Frustrated

Here I am, once more shamelessly blogging about my frustration, with another human, with my work life.
Basically frustrated with the choices that I make.
Which is supremely ironic based upon the fact that I make a living teaching people how to make more informed choices. Choices about their courses, about their careers, choices about the words that they use to write their crappy essays. I teach how to make choices but I fail myself when it comes to making those for myself.
Man is born free-- I can say that I believe that wholeheartedly. It is not religion or man's inner anxiety that ties him down-- it is in fact other humans. We are solely responsible for stripping away the other's freedom and leaving them to not be able to make choices for themselves.
Our parents for example. They raise us, or in fact they want us, to be informed individuals equipped to take on the world and it's myriad of challenges. Yet when it comes to making a choice, most of us inevitably, especially those blessed enough to be from South Asia, will make choices that please our parents. Because we are made to feel the burden-- we fed you, we clothed you, we paid for education, we clean up your shit when you can't-- you owe us happiness.
And just like that we make the choice that ultimately makes them happy.

How about you? Deliberately trying to strip away my choices? How about you being so unmoving and so rigid in your chase after freedom? How about you being inappropriate, being so blatantly unfaithful and being so ridiculously unfair? What gave you the right to suffocate me to the extent where I feel like I have no choice but to walk away? To ignore? To let it be?

The problem with frustration is that it demands release. And when the release is over, shame prickles down your back, pinching you uncomfortably as you hastily try and shake it off.
Next post may be called ashamed. 

lulz.

Why are all human relationships so hard. Why must they be so incredibly painful.
I don't word this as a question but rather as a statement because I know that there is no answer. 
There is no cure to the sickness of difficulty that seeps into relationships sooner or later. We wonder why we let ourselves get so affected. We wonder what is it that makes us so vulnerable, so weak, so miserable.
Whether it's your mother, your sister, your best friend or your lover-- all kinds of relationships are hard.
But the hardest? Opening up to a stranger. 
There is a certain joy in baring one's soul to a single other person. Baring your soul and then baring your body. Being naked, both spiritually and physically, is the most uncomfortable we have been raised to be. Because naked means that you are another insignificant human being with the million flaws that a well fitted black polo shirt or an Instagram filter cannot hide. The fact remains, consistently trying to be perfect, consistently trying to be the best possible version of yourself is extremely exhausting. All of us are self-employed in acting jobs. We act out different roles in our lives in different situations and then recuperate-- thinking without fail the seemingly innocuous question; Who the fuck am I?
And then when we meet that one person we want to be naked with and we say to ourselves, this is it, let me map onto this person, the one form of myself that I like best, the form that he/she likes best too incidentally. And then it happens. We get naked and we dive foolishly and completely into each other discovering facets about each other than resonate and get giddy over small things like Oh, you like blue colored toothbrushes? Me too. Out of the 8 billion people in the world, you like blue toothbrushes-- I am so lucky I met you.
The problem is. That one person can never satisfy you. Those different roles that you play during the day are parts of you that you cannot do away with. Those parts of you catch up and you realize that it is impossible for someone to understand you because you, yourself don't understand what it is you actually are.
Human beings are wonderful, weird creatures that are responsible for both the good things that  happen to them and the bad things. We create our own troubles and weep till dawn and then we create our own happiness and dance to rhythums that we have created. We manufacture love and feed it to ourselves greedily-- it can never be enough to wholly satisfy us.
Find that one person you want to be with. Forget what you want and spend your time trying to understand the other. It is easier to focus on someone else than unravel the turmoil inside because there is no end to it.

Empathy?

A set of questions to decipher how you feel about empathy. Empathy. Em. Pa. Th. E. Reminds you of pathetic. A set of questions asking you what empathy is. Can you empathize? Shudder. Put pen down to paper. Try to empathize.

When and why does your empathy fail?

Remember the time when you were taken to the children’s orphanage? The message above the front door clearly said ‘Time not Money’. Time. Maybe that’s what is needed for empathy.

