Sunday, 27 July 2014

Like Fuel To Fire.

Sunday, 20 July 2014

I turn 24 this week and there has been a voice inside my head telling me that I haven’t done enough. Whilst in the shower, I seemed to have an epiphany and realised some things that I needed to preserve. These words will be my saviour in the dark.

I have so much willingness and drive, even when the depression forces it into waves. I’ve spent a very long time not wanting to be alive, but I’m currently breathing and I can still feel my fingertips. This pain is a strange gift; it both aids and destroys me.

Most of my posts are about pain and truth, but within the subtext of that, there is always gratitude. I’ve been unbelievably lucky in my life and I do not ever allow myself to forget this. I become overwhelmed sometimes and social media is my chosen platform of expression. Sentiments are lost in translation, but the intrinsic gratitude is ever present. In person, I try my utmost best to be positive. When we’re broken, we don't need to bring the rest of the world down with us.

Yesterday, a guy at the bank told me that I came across as a strong person. The strange thing was that several people have reiterated this, and I think I truly just realised the extent of those words. Strength itself is when you keep moving forward, even when your own mind turns against you. Strength is recognising the darkness within you and giving it a name. Strength is acknowledgement of weakness and acceptance of pain. Strength is that voice in your head reminding you that it will be over soon. Strength is knowing what you want and pushing yourself to get there. Strength is the determination to overcome.

I’m here now. I’ll do great things some day.

It is much, much worse to receive bad news through the written word than by somebody simply telling you, and I’m sure you understand why. When somebody simply tells you bad news, you hear it once, and that’s the end of it. But when bad news is written down, whether in a letter or a newspaper or on your arm in felt tip pen, each time you read it, you feel as if you are receiving the bad news again and again.
(A Series of Unfortunate Events: The Miserable Mill, Lemony Snicket).

How To Identify a Good Person.

Thursday, 17 July 2014

'Be nice to the strangers,' they said.

If you have been consistently reading my blog, you will know that I am the greatest advocate of being considerate towards other people, especially strangers.

There is so much going on within the human mind, that if our skulls were transparent, our tongues would not even move. The world is filled to the brim with injustice and cruelty, so why are we breeding hatred and allowing it to satiate our own beings? Our hearts are all we have left, our souls, our character, our mannerisms. When there’s nothing to hold on to, the memories that we leave behind will become our voices. Imagine passing away and only being remembered for the destruction you caused.

I try my best to be as nice as possible to the people that serve me in the shops, the strangers I see on the streets, anyone I come across. We are always unaware about the battles that others fight, and sometimes after smiling at people, I watch their faces light up. This makes me stop and wonder what that person was going through, what they were fighting for and why it made them so happy. You can often look at people and tell that they are suffering, that they are searching for strength. I consider the magnitude of my own pain and how it is nothing in comparison.

When we are born, our mothers wrap us in cloth as a form of protection. As we grow older, we clothe ourselves, because this is what we know. But we’re too wrapped up inside our own beings to acknowledge the surroundings. To comprehend what lives inside the other cloths.

Sometimes I am in a bad mood and I snap at people, that’s just human nature and I find myself apologising shortly afterwards. I have a conscience, and I always think about how I would feel if the same thing had happened to me. That’s the important thing; I am forever considering how my actions affect others and this is something that our nation lacks. We’re selfish and ungrateful. We don't think about how many people we passed today and how many of them cry in the dark.

Be nice to people; their souls could be dead and you have the ability to give them something to hold. We are so powerful, our belief and faith in others can do so much. If only we could start building on that, utilising it to be better. It frustrates me greatly, because some people suffer in silence and your words are intensifying their bleeding wounds.

Wednesday, 16 July 2014

It’s 5am and I’m sitting here typing this because I need to exhaust my mind somehow. I need to sleep, but I can’t.

I am turning 24 next week. As a child, I always thought that I would have my life sorted out by 24. I would have a steady job, self-confidence, direction and a purpose. As I’m growing closer to this age, it is beginning to feel like I am disappointing my childhood self, and running out of time to achieve the things that I've wanted. I’ve lost my drive and ambition, there’s nothing left. I’m not who I wanted to be, and I’m not becoming anyone close to it.

Some days, nothing makes sense to me. I don’t know why I exist or why God inflicts me with misery. I’m so tired, irritable and depressed, and although sleep is not the cure, it would surely improve things.

I’m so fed up of life. Everything is supposed to get better, that’s what people are constantly telling me. But I’ve been reiterating that to myself for years and I’m still stuck here in this abyss. God, I’m so tired.

The Unbearable Curse of Being.

Monday, 14 July 2014

I swallowed the sunset, the aftertaste of the rays was bitter against my tongue.

I drank as much water as my body could take; until I could feel the ripple against my throat, until it replaced the hollows of my veins.

