Grated, But In A Pretty Way

This is a photo of my brother and I. His backpack near mine, together I suppose, with ideal plants shaping our personalities with each other and the world. Complete on a road to remain — I love him, you know. 

It looks like he is to remain a little longer. 

But a prospect of slight assurance is coming from another end 

Perhaps crap things happen here so better things can emerge there 

It’s a lesson learned everywhere I suppose, in all tales with rising actions and climaxes. But the resolution isn’t this one 

I want to shape mine, make sure it’s perfect — I need to make sure it was composed of its purpose, all the intelligentsia and deed in tact (I pray he might be back before then) 

Otherwise I pray to meet him in a prettier place — 

My Lord is Merciful and He is Kind. He has blessed me with a girding type of kindness, enveloping, slowly embracing, thank you thank you thank you.

I didn’t think he wasn’t to return sooner, but it’s okay, it has to be okay if I am to fulfill whatever that is, everything I suppose 

No confoundedness. No anxiety. Thank you thank you for the perfect cuts, the bad blood oozes out, it’s not too coagulated, thinning as it leaves the body

The earth shrinks and slows its revolutions

Then it’ll be black and there will be honor

There will be all the honor. 

To Jolt Now Is To Die A Pleasant Death

I have stopped counting the days,

Talks of a husband underwent a resurgence

A teeny tiny vascillation 

So minuscule it’s almost not there 

But it feels nice I suppose as some sort of

Background noise 

Jolt out of a state into another

Out of stagnation into fire

Droplets of blood, charcoal dark

And coagulated 

A cleansing — purifying thing 

There was no pain 

But it was heavy I think, like 

Lead 

I couldn’t move my arms. 

Jolt out of the jolting into a calm 

Good friends and laughs 

I had stopped counting the days, I really did

It was the distraction I wished for from the start 

Only it wasn’t a distraction it was a pacification

The kind I needed not knowing how to desire it — whatever 

I thank my Lord for the jolts

Like slaps of alertness 

Consciousness

He hasn’t returned yet but he will

They’re fighting, I should be with them 

They smiled at me and tightened their fists,

So lovingly told me to be patient,

I will meet with you soon

My heart is waving at this universe that is revolving on an end

A halt fastened with that pixie dust we secretly want to believe actually exists

It does in that sense I suppose, 

It smiles as it eases to its finish

Please come back to me — but I must learn,

I must learn to be patient and to remember my brothers and sisters 

I must jolt that jolt and rest there for a while 

And rest there


https://dailypost.wordpress.com/2017/04/17/jolt/

One Morning Idiosyncrasy 

I hadn’t brushed my teeth that night. My mind probably felt some haggard disgruntled thing but the shadow of fatigue put it to sleep before it could protest. Sleep that night was a sequence of unbroken oscillations, to pull the body up into the facilities, then return it — then flop it — onto its bed. It was heavy and perhaps it was arguably insomnia-esque but it formed little bother. I slept and awoke before any cognitive processes could take place anyway.

There was gravel in my esophagus.

“Hmhm.” 

I felt the gravel rumble slightly the way a car produces sounds of rumble on rutted highways. It stayed and I could recognize its presence so I awoke. 

I awoke to a scatter of bed pieces and to a stench that didn’t walk in accord with my slight obstinance so I rummaged through material and began with the mundanity. The mundanity that only so rarely slips passed me, perhaps the way only some falling tree leaves may lay uncounted. And so I tidied and organized, blah blah blah about the details, I suppose. Then I made myself a cup of tea. 

Invariably it was unsweetened green tea. But I drenched it in lime juice this morning — perhaps the throaty gravel would rumble a little more. I sat cross legged on my perfectly arranged bed; its sheets detoxified from my home apothecary, resting pacified and undisturbed. Even my body weight did not mark crescents on the linen — I was so lightweight. My body was experiencing an impeccable liberation from hedonistic heaviness. And so it reposed holding warmth between its fingers, whispering soft rhythmic prayers as a piano would emanate in solitude. Each note the same, but each note so inarguably different. I never liked pianos and their eerie ambience. I never understood solitude. 