You remember tried so hard. You sat with the children, tried to leave out the everyday snippets of English that slip into your conversations and talk only in Urdu. You wore your oldest clothes and you deliberately left your cellphone in the car. Because you knew families and even living mothers had abandoned most of them deliberately, you tried to avoid every topic that could somehow be related to talk of family. You thought you were being empathetic. It was hard. By the time you left, you slipped a considerable amount of donation at the head office—you felt undeservingly privileged and terribly, terribly sorry for the children.

The trick is the difference between empathy and sympathy. It is so easy to slip between the two. Empathy is understanding. Empathy is sidelining your emotions to allow for someone else’s feelings to consume you. Empathy is selfless. Empathy is beyond pity. You realize what you felt there was sympathy. Sympathy is giving into pity—that helpless feeling of not being able to do anything Give into sympathy and empathy fails.

Empathy can be challenging and to some extent unachievable. How is that you can empathize with those orphans or lets say a starving child in Africa, when you have no understanding of his situation save that of what the New Yorker tells you? That is not empathy—that is more believing what you are told. That is mass media ladling out excessive shots of empathy, feeding them to the masses until they sicken of the taste.

Sometimes you shut yourself to empathy completely. The day you heard that a 150 children had been shot in Peshawar, in their school, cowering under their desks as bearded, masked men set fire randomly at will, your thoughts immediately went to the mothers. Those mothers who unknowingly sent their children off to school that morning, expecting to see them that very afternoon. You thought of them; crumbling to their feet at the news, helpless and wounded beyond repair. You remember your eyes welled up and your shoulders shook. Just for five minutes. Then, your mind went blank and you pushed away thoughts of pain to the back of your head. Some things are so terrible, so brutal; you can’t bring yourself to terms with the thought of them. The limitations of human capacity to feel, the limited threshold of pain. That is when empathy fails.

 In what ways do you find empathy difficult? (in daily life or as a writer)

You stopped writing a while ago because you felt as if you were failing your subjects. Can a Pakistani writer only good at writing in English, write the narratives of her people, her people who speak Urdu, Punjabi, Pashto, Sindhi, Saraiki—everything but a smattering of English? Can you write their narratives so fully embodied in their everyday language in a foreign language? So much gets lost in translation, so much gets lost, that the flavor of authenticity lost in the garnishing of pretentiousness just doesn’t work. Not in fiction. Not in poetry. Can you even understand fully where they are from? They toil in the fields, they take public transport, they eat a single meal a day that costs as much as your daily cup of English breakfast tea. How can you tell the truthful narratives of those you hardly know anything about? Will you do them justice? You once wrote a story on your waxing woman once in second person. You remember being so proud of it, showing it off in a writing workshop, thinking you had finally captured the true essence of empathy--whatever that is:

“She wobbles dizzily to her mahogany dresser, her footsteps making a sticky crunch as remnants of wax stick to the marble floor.”

So proud until one person hesitatingly asked, “Can a woman with no education whatsoever tell what mahogany is?”

In that moment, as a writer, you knew empathy is a process that would require constant revision, rewriting and never being completely sure whether you had every facet covered.

A set of questions answered and you wonder whether you are some good at empathy or not. Wonder whether the very fact that you had to struggle to answer a set of questions asking you how you feel about empathy is in fact the failure of empathy itself.

