The Turning of A Decade.

Being the last day of 2009, and whatnot, I thought I should write something. Just so that it would show up on my archives.

And you know...
Just to sort of make it look like I am an ever fervent blogger. *Rolls eyes*. As if.

And I really really want to say something meaningful.
But meaningful seems so hard right now.

Nevertheless, I shall try.

So 365 days passed, just like that.
Just like last year this time, another set of 365 days passed.
And it seems every year we re-sit this scenario, and we feel burdened by the weight of all those days.

To be honest?
I don’t feel in the least burdened.
I just want to sleep.
Pounding headache.
Too bad sleep is ever elusive these days.

Anyway, as I sit here, typing ever so meticulously, I can’t help but noticed the soreness of my fingers from replying to the overflow of “Happy New Year” messages, and wait for it: the phone calls =/

Ahh, now that that’s all dispensed with… I feel my inner calm resurfacing.

So where was I?
Yes, 365 days...
Can you imagine?
Three hundred and sixty five days.
300 + 60 + 5

That’s like … a lot of days.

Yet, we’ve managed to plow through them, in hopes of plowing through a new set of 365 days.
So, honestly? I think 2009, and I come up blank.
And then I think 2009 again, and small things come into focus.
Those small things that make it ever so defined in its commonness.
It’s funny how I find myself at a different predicament than the one I predicted I would be in. Not better, not worse, just different.
And I guess that’s what makes reality much different from our most analytic predictions.

Here’s to new predictions.
Here’s to new joy.
Here’s to new despair.
Here’s to new events.
Here’s to new ice cream flavors.
Here’s to new awesome people that we'll meet.
Here’s to new inspiration.

Here’s to a new year....2010.

P.S I’m so going to have such a hard time writing the date. I can see it clearly: ‘Girl attacks paper: 2010, not so easy to write.’

The Collector.

"A sour Skittle for your thoughts?" he asked.

"I don't like sour Skittles", she replied.

"They're quite amazing you know," he countered.

"I find them vile, and evil".

He arched his right brow, demanding an explanation.

"They're sour, yet sweet, thought bittersweet would be the wrong word to use, and the minute they enter your mouth, you escape your own shell for minute, and focus all your energy on getting over that sour paralysis they seem to ignite," she explained.

"Wow, sour Skittles analysis?" he murmured.

"And you want in on my thoughts".

"Please, by all means share those. I will not judge", he bargained.

"It wouldn't matter if you did, and I think you know that, just as well", she uttered with a smirk.

"Sadly, that is true. Still, on a more serious note...those thoughts?"

"The many words unsaid", she stated at last.

"What about them?"

"There's the said.
Selectively constructed verbalizations.
And then, there's the unsaid.
A disparaging mess."

She paused.
And he sucked on another Skittle.
She looked at him - so very unaffected by the its tangy taste.

"Do go on... a disparaging mess?"

"Within every person, resides the said and the unsaid.
The said at times brings much relief, for it frees and rescues the soul, in a timely, yet miniscule manner.
The unsaid, is a constantly-procreating particle of lead. And one day, it becomes a sheet of lead, and then a block of lead ...

Now, hypothetically speaking, if there was an 'unsaid words' collector - he would be the most engaged man* around.
Every minute, he would transport buckets of unsaid words to his small corner, and start fitting the interconnecting parts; start penetrating the thick layers of enigma obstructing the bigger picture.

He would see what she can't see.
He would see what you can't see.
He would see what they can't see.

He would finally understand - make sense of the jumbles, and the odds and ends.

And within his reach, would lay the key to everything. To everyone's souls.
Now, that's ultimate power."

He looked at her in masked awe.

She silently implored him to reply.

He ignored that urge.

There was too much unsaid.
There was too much to unchain.

Better keep the way it is, held by bare threads - yet held all the same.

She laughed sardonically. "Look at us, having a heart-to-heart about the 'unsaid words' collected, when he's no more real than Tinker Bell herself. It's okay, I wasn't really expecting much of a reply anyway. It seems the fruitless 'said', is all we have. I'd explain more, but you wouldn't begin to grasp the gist of it."

With that, she selected a green Skittle from his packet, popped it in her mouth, and let its sour-numbing effect take over - and in that little while she didn't think, for she didn't have to.