This morning, as the subdued sunshine peered through the tiny window, as my skin absorbed the moisture of the oils I slathered it in, as my emptied stomach rumbled quietly, whispering it was awake, as a breeze smoothly swept over my skin particles enticing a placated shiver, I wasn’t here for a moment. It was so slight, so insignificantly slight that I suppose it may be measured only inside a dream, where swirls of oblivion make sense. But I was up somewhere, gone, almost finally — then gently returned into the lightness. Into where the people live. 

I was not sad then. Perhaps there was slight commiseration but I felt a jovial emptiness. Perhaps empty gives off an unjust connotation. A nothingness, that’s it. For once the world wasn’t here, and it was too slight of a moment to be defined as some event — I know there is more, so much more for a heaven before the heaven. For that real type of faith. But this morning was quite nice. 

I am lying in the same bed now; night has arrived. The sheets are wrinkled and I can’t exactly distinguish aroma — my body feels like it is recovering from a few punches, feeble. Like those frail pieces of paper that are extracted from a shredder, maybe a little less exaggerated. Years have passed today — 

And that is my obnoxious hyperbole for “Hey, I’m getting a cold.” 

Ah, we writers are so ridiculous. 

So wonderfully ridiculous. 

One Month

Disclaimer: this feature photo is one I took at some vintage boutique where they sold everything rustic. I photographed that frame in hopes one day I would paint that scene — it had imbued me with such a tranquility the first time I glanced at it, but I never began the project. Of course I didn’t. We writers love talking those talks. 

It has been one month. 

Well,

Two days to a month– 

I miss him and my leggy heart is feeble

Oscillating with its lame arms hanging like string 

The month was thought to feel like a year but my spatial perception of time has felt nothing 

Yesterday, it speaks

He was only gone yesterday — but before yesterday no sensory motor functioning gears up in the recall center

It is as though a chunk of placid procedural memory, a non thought induced or selectively attended memory, has turned blue

Depleted of its energy of function 

I think it is grey now — gradually ripening and drying to soon break off 

And dissipate into the rest of the rust 

I wonder if other things are dying too 

Perhaps enough will stay until a Miracle 

My eyes have started wincing from an intensity — I’m not sure which side it presses from 

But I’m certain it’s stomping on all of my sides

Slowly breaking me inside — perhaps waiting for an implosion with nippy fingers and a concealed smile 

But this pain is auspicious somehow,

I think it is the dark before that dawn? Or whatever the expression —

I await more darkness then, I suppose

A deeper incision until the blade becomes a part of me

No longer armory 

I think this is a happy post,

It is a little straining to breathe and my larynx feels wrapped in sandpaper 

As it mixes prose yolk with a fork until it turns runny, 

Probably illegible

But definitely transparent — predictable 

Flatulent, I suppose. 

I’m a charlatan writer who rarely exhibits the emotions she pens

But tonight my fingers seemed to have tapped a buildup of vocabulary describing a petulant patience

Perhaps I should change the title of this post to that truth,

For once.

Expecting An Awareness

Sometimes, and quite hilariously so, situations tend to go completely as planned, or as preemptively assumed, and that sequence of events fills a man with a fallacious confidence that it’ll happen again. That it’s always going to keep happening. 

For the past few weeks I have been awaiting a big thing, some crucial event in my life. I was waiting to get engaged. Now, blatantly stating that may read a little awkwardly, perhaps viewed as a little shackling or as a result of some closed brainwashing and it is most probably comprehended really quite erroneously. Much, if not all, of my current surrounding environment has completely transformed from what it used to be — and in that is a comfort for whom I had always desired to be. It is what I knew I wanted to be girded by without actually being aware that it was what I wanted to be girded by. This should make sense — especially because it is fact that other “emerging situations” in our lives follow similar patterns.