Wounded and Scarred

Here's the thing about wounds. They take a long time to heal-- the deep bleeding gash subsides into a hard painful scab that  hurts more than the actual wound did. It dries up-- it shrivels up slowly until one day you have to force yourself to pull it off gingerly to reveal fresh, pink skin inside. Remove it a minute too soon, the wound bleeds afresh so wait till the perfect time-- when it so dried up that it sinks back into its own self.
Wounds are painful and horrible, yes you get  it. But what about scars? Those permanent blotches of ugliness that remain obstinately a part of your visage, reminding you off the ugliness that marr you? What about those blemishes that stare you back indifferently every time you look into the mirror? They don't hurt-- they just remind you off your foolishness, of your ugliness that you will try and cover up every single day. That terrible shame, that feeling of inadequacy will claw at your heart, will prick those salty glands in your eyes and make you want to cover your face so that the world can never see how desperately you fought, how ugly you really are. You'd rather take the wound-- you can blame the wound on someone else but the scars are just reminders of your foolishness-- your mistake, your badge of shame for the world.
You try and hide those scars-- those purple blotches that stare at you in the face everytime you take off your makeup and realize you are not beautiful. But then, someone comes into your life and begs you to see them-- see what you are behind that mineral makeup that promises you perfection and a blemish-free existence. You  try and you cower and you hide. But then he comes and he holds your hand away from your face saying don't shield. You know he will know very soon that you are not beautiful and you panic-- don't you say. Just don't. Let me be. But he insists. And since you don't want to refuse him anything, you let go. He looks at you, tenderly removes traces of Beauty Balm cream with a cotton ball looking into your eyes the whole time. You almost let yourself relax-- his hand grazes yours and you feel the all-too-familiar electric current that pulsates through your body. But then you see it-- the quick flash of horror in his beady black eyes as dark circles emerge, stretch marks throb to the surface and those horrible scars-- those horrible horrible scars begin to breathe again, dark, purple and ugly, In that moment you know-- he doesn't want you, he doesn't like you and he never will. Fail yourself to be a 21st century autonomous woman that you like to think you are-- be the child who stood silently in submission as an ugly unkempt hand carressed your upper thigh.Fail yourself and be wounded and scarred for life. 

Vomit

Today you feel like being selfish. You feel like letting out all that is pent up inside you—the bitter twang of rejection, the sharp red hot slap of embarrassment, the jumpy high of excitement and the strangling hold of tension. The way you feel right now is nothing special. It’s just the result of twenty one years of mistakes, disappointments and careless excitement that constitute your existence now.  It’s just that right now, you feel a little choked—pressed for some peace of mind. All of this needs to somehow come out and come out now.

Let’s take a journey through your mind. You are a twenty something wannabe writer from a high-end institution in Pakistan who has too much to say and too little time. Think about it. The clock ticks and worldly matters that need your selfless attention loom at the back of your mind more dangerous and large than ever. But let them be just for now. For just a few minutes it’s only you that matters-- what is it that you want?   

You want to write. You want to trace your fingers across your abused keyboard and type furiously until the incessant tick-tick of the keyboard becomes a muffled wail.

Tick-tick-tickTicktickitcikticeeeeekkkkkkkkk.

You want to relish the shriek of the plastic keys and derive some sadistic pleasure as words come to life on an achingly white screen. You want your fingers to connect with your heartbeat and each inky black word to speak only the sincerest of tales that you know are hidden in some corner of your muddled mind. You know that once you start writing, the tangled ball of emotion, cantering up and down inside of you will come to rest. For the umpteenth time you’ve realized that the world is a shitty place--you need salvation so badly right now and writing is what always makes you feel better.

You are a twenty something, undergraduate student, already tired of all the challenges life loves to throw at you. You’ve been told that you’re lucky— obviously some have it worse than you. Instead of complaining, think about the hungry children in Africa; their concerns revolve around finding enough to eat and having a place to sleep. And here you are with your insensitive complains of heartbreak and disappointment. Instead of whining about some boy who you say ‘used’ you, you should write about the bigger questions in life.

The bigger questions in life?  This question rolls itself in your mind as you try to begin writing—what does that even mean?  You suppose that one of the bigger questions in life is love-- what is love? Love is what melts faces into the softest of expressions and gives rise to the sweetest of sighs—at least that’s what the various films and books you’ve devoured all your life tell you. But you are wary of being convinced of what Hollywood tries to coerce you into believing. Your twenty one years have taught you that a red lipped beauty with no cellulite on her thighs, in the arms of a six foot muscular hunk does not necessarily entail love. So what is it like in real life? Friends around you say that they know what love is. “It’s knowing instantly who you want to spend the rest of your life with. You can pick them out of a crowd with your eyes closed,” gushed your ex-best friend once. What does that mean? That love is a map? It’s a GPS system?  You notice the oblivious smirks on the faces of your girl friends when their boyfriends nudge their toes or silently, secretly hold hands under the table when they think no one is watching. You found out when one of them grazed your fingers instead by mistake, all the while eagerly looking across at his inamorata hoping for some indication of a positive reaction. You could have told him about his mistake but you didn’t. You just didn’t want to.