He started to say something, and then stopped. He stared at her walking way, becoming more and more distant.

'I understand' he wanted to say.

Many a day when he would dream of being that very same man.
Yet the much unsaid outweighed his understanding, and so he said nothing.
Nothing at all.

*Note: 'man' here is derived from mankind, and not the other constituents of the population.

Line Of Best Fit.

I don’t need to constantly speak of my greatness. My essence whispers it loud and clear.

I don’t constantly need to huddle in large crowds. My presence is all I need.

I don't feel the need to make myself apparent. I'm a kaleidoscope of a being, all on my own.

I simply stand out.

And you don’t.

While that may kill you -

It makes me smile in return.

And when you see that smile.

A part of you dies.

But I’m still smiling.

Because you’re no one.

While, me: I’m my own light, my own darkness and everything in between.

I Hear No Footsteps Approaching.

Dearest Fortress,

It’s sad how no one approaches your solid walls - walls whose solid stand is proof of their long existence. No one ever dares to give you even the slightest gentle push. They see you from afar, and plot to shatter you. And when they smell the enigma you radiate, they hover and try to break you, to see what’s inside. Then, when all fails, they turn and look for something more feasible.

What happened to the thrill of being on unfamiliar ground?

Whatever happened to challenging that inner security shell, some work a lifetime to build?

All those people out there, yet I hear no footsteps.

I find it sadder that out of all those people, most of them are a waste of space. People have become so common that you can substitute one for the other.

What happened to that sense of individualism?
What happened to being your own self?
What happened to having your own walls?

People pale every hour, fortress: they become hollow blocks of solidity. They integrate themselves into the masses, removing all their walls, but forget that they are an individual unit within these masses.
But you fortress, stand alone, away from the crowd.

It leaves me engulfed in sadness - all these masses.
It leaves me craving something original.
It leaves me longing to savor something new and refreshing.
Something to take away this ever tedious aftertaste.

Yet again, I feel it’s just me that’s craving. The rest seem happy enough with the replicated commonness out there.
I understand it’s much easier to handle ‘normal’.
It’s much easier to understand ‘normal’.
Because ‘normal’ is ‘normal’, and will always be.
But ‘normal’ is predictably dull.
It’s seamlessly replaceable.
There is little to lose, and nothing to gain with ‘normal’.

But you’re not normal, fortress.

And I am forever your captive. For I built you, strong and standing still, and then locked myself deep within.
Sometimes I wonder if I was right to make you look so intimidating, that you drive everything away. But when despair hits, and you absorb it all, I know I need you just as you are
Sometimes I wonder if I was right to lock myself in, and not just wait by the door, for someone to knock. But when I see rocks flying at your windows, I know that I need to stay deep inside.
Sometimes I wonder what it would sound like if someone ever knocked on the door?
Or maybe climbed the windows, and crawled inside?

I hear no footsteps approaching, fortress.
None have approached in a long time.

And that leaves me sad.
Why does no one approach, fortress?

If you think you can answer any of the questions above, please do!

To you, Self.

A while I know. Swamped, I swear :(

For the muse in an onesie: Yes, inspiration did hit at that moment :P and,

Chubby cheeks <3:> Msn remains better!


Dearest self,

Here I am, again.

Just me.

The present you.

In this very defining moment.

I write to all of you self.

From this defining moment.

To that past ‘you’, to the present ‘you’, and to the enigmatic future ‘you’.

I write to you all.

United in this moment, yet set apart in the infinite wave of time.

To all of you I write this-

It is my most profound wish for me to meet you Self. Not this present ‘you’ that I know, but all of you. You self, are segmented across time, and never whole for me to see. Could you try Self, time set aside, to give me just a glimpse of your entirety: a complete converged image, with all details in the correct place?

Is it too much to ask, to see you all- past, present and future? It seems so.

And that leaves me here to contemplate and question the reality of things, and the outcomes such realities trigger.

It is at this point in my contemplations that I feel the need to apologize to you Self.

I’m sorry that at times you were shunned and overruled. Those were the times where I let superficial want take over, while your voice forever muted.

I’m sorry for all the unnecessary internal wounds, you now bear as scars.

I’m sorry for my disorientated states, where I left you an unfamiliar observer of my whirling.