Sunshine was great, they told me. But what if it was trapped inside the body? Like a bell in a jar, ringing and ringing until the sound became a silenced fragment of the mind.

I felt the rays some days, trying to get out; illuminating the skin like the moon amongst the landscape trying to be set free.

I just wanted sovereignty; of the light, of the curse.

When They Leave Us.

Sunday, 13 July 2014

My workplace is directly opposite an old people’s home. I can see the building from my desk and I often watch the elderly going about their daily business.

Age is intertwined with illness, so there is an ambulance parked there every other week. A few days ago, I noticed that an ambulance had been parked outside for longer than usual. I heard people talking; there was a police car. The paramedics were back in the ambulance. I watched for a few minutes, somebody had died. They drove away and a private ambulance arrived. It was a black van; I sat down because I knew what they had come for. I heard the body being taken away. I thought about the person inside, who they were, what their dreams were, and how they had lived their life.

I had to refrain, I knew that my body would begin to ache. It reminded me of when you continue to pour water into a cup, even when you can see that it is overflowing. I cannot watch the news because it physically upsets me. I feel pain as if it is my own. Watching suffering is self-destructive; I can't cope with more pain, I can't hear about the brutalities that go on. They make me want to die because I can't cope with the injustice. I think about them for months afterwards and it physically hurts to be aware of them. 

It made me sad, and it still hurts, but in a strange way, it’s nice that mankind can experience grief for a stranger that they did not know. There’s a little bit of unity left; there is.

Split Your Soul In Two.

They take your soul with their frozen fingertips, check if it’s raw; beaten. The taste of derision in their palms, contempt, solace; the disdain of your own sin.

They split your soul in two, then four, until they assign each morsel to a master, thirsty for his own flesh.

The Presence of Nothing.

I don’t ask for much in life; I’m easily pleased. I just need one thing to be excited about and I’ll hold onto that for as long as possible. It takes something as small as a smile from a cashier or the sound of the birds at dawn. These temporary exchanges construct what is left of my existence.

The only thing I ever ask is to not be inside my own head, to breathe and not consciously hear the command from my brain to my lungs. I want to feel my own tears against the surface of my skin, my soul back inside my body. I want to feel present.

Watch Me Smile; Watch It Fall.

Tuesday, 8 July 2014

It’s been about a month since I began to openly discuss my depression, and since then, my emotions towards my decision ricochet between regret and liberation. I did make the right choice and the transitory regret that I experience is followed by the notion that I have the opportunity to generate awareness and force people to comprehend the severity of depression. I can inexplicably describe the intricacy of the experiences and allow others to recognise just how destructive they can be. It’s important that depression is illustrated with accuracy, because it helps to affirm the brutality of the suffering and the exigency for a source of aid.

I’ve spoken about this before but it is important to emphasise and ensure that you are able to distinguish between the two types of depression. I’ll begin with the transient depression that most people suffer with during a short period of their life. It is generally caused by a life event, like heartbreak or loss. There is always a causal factor. Although this kind of depression can vary in terms of extremity; victims inevitably become a product of their own entrapment. They are inhabitants of their own darkness, guarding themselves with iron bars. This situation is temporary and they do eventually manage to extract their own strength and recur from the situation. This type of depression can be cured; sufferers can be healed, because it is all inside their own head. They have a quandary that they need to deal with and accept in order to move forward, and although it is a dark period, it is eventually used as a reference point, because it is recognised and appreciated as a valuable experience. This kind of depression is strongly affected and influenced by environmental factors and is often cured by cognitive behavioural therapy because they are subjected by their own mind.

The second type of depression is clinical depression, and whilst it may overlap with the former, it has its own board of characteristics. Clinical depression is caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain and is a recognisable illness. The low levels of different chemicals such as Serotonin and higher levels of Cortisol contribute to clinical depression, and this is something that the sufferer has no control over. It requires medical attention, just like any other type of illness would. Clinical depression can consist of extreme episodes of suicidal behaviour and other brutalities. Medication for clinical depression is absolutely vital, and the consequences are life-threatening without it. Although there can be contributing factors that can worsen their depression, the underlying cause is medical and beyond the control of the sufferer themselves. One lives in an overwhelming sensation of melancholy and is stuck between the numbness of medication and the longingness to feel.

Coping with clinical depression is a lot more difficult, because the only two options are medication or therapy, both of which are transitory. Clinical depression often involves a war within the body, to cope with daily life and the struggles of living. The only constant is dejection, everything else is temporary. Medication extracts any sense of feeling, and sometimes that's even worse than the sadness itself. Finding something to hold onto is the greatest coping mechanism. It gives you something to be excited about, so you grasp it with dear life. That sensation, of experiencing a sentiment other than sadness is the only time you ever feel alive, and these are the moments that are evoked in the midst of your own cessation.

