:00

Spring seems finally to have arrived. Bringing with it amarillo daffodils, long sunny evenings and the sounds of children playing in the park, this magical time of year seems to awaken the soul - and Mother Earth - from its deep winter slumber. Spring, on all levels, religious or not, business or not, routine or not, seems to be the mark of a new start; a fresh dawn, a blank canvas. For many it symbolises the resurrection of Christ, for others, the start of a new tax year and for the rest of us. - well, the old spring clean! Time to out the old, and welcome what’s new - and why not? The brighter days work wonders in uplifting dark moods, so why hang on to overcast thoughts...

I particularly look forward to spring, as it signifies the start of a new year for me - yes, I do celebrate the 31^st of December, the countdown to midnight et al - but the world seems too dark, and I am too depressed (hey, Christmas is after all a whole 358 days away....!) to be contemplating fresh starts or resolutions to “better” myself. No. I’d rather indulge myself until the clocks go forward, and I realise I no longer need to rush straight home from university or work and into bed. In fact, I realise I no longer want to rush straight home into hibernation. The brighter days and smiley faces spur me on to finally embark upon that new fitness regime I was so religiously procrastinating, or take up those new dance classes or [try to] give up one of my [numerous] culinary vices for lent –ice-cream or chocolate for example. In March, everything seems possible, everything seems achievable [ YES, even abstinence from chocolate for a month!] and my entire mindset is transformed. This year’s spring, eagerly awaited after a cold, long winter has brought with it relief, and the first watery rays of sunshine we have seen in a long while. On a personal level, it is difficult not to feel upbeat at this time of year... One gets the feeling that the gloomiest days have passed – it can only get better from here. I am filled with excitement, positivity and anticipation for the year ahead...

Talking of spring, I almost forgot to mention what I love most about this bountiful season; glorious baby pink, cream and white blossom-filled trees lining the streets, parks and gardens.... showering passers-by with abundance, as though confetti is being thrown to mark some celestial carnival of nature... and truly, the explosion of colour spring brings with it is more than reason for celebration...

A Story to Heal the Heart

2010-04-14T10:47:00.000-07:00

The following story is not something I have written myself... but in reading it, I found it has the power to move the mind, touch the soul, inspire the imagination, comfort the pain... and maybe even heal the heart... so I felt obliged to share it.. it is truly wonderful.

A Beautiful Heart

One day a young man was standing in the middle of the town proclaiming that he had the most beautiful heart in the whole valley. A large crowd gathered and they all admired his heart for it was perfect. There was not a mark or a flaw in it. Yes, they all agreed it truly was the most beautiful heart they had ever seen. The young man was very proud and boasted more loudly about his beautiful heart.

Suddenly, an old man appeared at the front of the crowd and said "Why, your heart is not nearly as beautiful as mine." The crowd and the young man looked at the old man's heart. It was beating strongly, but it was full of scars. It had places where pieces had been removed and other pieces put in, but they didn't fit quite right and there were several jagged edges. In fact, in some places there were deep gouges where whole pieces were missing.

The people stared -- how can he say his heart is more beautiful, they thought? The young man looked at the old man's heart and saw its state and laughed. "You must be joking," he said. "Compare your heart with mine. Mine is perfect and yours is a mess of scars and tears."

"Yes," said the old man, "yours is perfect looking but I would never trade with you. You see, every scar represents a person to whom I have given my love - I tear out a piece of my heart and give it to them, and often they give me a piece of their heart which fits into the empty place in my heart, but because the pieces aren't exact, I have some rough edges, which I cherish, because they remind me of the love we shared."

"Sometimes I have given pieces of my heart away, and the other person hasn't returned a piece of his heart to me. These are the empty gouges -- giving love, is taking a chance. Although these gouges are painful, they stay open, reminding me of the love I have for these people too, and I hope someday they may return and fill the space I have waiting. So now do you see what true beauty is?"

The young man stood silently with tears running down his cheeks. He walked up to the old man, reached into his perfect young and beautiful heart and ripped a piece out. He offered it to the old man with trembling hands. The old man took his offering, placed it in his heart and then took a piece from his old scarred heart and placed it in the wound in the young man's heart. It fit, but not perfectly, as there were some jagged edges. The young man looked at his heart, not perfect anymore but more beautiful than ever, since love from the old man's heart flowed into his.

A Sleepless Night..

2010-04-13T05:15:00.000-07:00

3.22am

For countless nights and for endless hours I listen to the faint ticktock of my wrist watch on the dresser, the humming and rumbling of the ancient fridge and the steady rising and falling of my boyfriends (sleeping) chest. Each minute, each second of the muffled darkness creeps by as though an eon has passed - but still I am awake. My insomnia has returned.

I call it insomnia, but it seems too typically easy - and pointless as well - to assign my symptoms of sleepless nights to some clinically pre-identified, pre-defined and pre-“understood” condition or disorder - as though all sufferers can be universally diagnosed and a uniform "cure" administered. Far from it. I, fortunately, know the cause for my own sleeplessness, but just haven't quite figured the solution. As I hit the sack after a full day (and a half!) of work, I often find myself at the point of physical exhaustion - but my mind is still reeling. It's thinking a thousand thoughts and running at the speed of light; it's filled with doubts, questions, concerns, reflections and emotions about the day that has just finished... And about the day that will begin. What time do I have to wake up? What do I need to do tomorrow? Have the bills been paid? Will I pass my exams? Why is my father angry with me? Oh yeah, it's "so-and-so"'s birthday tomorrow... I think you get the picture.

Whether this has to do with my hectic lifestyle, or hectic society of today, I am unable to discern. I mean what with iPhones and Blackberries - it almost seems as though we are never meant to stop checking for mails, or text messages, or BBMs - perhaps not knowing our friends' latest facebook status update could in some twisted way impair our socializing capabilities. We must be up to date at all hours and at any cost... That one, I will leave for you to ponder at your leisure... (Take your time, we have all night.)

For those who have suffered from it, even ONE night of it, soon realise that the dead of the night is often when you can feel at your loneliest. Even sharing a bed with your other half, you sense that they are floating in one world - of rest, peace and dreams - whilst you are relentlessly trapped in another, feeling restless, desperately alone and paranoid. And why just your partner, your entire street, entire neighbourhood, entire town is away with the fairies, is lost in a deep slumber, has renounced the material world your mind still so cruelly occupies (or, that still so cruelly occupies your mind.) A "chronic" insomniac and her partner, I read, will often find it difficult to bridge the great chasm between the two, divergent nightly worlds they encounter - even in waking hours - so this very "disease" can threaten to engulf their relationship and their whole life...

Oh it's 3.47am. I didn’t even notice the minutes fly past... Time now for some sleep. Or sleeping pills atleast.least. G'nite.