***

(Excerpt)

Stories are like a canvas which break through the private prisons of the mind and bring out the deepest of thoughts using paint of the imagination. Ordinary feelings take life on this plain, infinitely long sheet of beige felt, using brushes of the finest hair from mystical creatures that exist only in the mind, threaded together with wisps of dreams, edged on scented rosewood more delicate and fragile than a sliver of glass. The canvas is built of what we are all made of and what makes us human. Light brushings of color with carefree rapture blended with the deep scarlet of passion and the well watered solidness of trust and loyalty. Love has its own patch on this vast, unending canvas. One would think that emotions like love are pure and free from the greed that is likened to human nature, but when they look beneath the paint; barely noticeable splotches of dark that bear testimony to the times of jealousy and the rare hurt that go along with every relation that has ever existed in history.
But is every love story built upon this imperfectly beautiful canvas?
This is a story about a boy and a girl. This boy and girl thought that they were building a canvas that was unconventional. They thought were a part of a relation that one reads about at in the movies but they were nothing more than ordinary teenagers having their first run with puberty.

***

You snicker wickedly but then stop yourself.  How can you write so satirically about something you don’t know much about? Shrug off that feeling of inadequacy as you realize that people have loved and been loved whereas you aren’t even sure what the feeling entails. You’re just a twenty something wannabe writer who can cover up your insecurity by writing stories to poke fun at those who dare to call hormonal rushes-- “love”. You secretly yearn for that feeling, the very same that you’ve read about in books and seen in the movies, because you so badly want to believe that it exists.  You want to know what love is and you want to feel it gush over you like the warmth of a first sip from a mug of hot chocolate on a winter night. Once you thought you almost had it-- you were the one who paid secretly paid his phone bills when he told you about his overdue bank draft and his multiple financial problems. You had hoped one day he would realize that you had always been there for him and then on that one day he would vow to never let you go. Eventually he found out-- you ended up paying for his lunch too the next day.  

It’s not the fact that he let you pay for his phone bills and his lunches—it’s how happy you felt doing it. You know that there are hungry children in Africa who are trying to find enough to eat and don’t have a clean space to sleep; it’s just that this seems to hurt so much more than you can handle, so much more than you conceive any pain in the world to be.  Now it seems that this pain will only flush out of your system if you can somehow transfer in onto paper.

But the fact remains, he didn’t really leave-- he just showed that he wasn’t who you wanted him to be. Disappointment is a bitch. It leaves you stranded with the failure of yourself and your faith in other people and has you pondering continuously over insignificant details until you feel half mad. You remember how he was shorter and skinnier than you and even though you said it didn’t bother you, you felt yourself hunching over, willing your body to become smaller so that you didn’t look fat sitting next to him but rather the picture-perfect couple that you fantasized about your whole life. t

Shudder. Enough is enough. It’s in the past. You tell yourself again and again to let it go but a weird ache has wrapped itself around your heart in an iron squeeze.  You know that this wasn’t ‘love’ because you know for sure it needs to be reciprocated from both sides.  Then why does it seem to have left you shell-shocked and so bewildered? No matter how much you will it to go away, it seems to have lodged itself permanently making you as uncomfortable with yourself as your wet socks feel right now in your closed boots.  Cheer up, you. You’re not the only ill-fated, one-sided lover on the planet. Make yourself feel better—you just need to write and let it out. Maybe you could pen a poem! After all most of the great poets were lovers who died too young. This will be your big break—that’s exactly what you can write about. You’re a twenty something wannabe writer and if you hang on to that pain, you can utilize it to create something beautiful. Bitterness seems to leak from your fingers, not from your heart as you begin to write in a furious scrawl that gets even more untidy as words fade away and you recognize your own self seeped into paper. 

