Enough, Catullus.

I've grown so accustomed to earning love -be it by favours, self-sacrifice or total self-annihilation- that when it's given to me too easily, I value it less than I would have had I toiled to feel its cold, gangly limbs in my choking grip.

I would give up plans on request, swallowed anger as it crawled its way to the tip of my tongue, tolerated being shoved into the 'option' bin for weeks on end, forgive apologize forgive apologize forgive apologize (repeat), all for a chance to feel indispensable to anyone who was willing, or foolish enough, to board my crazy train. I gave so much because I wanted to be everything, all at once. We would both be so wrung out from the constant battle for control that, in the end, no one even bothered to steer anymore.

If choices were only simple dichotomies of pros and cons, much care would be put into making lists of evaluations on over-sized yellow Post-it notes. But there is no way of stopping the rational mind from deliberating the ripple effects of precarious endeavours. Guidelines are adjusted to fit my fears and my skepticism, so much so that the bar just keeps getting higher and higher.

The basic breakdown of this is you can't tell if someone has a tight grip on life just by holding his hand. It takes valuable time to measure the worth of anyone's word, time which can be spent in idle wonderment of the world, with its abundance of unassuming affection. So why risk it?

I don't know exactly what is at stake, but I know something is; and I'm in no position to give it up.

4-121112

It is impetuous as it is rash, for someone to step into a house occupied by swindling gypsies, hymn-singing maidens and screeching birds, without prior understanding of the concept of madness.

It is a case of either/or; either you choose self-restraint and lose yourself, or you redefine insanity and participate.

Oy vey.

Mind The Trap.

It was my first time in London.

You know how people say that when you travel you learn substantially more about yourself than the place you visit? Well, after years of idyllic ignorance I realized that I, in fact, do not understand a word of English. After having seen three seasons of Skins, two seasons of BBC's Sherlock and several re-runs of Brian Cox's Wonders series you would think setting apart their British accented Is and Alrights would be kid's stuff. You'd probably try to sneak in a cockney accent and turn your Thank Yous into Fank Yous. That is, until you face a ticket instructor who has an accent heavier than a pick-up truck, whose initial courteous tone slowly starts to escalate into something that can easily pass off as a violent threat.

"Cuhn oi sey yor tecke' plaise? CUHN OI SEY YOR TECKE' PLAISE? Da yuou speahk English?" No sir, not at this moment in time, it seems. Also, could you repeat that please?

Sorry, let me get back to where I left off.

I had never been to London. Strangely enough, the only thing I was looking forward to was riding the Tube. Levels upon levels of underground railways, housing 270 stations linked together almost seamlessly, all summed up in a colour co-ordinated topological map. Tunnels not meant for the claustrophobic, underground passageways that went on forever with artificial lighting; exactly what I needed for optimum naturalistic observation, or as the hip folk say these days, 'people watching'.

That's the great thing about massive crowds. Everyone gets so caught up with what they have to do and where they have to go that everything else turns into meaningless shapes and shadows. You can look at anyone as much as you want to, bore a hole into their skull and they'd get off at the next stop without so much as a flinch. Spaniards, Germans, Brits, Indians, French, Norwegians, Chinese, Africans, Nepalese, Bengalis, Persians, Hybrids - just about every ethnicity imaginable. Also, is it still considered eavesdropping if you're only listening to the way they say it instead of what they say?

While these people knew exactly which line to take, where to stop, which coach to avoid and if their train rides were long enough to permit a nap, I suppose each of them were, just like the rest of us -in one way or another- hopelessly lost. That despite the time difference and cultural semblance, (hey, you have an iPod Nano 8th Gen too?) we had no idea where we were heading; not only geographically, but organically as well.

In a way, we're all following a simplified topological map; thoughtlessly cruising from one point of our life to another without a clear image of how we'll to get to the next juncture. Just a stretch of darkness until we reach our final stop. It's a comforting thought.

London sort of grew on me. 

A Short Love Letter to The Moon

If you teach me how to shift the shores, I will teach you the ways of the sun.

Too Late

ǵhu-tó-m

What you wanted was an image of God. Your speech was thick; spun with words marred by years of believing; a belief without conviction. Believing without ever really knowing why you had to put it all in one place. You seized devotion like it was a threadbare rag, and with it you tried to wipe me clean.

"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay."


And so it continued; all of your careful little nuances gently stockpiled in the corners where we sat, on soil patches sullied by our footprints, behind that worried sigh you let out when I lost my way. Did you tell Him about my gritty fingers? Go on, tell Him. 

You looked at me like I was a revelation brought down to you in complete darkness. I was as curved as the Arabic scriptures you grew up singing; rhythmic liberation. We traded worldly verses in the prickly heat and you lost yourself in its familiarity. I tried to love you.

But faith isn't etched on rib cages. Divine intercessions come to me through other means - through sculptures, portraits of those long dead and gone, that first hesitant touch, melodic whispers of my qarin; through freedom. My hair exposes my follies as it cascades down my back, tumbling like wisps of weed. It bears a warning: I will leave you behind as I have done many others, in my blind chase for free will. This is why I cannot love you.

New Things.

I miss this space. As of late, I have been ambling through life with a rekindled love for Science, spectacular company and better life lenses. I've never been more sure of what I stand for; after years of contemplation, I finally let go of something that was a central aspect of my life. Which, surprisingly, has prompted a new found deep respect for the mechanics of chance, and the way chaos seems to knowingly find structure to instantly put itself in its rightful place.

All is well, save for the brief stints of sorrow that try to scrape their way through. But just like most things, it will scamper off, according to its own beat. I know that now. Honestly speaking, what else is there to say?

P.S. Caramel pudding really hits the spot.