I’m sorry, the list is so long, that I cannot seem to recall all the things I should be sorry for.

Sad, isn’t self, being reduced to this?

No? You don’t think so. Well, I do.

But I promise you, I have learned much from those failings.

I learned to love you more than all.

I learned that you are all.

And I’m just sorry it took me this long to come to realize such.

Self, there comes a point in time, where insanity borders, and with its doubts baffles the mind. And at those times, it’s rather easy to erase limits, drop any borders and let loose.

What’s the worst that could happen, Self?

My soul would suffocate and die?

No, it would eventually learn to feed off the chaos, and the world would continue spinning its same cycle.

And then there are points in time, where reality hits at full force, and all comes to a nerve-wracking halt. The facts are all spewed like the whips of a leather lash. And denial becomes an ever taunting sin.

It’s then that your importance grows self.

It’s then where you come to find me, and push me forward, out of the void and into the lucid clearing.

Thank you Self, for always being there.

Every time, anytime and all the time.

Because as I look around, I see no one here but you, Self.

The rest are all residents of discontinuous scenery.

All but you, Self.

You have my endless love and gratitude, Self.

I am forever yours.

A Small Price To Pay.

For the first time, in a long time to come, the path in front of her came into focus.
The past became a vague blemish of gray.
And the air was forever tranquil.

She tried to dress in black, but found herself attracted to those brighter shades - to those yellows and reds.

A vibrant outside.

Her mind deduced she was better off.
Her eyes magnified indifference.
Her body felt forever light.
Her conscience numbed, retreating inwards.

Her inner self breathed its last words: “Rest in peace”, and then spoke no more.

A still inside.

They clashed - stillness and vibrancy.

She smiled and frowned throughout it all. It was all the same.

They clashed again – vibrancy and stillness.

She chuckled and wept throughout it all. It was all the same.

A small price to pay, she thought.


“What’s wrong?” a familiar voice asked.
“My heart died,” she replied.
“Oh. I’m sorry for your loss.” the voice said.
“I’m not. ‘tis not loss, but a great gain,” she claimed.
“I see. Might I inquire as to how it died?” the voice implored.
She shrugged, “the autopsy report declared its cause of death to be ‘over freezing’.”


Yes, her heart died.
And in its place lay a black veil in silence, recollecting memories of a colorful inside.

Yet, her outside is forever vibrant.
Her body forever light.
And the air forever tranquil.

A small price to pay indeed.

The Boxer Effect.

Why hello fellow earthlings that are way too cool to be on earth.

About time for that new planet to appear and whisk us all away with its magical forces, eh?


So I was sitting in my overrated, life-sucking, death-advancing, sanity-stripping, soul-deteriorating, time and space –consuming eleven o’clock class.

The walls are white, the tables are white. The ceiling is white. The tiles are white. The professor’s hair is white. Surprisingly though, the chairs are black. Talk about spur of the moment. Heh.

My location? Second row to the right.


'Cause I always sit in the middle row, 'cause I'm cool like that.

Nah. Its ‘cause in the third row, I wouldn’t think twice about falling asleep - to hell with decorum.

And first row. Well, first row is divided into two parts.

First row left is saved for that special class of people who nod when the professor is talking and smile when he cracks a joke that is lame’s long lost ancestor and think no one can see them. Little do they know.

First row right is saved for the imbeciles enough to show up very late.

Such detail, you say.
I like detail, so sue me. Hmph!

The row in front of me fills out to be an all testosterone infested row.

So I sit, well more like wiggle around in my chair, to try and find that comfort zone. It doesn’t work, and I end up squirming like I have to pee the whole way through class. It’s not my fault the chairs are so hard!

I think they should adopt beanie bags, and screw ass-flattening chairs!

The lecture starts, and I can hear bits and pieces….

Then fifteen minutes into it, my brain and ears just give way… and my eyes starts absorbing petty detail like how many lights there are in the classroom (12) and how many dots on each tile of the ceiling (45).

I then look in front of me, and I’m blinded by an entire row of boxers surfacing to inhale fresh air. All colors, and sizes. I'm assuming boxers have one standard look/shape. If not, well...I don’t know ;( . Anyway... so a whole row of boxers! Imagine that.

If I was any different, I’d blush and look away. Sadly, I’m not.