***

(Excerpt)

Songs of love and words of truth

Once mingled with heart and freed from soul

An imitation of love, a stage-show mime

Blessings on me-- too good to be true

Moments of bliss, too brief a time

I ask you now. Did you ever know?

How much it took-

I wrote this for you

***

There you’ve written your poem and you feel much better. You wonder—do you really want the world to read this? You will let them assume you cry heartbroken over an ex-significant other/somebody (you hate the label “boyfriend”-- it’s just so mainstream and you pride yourself over the fact that you don’t do commonplace titles) who you’re not sure even exists. Of course you can’t just keep this piece of writing to yourself—it’s your piece of art and it is meant to be shared! What to do-- you’re just a twenty something writer is proud of her work but you care about what other think and say about you. You can almost just hear their scathing voices in your head:

 “Is this about him who spends hours laughing with her in the LUMS Super Store windows? I swear I saw them last night in the parking lot looking so guilty,” “Are you sure it was him?  Wasn’t it the famed man-whore from ‘A’ levels whose name she's been associated with on every Lucas[1] post? I swear I saw them together last week in Gloria Jeans,” “No it can’t have been him, I swear this is about the crush she has on the guy who’s younger than her—why else would they hang out so much?” “Nope can’t be him. He’s much better-looking than her in any case.”

The voices in your head make you shudder. You know romantic-lovesick poetry will get you into trouble with the people you know including your mother who will barge into your room demanding you tell her who the poem is about. Because that is what people do—take your work and limit it to personal confines only. 

Draw a deep sigh. You’re a twenty something wannabe writer who has the talent in its rawest form but no audience that inspires you. Writing is a luxury that you have never paid attention to. You’ve taken it for-granted and now as you struggle almost painfully to achieve perfection in your style-- you draw a blank.  Recall the tips you’ve picked up in Creative Writing class. They told you write honestly. Write from the heart—that’s where the voice is! Tap your heart and listen to your new favorite song. Does it help?

Silence is all you can hear. Silence and the beat of your heart that is driving you mad with its steady “lub-dub”. Frustration overwhelms you. Tell yourself that the heart is overrated-- what’s going on in your mind instead? Work. Friends. Family. The Future. All are stacked into your mind into onerous piles that you try to sift through and sort every single day. Sometimes it gets too much. Sometimes you think your mind will explode from everything that is thrust into it. The pressure of keeping up grades while juggling family dinners with people you neither know or like, applying to graduate school without a clue of what you want to do in your professional life, keeping up with extra responsibilities that you thought would do you good, dealing with friends calling you in the middle of the night while you struggle to write an essay just to squeal you about how a cute boy winked at them—all that squeezed in with eyebrow threading appointments.. People around you drive you mad. Enough to drive anyone mad. Sometimes when your brain wants relief, you find yourself opening your blog and using your keyboard to surgically remove unwanted thoughts from your brain.   

***

(Excerpt)

Superwoman. That’s who she wanted to be. A Superwoman.

The woman who has it all—the looks, the grades, the friends and the social life.  Maybe she does have it all-- an undergraduate from LUMS who pulled up her GPA impossibly high in a span of three months, is vice-president of the science society and has a group of seven beautiful girlfriends who by some stroke of luck have the same definition of fun that she does. She can cook too. At least that’s what her parents tell the many strangers who waft in and out of their drawing room to dine on samosas, rolls, dahi bhalay and the special dessert that her mother made her make to create an “impression”. “She’s our sweet girl who has been told she’s impossibly nice”—that’s what your parents say peering at you proudly while the faceless strangers look at you up and down measuring your waist size, your bra size and seeking out the barely-there grey hairs hiding amongst your blonde highlights. “She also writes poetry!” your parents hastily add before the strangers silently reject you for being too tall or too fat or having a pimple near your nose.