If you know me at all, you know that I suffer from clinical depression. This isn’t caused by a negative attitude or distance from God. It is an illness, and I try my utmost best to live a normal life and cope with it. Most days are demoralising but every now and then, there are moments that can help you forget and provide you with substance. For a second, beauty is magnified and glory, heightened. 

Today, I stood in the kitchen at work with a box full of grapes. I carefully pulled each grape off the stem and placed them into a bowl, one by one. It gave me something to focus on, it provided me with a purpose, and it extracted all of the emotions running through my veins until I felt whole. This, itself, demonstrates our anguish and willingness to find anything to grasp. A task that was so mediocre was able to soothe me because of the intensity of the ache. Depression isn’t a product of my own thinking, and I’d like sanity and peace in my life more than anything else. A human does not just inflict this kind of pain upon themselves, so it is crucial for you to truly comprehend a situation before forming any sort of judgement. I’m great at pretending, I’ve been doing it all my life. Watch me smile, and then watch it fall. That’s where the truth is, in between that moment. 

The Other Version of Ourselves.

Sunday, 6 July 2014

I was thinking about the way that people strategically craft their online presence to appear more beautiful, more intellectual, to be someone else. We form impressions of people based on what we perceive through the internet, we make interpretations and we construct our own reality of them in our minds. Social media is a portal into our lives, but how fragmented is it and much are we to blame for our own understanding of who people are?

I share my pain to show others that there is nothing wrong with displaying weakness; I depict my suffering to make you aware that we are all fighting battles. I upload unflattering pictures of myself to show you that I am human. The internet can be used as a means of exposure or as a veil. It provides us with the control to mould ourselves into whoever we want to be, a platform of exhibition and vicariously living.

Our persona is open for interpretation; people exert their efforts into imagining the lines of our palm. The internet sustains and cultivates relationships, but when the aesthetics enter our mind, they are infused with own ideology. They become something else entirely. Interpretation is not reality; it is just the medium through which we view it.

We are only accountable for our online presence, not the way that we are perceived. Our online persona can act as an extension of ourselves, or the person that we have always wanted to be. We owe nothing to the ones that construe it.

Children of the Grave.

I’ll write until my blood turns cold and my fingertips are frozen.

I’ll write until they swathe me in cloth and dirt covers my cadaver.

I’ll write until they give my soul to the angels and I can hear them whispering my story.

I’ll write until the darkness makes my retinas blind and steals my breath.

I’ll write until I can feel my organs decaying and the insects eating my flesh.

I’ll write until the weight of my sins set me on fire.

I’ll write until my limbs become ash and asphyxiation is a dream.

I’ll write until God crafts purgatory to set me free.

The Devil's Love Song.

Friday, 4 July 2014

The breadcrumbs were riddles and footprints; I could already hear the devil whispering love songs in my sleep.

A number tattooed onto the back of his neck, like a manufacturers stamp on a factory floor, preserving experience for when his mind would forget.

There was hope in the devils hands; I could feel it in the lines of my palm, a pulsation of resilience in the torrent of a seam.

Join me.’

A Photograph For A Stranger.

A few days ago, I downloaded a phone application with an interesting concept. It is called ‘Rando’ and if used correctly, could prove to be quite astounding.

You begin with taking a photograph using your phone and pressing send. This photo is then sent to a completely random person, who could be anywhere in the world. There is no way of knowing who will receive the image, or where it will end up. Upon receiving the picture, this stranger will then respond with their own photograph. That’s it, a momentary exchange between two strangers. There is no correspondence after this exchange, or any way to find out who the receiver is. The only information that is provided is a general location that has been pinpointed on a map. The app also doesn't have any options to like or favourite pictures, it is just you and this stranger; in each other’s worlds.

I have received images from places that I have never even heard of. Today, someone sent me a picture of their handwriting in Portuguese. Yesterday, I was able to view a German street. At this current moment in time, I have just received an image of someone’s puppy. Rando allows you to create and syndicate your own reality, and I think it is beautiful. You will see the world differently; it forces you to broaden your mind and open your eyes. 

This app allows people to photograph anything and send it to somebody in a different continent. Although social media has already made this possible, Rando does not give you control of where the image will end up. It is anonymous and real, and it gives you the opportunity to look through someone else’s eyes for a moment, to see what they are seeing. The image may be sent to someone beneath the same sky, but there are differences in your retinas and the way that you experience life. This app creates a temporary overlap and provides you with a portal to a different form of existence. 

You have control over the reality that you share, and this app forces you to be imaginative about how you express yourself. There is also no nudity, which is most people’s concern. It is currently only available for Android, but it is genuinely one of the best applications that I've used and I would highly recommend downloading it. 