The place of our origin usually constitutes our natural behavior, our comfort in behavior so to speak. Multiple studies on monozygotic twins having been raised in separated environments have all found some form of conclusive evidence that ossifies the paramountcy of ‘nature.’ And it really is a no brainer. It makes sense that an Armenian raised in the Ukraine would carry some lingering longing for Armenia and its culture. It makes sense that a Japanese raised in Britian would find a certain preference for the Japanese cuisine — it is certainly believable that an American living in Cambodia finds more comfort shopping in American stores. It makes sense because it is a part of who they are, only it may not be a portion of the personality that has bubbled to the surface as prominently as the rest of their current environment enforced, but it is there nonetheless, and sometimes, it is the most comfortable layer that continues to travel with the person as they carry on unaware. Unaware of its influence and of its truth. Unaware that their blood is more than just a bunch of cells that complete a job, they’re a culture that carries history too, they carry traditions and old crappy habits and stupid idioms that only another carrier of the blood understands. I realize how this is starting to sound idealistically patriotic, almost like all the political divides of countries disconnecting people was the correct thing to do because humans innately desire in group favoritism– that isn’t what I mean to advocate and I do not exactly consider a divide in humanity a plausible existing phenomenon, I only want to point out that I was unaware of the impact of a culture of origin until I moved out of my tiny little western compound. 

To me, arranged marriages and familial acquaintances are pretty, and I’m removing all severe exceptions from these scenarios because there is a crap case in every ’emerging situation’ in every dogmatic home. To me, faith and religion and gender segregation is essential, and as a promulgated system it is perfect. These phrases were always inside of me sitting collecting dust, shrouded by the environment I was in — and that wasn’t necessarily a negative thing, in fact I think it helped me assert and direct my confidence towards the culture of my comfort, I almost had this sense of choice about how I was to continue with this life. Sure, I’ve had my adolescent fable phase that assumed a wisdom it didn’t have, but all teenagers think they’re invincible. 

Whatever I’m getting sidetracked. 

For the past few weeks I have been expecting whatever it was that I have been expecting and I haven’t received it. I have two options as of now, but before I parse them I must outline a premise. 

Should my expectation of the occurrence or lack of occurrence of an event dictate an injured trust in God and His fate, then I must decry any obtained knowledge and any truth to my faith in Him, because that is not how I ‘expected’ to be. I am sorry to myself. I have forgotten lessons that I had been taught — and so I am sorry.

As for what is available for me now after I have not received what I have desired, my analyses and irksome inquiries have led me to the following:

1. Fatimah, you may proceed in your presumed ‘control’ of events and ask and persuade and argue and fight. Perhaps then, with that form of stupid courage you may be given what you want. 

2. Fatimah, you may take the detour that is meant to be accepted and reflect on how events were never really in your control to begin with, but rather, in that of your Creator, whom is capable of everything and anything. Ask Him, and engage your courage in that manner, without involving other incapable beings. You have been shown a certainty that I am boggled as to why you are not hanging on to. Why are you resorting to the exact uncertainty of the rest of it? 

Human behavior is quite hilarious. It is irrational and proceeds nonchronologically. Awareness of things is a giant blessing, especially since sometimes we can be pretty stupid. 
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/2017/02/11/aware/

Still A Teenager 

University starts up again tomorrow. Hopefully after a few weeks in there, my syntax and vocabulary will undergo some much required resurgence and I’ll be able to produce any form of good writing. Anything. I do not really understand the reason I have decided to post about this — perhaps little retrospect was the point. I have been doing a lot of not that recently. It isn’t some lingering exhaustion of the mind that I feel, or perhaps it might be, but it is just the imminence of a novelty that is keeping me on my toes. 

There are concepts of war I had never been exposed to before a few weeks ago, and it is as if something poured some washed-out oil paint on a haggard canvas, not qaint or old, but vile on many standards. In that illiterate metaphor I am trying to figuratively “paint” the idea of how I feel about retrospection — I feel almost incapable of it sometimes, because there is little memory of how I used to think and feel. It is a chosen form of dementia that keeps many ogres and trolls at bay. I guess it doesn’t matter if any of this crap makes sense or not, the point is I am wherever I am now with a goal I never had before. 

I wake up in the mornings with the consciousness that I have been preserved by God, and that I am moving with the will of Him and breathing and speaking and eating and drinking. I have entered a realm of mind that swirls only faith in a pretty glass bottle of incredulously palatable sparkling water, inviting as many others as it can, and I am grappling to remain. This is what this is about.