She knows her reality. Her GPA is spiraling down as she tries to juggle her extra-curricular chores in a college society which is chock full of boys who refuse to honor the female opinion with due importance, her job that that she works ten hours a week pays only a measly 6000 rupees per month (lower than the minimum wage) and the fact remains that she loses a best friend every single year which makes her think there is something wrong with her ability to make friends. Last week, she cried uncontrollably alone in her car in the middle of the road with ten unknown men watching her when somebody crashed her bumper from behind, yelled at her and then zoomed off when her car refused to start.

***

Watch yourself get incredibly naked on to paper. Why are you telling the world that you are a mess on the inside? Why don’t you just smile and wave like you always do? You know you’re all right-- everyone has their weak moments. Just because you like to think of yourself as a writer doesn’t mean that you absorb yourself in gaining the pity of the world. You’re a twenty something wannabe writer who happens to be female and Pakistani. You’re expected to get married soon—this is what you were raised for your whole life so why should you fight it?

The problem is you’ve been told not to trust men. Men come in your life and they only want one thing from you. Something that you’ve been told you need to reserve for the one man who will buy you with a 22 carat diamond and circle it around your finger for eternity. You’ve been told if he finds out, if his family ever finds out that you frolicked around with someone else, lest it just be simple flirting around that didn’t even mean anything to you, he has the ability to divorce you and ruin your reputation forever. So be a good girl. Stay away from men.

But what do you do about that man who wasn’t from your kin but was allowed to pick you up and walk you around the street? What about the man who cooked meals for your family, went out to buy you ice cream and spent long hot afternoons babysitting you and your brother as you watched an Urdu dubbed version of Disney’s The Jungle Book. You remember those long, hot afternoons when your mother was sleeping and his fingers snaked inside your skirt and you were too absorbed in the chronicles of Mowgli to even notice properly. There was always something tempting hidden in his room which was in a corner at the furthest end of your backyard: an ice lolly, the book you couldn’t find, handmade dolls his wife back in his village made for you.  You remember going there and coming back with the buttons of your jeans loosened. Everything else is just a hazy blur that you’d rather not try and recall now.

Will you tell him? Will you tell the man, that you will let your parents choose for you, that you’re not sure if you fit in his definition of ‘chaste’? Will you tell him about this or do you think he’ll be more interested in hearing about who you were previously engaged to. What did he do? Why did it break off? Did you ever touch him? Do you still have feelings for him?

Once you knew what sex was at age 12, once you had scoured the Oxford Dictionary to understand what this phenomenon was, the mention of which drove your friends into fits of giggles and made your parents hurriedly change the direction of discussion—the pangs of realization hit you hard and fast. Bewilderment overtook you and you wondered what was it that was so special about you at age 8 that made someone want to seize you so intimately. You didn’t even have a chest then and your upper lip was lined with a feathery down. You were cute yes, but cute in such an androgynous way-- there was nothing remotely sexual about you. So why did a man, a married one at that, feel the need to use you as such?  Was his wife not satisfying him the way he wanted? Or did you at age 8, playing with your mother’s golden eye-shadow and tissue paper stuffed high heels, lead him on in some way?

The unfathomability of this made you uneasy but since you didn’t remember much of what happened, it didn’t bother you as much as you wanted it to. Once you realized that you had been sexually abused, when you learnt all the fancy, scientific words that describe what happened, you tried telling people about what happened. But they didn’t seem to grasp it well and most of them just ignored you—including your mother. But you suppose that’s okay; even you don’t still understand it either. You secretly sought professional help, asking whether this will affect your future, your married life. The counselor at school told you to relax. Happens to one in every ten girls she said. It’s okay. What if I’m not a virgin? Then lie, she said. Men don’t understand this usually. Just say you went riding one day and your hymen broke because of that. Don’t ever let him find out because he’ll assume you did something to provoke such a thing. Other than that, don’t worry. It’s okay. 