Instead, I realized that pubescent boys or ‘men’ (I believe that’s what they go by these days, correct me if I’m wrong), find, with great zeal, the concept of a shred of their boxers flowing out a very capital sex on stick idea.

Apparently their asses need to breathe? Meh.

And then, I get this idea, and it makes me all jumpy.

I’ll share I’ll share- I swear.

Here goes:

Imagine they have jokes (yes, little Timmy ones included), or little puzzles at the back of each pair of boxers?

I for one, would find myself forever entertained!

I mean, the boxer sticks out it's just efficient use of material!

As a result, when you look at someone's boxers you are no longer disgusted, but want to fixate them till you can coherently read the puzzle/joke.

And if they’ve got the right goods, in the correct proportions, you can check out their ass sans getting caught in flagrante delicto, and maybe ask them for the answer?

And thus concludes the Boxer Effect :)

In Passing, One Day.

She saw the earth in passing one day, and asked after its greatest fear.
The earth pondered, and then replied: "To remain still in one segment of time, and never progress. To be left behind - a traveler in my own land."

She saw the sun in passing one day, and asked after its greatest fear.
The sun immediately answered: "A state of numbness, that no ray of warmth can ever penetrate through its shell of stillness. A state where heat is a solace beyond my reach."

She saw the moon in passing one day, and asked after its greatest fear.
The moon heavily sighed and then said: "An ever encompassing darkness, where in exists no hope. It would wrap around you stealthily, till you are both one."

She saw the rain in passing one day, and asked after its greatest fear.
The rain shivered, and with a far away look responded: "A dusty dryness so palpable, limiting all tactile sensory."

She saw herself in passing one day, and asked after its greatest fear.
Herself fixated her, and asked her to follow.

They stepped in front of a glass pane, and herself pointed at the face staring back.

The empty dark brown eyes.
The straight mouth.
The taut skin.

Her face. Her.

She lifted her hand, and an identical hand lifted across the glass pane.

Herself looked at her and whispered: "And now you know my greatest fear". And with that, Herself faded into the crowds.

She turned to the glass pane and stared momentarily, swallowed by two, familiar yet so alien dark brown pits.

A Native Tongue.

Yes, its been a while.

But I really have been busy.


Carpe Diem



"One loves with their heart," he proclaimed."Give me your heart and I'll give you mine."

A layer of silence settled down and thickened. Nothing was said. Yet, she spoke in a native tongue - that of silence.

One loves with their heart?

The vital organ of life - that heart?

Give me your heart and I'll give you mine...

That heart serves only one purpose - that of keeping your temporary body alive. A body that acts as a medium in which we 'live'.

That heart is not really mine.

How can I give you something I do not own?

The only thing anyone really owns is their soul.

Still, what if you love someone with your heart, then when you no longer ‘live’, does that mean you no longer love them?

What if you give someone your heart, and they 'break' it, do you die?

What if you want your heart back, but I want to keep it forever? What then? Do you die as well?

What if my heart has a mind of its own, and doesn't want to come back to me? Do I die?

But if its not this literal, then what heart do you figuratively refer to?

What, then, do you really give someone you love?




Yet, emotions, grow, change, shrink, fade and disappear.

Promises eventually become empty words.

And hope is scarce and indefinite- a glimpse of what could be.

So when we speak of the heart do we refer to the design that we've subconsciously sketched and associate with compassion? Are we talking about that 'heart'?

Where is this 'heart'?

Is it palpable?

Is it active?

Is it warm?

Do I have one?

Oh 'heart' of mine, do you hear me?

Everyone has a heart. But does everyone have a 'heart'?

In the same way, not everyone has compassion.

Am I compassionate?

Do I deserve compassion?

Then again, if you loved someone with your soul - does it last forever?

It can't be eternal? Can it?

Surely the need to strive forward will cancel its perpetual state.

Does a soul have a 'heart'?

Is that where you are, oh 'heart'?

How do you love with your soul?

Do you give your soul?

But my soul is me.

I can't give you me.

I can only give myself me.

But she spoke in a native tongue- that of silence.

Heed the silence and its message, he did not.

Hear its whisper, he could not.

Thus, he waited.

And she finally replied: "I'm afraid I can't take your heart: I don't have space enough for two. I can't give you my own for I've yet to find what that really is."