It is about me attempting to value and devalue and revalue in appropriate accordance to a nascent comprehension of the universe. A new existence, so to speak. I want to live better, I think is what I am trying to say. And I don’t want to do it on my terms — I want to want the written terms, because I merely want to pass safely into the firmament. 

Ah

University starts tomorrow and in some auspicious literary word vomit concoction it will be another “start” — take a deep breath, blink a few times, turn on the mental gears and leap. 

Endnote: this feature photo is my own photography. That’s a heater, I suppose meant for representing the ‘fire’ a stupid teenager continues to carry even without speaking. Blah. 

Imprudent

They are like those jittery critters 

Creepy critters, but cute 

Cute creepy critters

Jumping in jovial joy

I suppose they’re usually called butterflies

Inside the stomach of an adolescent girl watching some impending event 

It’s probably some boy, some symbol of synchronized similarity 

That this is real 

That is a past that hurts —

It hurts to return by words, or to have him talk to me about it 

There seems to be a struggle with words as I attempt to put something down 

There is little eloquence that comes with that facile wave of a graceful wand painting letters of nothing 

And pretending there is meaning

Tonight I am staring at this screen — wondering whether this frilly type of worry is healthy 

I am not too certain what fits best as an expatiation of the beautiful ineffability, I merely continue to efface side after side until something sounds fine 

So there lies little assurance that the stupid teenage girl can be okay, that she can exist like a distant ghost hovers above a soul — as that has been spoken it rests as some haunting — I don’t want that certainly 

Certainly certainly 

I think I want the days to just pass 

So that he may meet my family and I may meet his 

So that some desicion of certainty may be made 

So that I can grow up and feel at ease that

If not escape here then there 

Patience isn’t from me, nothing is I must be certain 

Ah, I cannot formulate words 

I am so certainly stupidly excited. 
endnote: this feature photo is my art and photography 

This Is Tough

To the past few posts that were solely built on personal experience and clenching thoughts, I apologize. I know I said I was going to drench this thing with wincing humor, satirical teas and cool information to pretend as though I have some form of intelligence — but things are tough. 

I suppose when “things” are tough, optimally, all forms of patience and silence may be preferred. And I can’t really know why but it’s some secret purification that constructs a seal, shattered if divulged, maybe. I don’t know. I guess from far away, strong hearts always seem so capable. They look composed and wise, and their “things” are sure to be tougher than anyone. I think that picture is how I want to be when “things” are the way they are. But I don’t know anything about it. 

I do not swim in some squander or effort that evaporates — I am just afraid that time is dripping down from my fingertips the same way the last droplets of water do when I’m done washing them. There are so few of them left, I can’t exactly pinpoint how much or know when I’m to wash my hands again but right now they’re slipping away into the sink of charcoal. I think that’s how it is. 

I have become so much more ambivalent about my decisions — my mind shivers at ideas sometimes. There is so much left to learn. There is still so freaking much left to learn. And I haven’t even commenced a proper process — I have only been vascillating a convoluted confusion, weighing options and choices and not lucidly comprehending their consequences. I suppose I never used to comprehend much at all. It’s true, you know, how environment shapes almost everything — it shaped my charlatan facade, where I had assumed that I understood behavior because I read a few pages and listened to a few people. 

This is tough. The point is this is really tough. And it’s not because I don’t know what to do. God has blessed me with guides and I know what’s to be done. I just can’t understand why yet I guess. But it’s tough. 

I’m assuming objectively all these stupid words seem exactly that: stupid. I hope they are. I hope I can look back at this with that strong “wise” and quiet heart that I see glistening from far away. And I don’t want that balance for this life. I don’t think I can want things like that anymore — this is for what is after. I am blessed to have detanglerizers next to me. I am blessed to have the heart I do. This is tough but I am blessed. 

I think that was the purpose of this — a quiet imbued with thoughts that are translated inaccurately. And so it is only tough by perception — and if it is not then I still win prizes of patience. Be patient be patient be patient. The heaven you desire is to all who can be patient. This is tough — be patient.