It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.

***

(Excerpt)

Child sexual abuse is not uncommon in Pakistan and ranges from harassment to incest. According to Sahil, an anti-child abuse NGO based in the capital Islamabad 2,303 cases of child sexual abuse were reported in the national press in 2011, including 56 cases of incest (Pakistan: Coming Clean about Child Sexual Abuse - or Not). With such large reported numbers, one is forced to wonder about the larger, more secret numbers which go unreported every day. Some traditional leaders, however, deny even that sexual abuse happens. “Look, these things don’t happen here. It is all Western propaganda. Muslim women here are safe at home, and I always advise people to ensure their daughters, wives and sisters stay home - except for school, or maybe to visit a close relative. They are unsafe beyond their homes,” said Maulvi Abdul Haq, a prayer leader at a local mosque (Pakistan: Coming Clean about Child Sexual Abuse - or Not). This denial is usually common to all families in Pakistan where child sexual abuse comes from domestic help, family members and even brothers and fathers. What are the intricacies behind a child being sexually abused? How are the tormentors who molest the innocence of children and why do they do what they do? This paper will attempt to decipher the psychological motives behind child sexual abuse and uncover why this problem looms large in the Pakistani society.

***

You’re a twenty something wannabe writer and you’ve made it this far. See this is recipe for writing in your opinion-- Whatever life throws at you, swallow it in with your mouth wide open. Chomp on it slowly and surely. Grimace at the bitter taste. Try to gulp it down with every fiber of will in your body even as you feel your eyes tearing up. Then vomit it out again—elegantly of course-- and watch how shards of painful residue morph into black, neat words on to pristine paper.

Whatever you write, give it to the world to read. How pretty, they will say, how original.

They will print your short story in an international magazine. They will ask you to read your poem at the sitting of college intellectuals. They will read your academic paper and give it an award. They will ask you to blog about yourself, anonymously of course, and have the world giggle and laugh at your attempt to be a ‘superwoman’.

But that’s okay, this is what you live for and this is what you crave—the definition of success for a writer. Take what life gives you and turn it into something that speaks for itself. Take the lemons, make lemonade. Take the experiences and churn out tales. Take the pain and make it into poetry. Take disappointment and turn it into a story. Take life and write a piece that can bring about change. Just remember on the way that it’s not what you ‘should’ write-- it’s what you want to write and what affects you the most.

You’re a twenty something wannabe writer and in every piece you write, you see hints of yourself, your experiences lurking behind every page.  

You’re a twenty something wannabe writer and you’re almost there. Give yourself a pat on the back. Well done, you.

Tou kia hua?

The evening is just as beautiful
Even without your presence
Just so very beautiful.

Now this journey, incomplete
Remains just as it is
Will have to walk it anyway

So what happens?
If you went away
So far away

Broke my heart.
You went away.

So far away.

The Heebeejeebies

I want to write.
I want to write.
I want to write.

Write what? The pangs of survivor's guilt that sink into my gut every time I catch sight of the naked druggie under jinnah bridge? He's been naked for four days now. No one bothers to give him a cover. Least of all me.

Or write about that fantastic idea for a short story tucked away into a corner of my mind? The story of hormonal love a 14 year old girl and a 16 year old boy who smooch on Facebook and go to HotSpot and have the satisfaction of having a "relationship"?

Maybe even pen a poem-- a pathetic love poem tinged with sorrow under a pretense of happiness. Then have the world assume I cry heartbroken over an ex who doesn't even exist. Was it he who spends hours laughing with her in the SuperStore windows? I swear I saw them last night in the parking lot. Or was it the famed man whore from A levels who's name she's been associated with on every Lucas post? I swear I knew they had never called it quits.

Or maybe write about what we think is the meaning of life? Where do we go from here? Do we even know what here is? Then again what exactly is here? If we get here how will we get there? Is there just an illusion of here?

So much to write on.

Lack of willpower you say?

Maybe just maybe write on all four.

Touche.