Maybe Is No Certainly.

Maybe you can bring me back, you say.

Maybe you can save my lost soul.

Maybe you can bring out that shy me.

Maybe you can please my inner child.

Maybe you can help my battered self.

Maybe you can restore my beliefs.

Maybe you can attempt to revive those parts I put six feet under.

Maybe you can make everything all well again.

Maybe you can aid me in getting through this, you assure me.

Maybe you can help me and I'll make it.

Maybe you can try your hardest.

Maybe you can let me dream again, you plead.

Maybe you can bring back my innocence.

Maybe you can dim the past.

Maybe you can open my eyes.

Maybe you can bring me back, you say yet again.

But then again, maybe you can't, I say at last.

Because 'Maybe' is no certainly.

'Maybe' is that hidden hope.

'Maybe' is for the children of tomorrow.

I believe in now.

'Cause that's all I have.

'Maybe' is no certainly.

And so 'Maybe' isn't for me.

So in Sync.

Hello there. *waves*

Before you judge the title I tell you this: No I'm not recruiting for a new boy band. I swear!

Moving on.

So, the other day I was out with a group of friends. And one of my friend's brother says something dirty. And mind you, it was subtle - he really wasn't holding a sign that says: "Perverted stuff, coming up".

The minute it came out of his mouth, an entire circuit of fluorescent tube lights just went on in my brain. DING DING DING.

It's not that I have a dirty mind - honest to God - I can just totally pick up on the perverted stuff. They're sort of transmitted at the same frequency that my brain picks up.

Wow. That frequency stuff, brought back to life a complete moving diorama of my physics class. *chants "I'm a survivor, I'm gonna make it"* Phew.

Anyway. That incident got me thinking about how my brain became so in sync with the perverseness.

And today, I have made a great discovery.

Warning: If you do not wish to take a walk down memory lane - close window now.

My, My. You're still here? You brave soul.

Just keep in mind that just 'cause you had Lasik surgery doesn't mean we can't remember the pair of wheels on your face back in the old days ;)


Remember back in the third grade, when you used to carry your
a) Scooby-doo/TMNT/Tom & Jerry lunch box if you were cool.
b) Barbie if you were dosed with extra X chromosomes.
c) Power Rangers/Batman if you were a mama's boy or a dyke.

proudly and walk to the dingy school bus and sit according to your level of coolness?

(How this was determined escapes me at the moment.)

Oh come on, you must be able to recall this sort of stuff!

There were all these other kids with you.

And there was Billy.

You see Billy, but Billy is so far away. (Mind you, Billy can be a girl too, as in my case)

Now. Billy was that kid at the back of bus - the one radiating out raw coolness.

And Billy was all-knowing back then.

The one with the big saucy mouth the million and two innuendos.

Everyone has at least one memory of Billy.

For Billy taught you all.

Your mom remembers Billy.

Because you asked her if what Billy said what true.

She probably denied it, blushed a profuse hue of red, and you were grounded for no reason at all.

'She lies,' Billy told you.

And lie she did.

But Billy told you the truth.

Billy took away your innocence.

Billly made your eyes pop.

Billy changed your life.

After that, you became officially synced.

Courtesy of Billy and Sons.

Remember that Billy?

Yeah *nods*, me too.

I wonder where Billy is now?


My theory?

Your parents probably paid Billy to teach you all that stuff, so they wouldn't have to do it themselves AND they got to punish you regardless :)

As for Billy…well Billy's training his/her kid. After all, somebody's got to keep the family business running.


Before I wrote all this down, I called my favorite cousin.
And told him all about Billy and my theory.
After literally 10 minutes of him laughing at me, he goes: "Yeah. I miss my being Billy days."

Well, no shocker there.
I couldn't even pretend.


The Secret of The World.

The secret of the world lies not buried deep within its bowels.
It does not roam the skies, nor wander amongst us.

The secret of the world is not found in an hidden truth. 

It does not make any sound.

The secret of the world is not heavily guarded. 

It does not wish to remain a secret any longer.

The secret of the world offers little - yet to some it is all. 


And one day the world breathed its secret: 

"My secret lies in an ultimate balance - a balance between letting go and holding on."

It went unheard. A forever dying echo.

But you hear it now. 

And you now know the world's secret.

Boredom, Amongst Other Things.

Is it just me, or is boredom the new swine flu?

I'm dead serious when I say that boredom is an epidemic as old as time.

It infects you slowly until you become an inert chunk of matter lying about.

So I guess you have, by now, concluded that I am overly bored.

I feel like a chicken nugget.

And the oil they fry the nuggets in, is the boredom.

So I'm frying in boredom.

Does that even make sense?

I fail to care at the moment.

It's not like I have nothing to do.No. I have shitloads on top of shitloads. In fact, if you collected all the shit at the zoo from all the animals and piled it up it would amount to no where near the pile of shitload I have to do.

And still I don't do them.

I procrastinate in buckets.

No not buckets - barrels. Giant big ass barrels.

Yeah, I'm just really bored. Did I mention that? Because if I didn't - well, I'm so friggin' bored, I could not only watch a Teletubbies episode, but show genuine interest AND overlook all the homosexual underplay.


But I will not, courtesy of the shred of sanity I am clutching on to.

Everything bores me.

And Puhleeze - wipe that ''ungrateful piece of meat' glare off your face, because if you made it this far into the post then I've got news for ya: you're just as goddman bored.

Yeah. Anyway. That was me exploring my boredomeness. I know, I know - not a real word.

Do I care?


Do you care?


P.S I'm on my phone. Excuse the retarded spaces out of no where. 

If Only For A While.

A small capture of human nature.
Maybe you can relate, and maybe you can't.

Carpe Diem ;)

Climbing the stairs two at a time, she made it to her room.

She changed into more comfortable clothes, and threw herself down on the bed, closing her eyes in attempt to yield to the enticing whispers of sleep. 

Ah, yes. That ever elusive sleep. The last she indulged in sleep was quite sometime back. If only she could count the hours of stolen slumber and sleep them all in one go. 

A knock penetrated through her last thoughts and echoed within the confines of her head.  

"Yes?" she answered drowsily.
"You're sleeping?" her mother asked in all inquisitiveness.
"Mhm, I'm drained," she explained.
"Before you sleep, go pray first."
"Yeah, okay," she let that demand blur by, as if unimportant.

After her mother left the room, she got up, went to get her prayer things and prayer carpet. She arranged them in such a manner where it would look like she prayed, and fully gave in to those tempting whispers.

While she still resided in the realm of sleep, her mother came back in once again to be greeted by the orchestrated prayer scene. Her chest swelled of pride as she said more to herself than anything else, "Mashalla 3a binti," and then quietly left. 

She woke up a while later, feeling less drained, yet not fully restored. Still, some sleep was better than none. Following a lifetime tradition, she gathered the sustenance of her life, or the 'goods' as she liked to call them from the kitchen storage. They consisted of deceptive neglected masses of cholesterol disguised as Lays Salt and Vinegar, Skittles, and Reese's cups. But who could ever resist them? Evil, yet blissful.

She turned on her laptop, watched as the msn icons twirled together harmoniously before loading her contacts. It was a waste time more than anything, she knew - but it was a habit. An old habit. Old habits don't really ever die.

The first 'ding' came, alerting her that she had one pending conversation. Many dings later, juggling Facebook and blogging in between, she had had enough conversations to open her own version of Communications Central. 

Her father came in to check on her, having just flown home, and asked if she prayed. Again, she pointed to the set up carpet and praying things from earlier.

"I'm very proud of you, my eldest," his voice full of love. "You work hard, and with your prayer, Allah y3een, you'll see."

She smiled, gave him a peck on the cheek and expressed her love for him. With that, he left. And once again, she was alone in her room to do her work. Oh, and she not only did it, but she excelled at it too. True, her time management could have been better, but she got it done regardless. 

At 2:00 in the morning, she called it a night. 

And thus ends her day, only to be replayed again tomorrow, and the day after...


She woke up one morning to be welcomed by the day of her first final.
She showered, and dressed.
She had her morning latte, drinking along a healthy dose of nervousness with it.

And then she remembered that today was one of those couple of days during the year- one day of those few.

She headed back upstairs, and found her praying things set up as habit dictates them to look as if she prayed. She faced her carpet and began to pray for her success and triumph. 

Yes, today was one day of those few. A day where old habits die - if only for a small while.