A Spell To Break The Soul.

Wednesday, 25 June 2014

Sometimes you have to write for the sake of writing, almost like the intrinsic act of breathing.

I want to use this post to provide my thoughts with a voice, because they so often remain unheard. It is one of my deepest fears, to die without people knowing what was going on inside my head. I’m mentally exhausted. I feel like a piece of Play-Doh that has been stretched out in every possible direction; I have been turned into an emaciated morsel of what I used to be.

A few days ago, somebody told me that I should pick myself up which evoked a deep sense of frustration. I fight to survive on a daily basis, I deal with my own mind turning against me, and yet I make it through the day with determination. Some days even breathing is a challenge because my own organs work in opposition to each other, there is no trust in my body; it fights until oxygen is the enemy. 

Sometimes, moments are wars within myself, between my blood and my veins. But I’m still here, and whilst I may be broken, I’m trying. I have been suffering for as long as I can remember, but I continue to persist. I picked myself up a long time ago and it was very condescending to hear those words. 

Pain is immeasurable; you cannot sit and distinguish how somebody else feels.

Sharing my illness does not make me weak; it makes me stronger because I am not afraid to acknowledge the pain. Whilst I may not have everything figured out; I’m still alive and that is the truest testament to my strength.

I discuss how I feel on social media because it is my platform of expression; there is nowhere else to go. However, what you won’t see are the moments of glee that I fail to articulate; my life is not completely vacant of bliss. I only write about my pain, but there are always gaps in between.

Call My Name; Save Me From The Dark.

Monday, 9 June 2014

I need to get back into the habit of writing here each day; it is the only means of salvaging what is left of my sanity.

Today I noticed the spectrum of my emotions and the speed in which they evolve. I go from a state of elevation to falling into a deep state of depression within the space of a minute. There appears to be no logic to sustain this, and the only mode of explanation is the way that sound waves alter in accordance to one’s voice, and their movement with each spoken syllable.

I’ve realised that fear is vacant from my body; it’s as if I have nothing left to lose. I’ve noticed just how outspoken I’ve become; in fact I often surprise myself because I’ve almost lost my willingness to care. I find my tongue moving before my brain has had a chance to deliberate. I often hear a voice speaking and then realise that my own tongue is moving. I’m no longer in my own body, and I cannot distinguish whether medication changes this.

I think I know what death feels like now; the way the angels move around and watch us from above. I was thinking about how our bodies are like containers of pain, slowly filling to the brim. When there is no longer space, they pour themselves out into a flow of disarray. I wondered whether there was a way to stop them from becoming so full, from allowing ourselves to be free of pain, to relieve ourselves from it. I always thought that facing the pain and submitting to it would make it go away.

I’m here, I’m alive. I must write these words as a form of evidence to prove to myself that I still exist. I find myself reiterating that none of this is real, that I’m still dreaming; I haven’t woken up yet. I don’t feel present, it’s like I’m vacant from the moments that I exist in.

I thought about explaining what depression feels like, but I don’t know how to separate or distinguish it from normality. I can’t remember ever feeling anything else, this is my reality and I can genuinely say that I cannot recall when depression was not present in my bloodstream.

I was thinking about my childhood and whether there was a starting point to all of this, whether I suffered from trauma that could provide a foundation of reason. It seems unfair for a child to be born into this world in a permanent state of sadness.

My parents tell me that a school teacher once asked if I was okay, because I was extremely quiet, and they were worried that I was upset. All I can remember is being inside my own head from an early age, hearing my mind as if the thoughts were magnified and projected, blurring my own vision. 

I was 11 when I began to seek what I thought would change everything. It took me a long time to learn that there was no means of healing myself, and I sometimes still forget this. There are ways to cope, to forget, to numb oneself, but sadness is rooted in my bloodstream, and even if I attempt to drain it of liquid, there is no escape.

All I ask for is sanity, to leave my own head, to stop the cycle of my mind. Sometimes it drives me crazy to think that I’m trapped inside my own self. I am a prisoner of my own existence. People can only do so much, and that’s when it becomes difficult. Knowing that nobody can save me, that I cannot be my own saviour.

My skin is a cage, and I can often feel myself shaking the bars, attempting to escape.

A Place For My Head.

Sunday, 8 June 2014

It’s nice to write this with pure diction and the absence of restraint. I was too buried in privacy to proclaim truth and instead I ended up submerged within the root of my own veins. I’ve come to find that honesty is the only means of dealing with my pain, so I will speak words of sincerity until there is nothing left to give.

I haven’t taken my medication in three days and I’ve found that my entire being has been restored with creative electricity. I have been feeling the urge to stop everything and write, to peruse literature and become lost in the fictitious mind of somebody else. The medication had quenched my imagination and creativity, turning me into a numb skeletal figure of diffidence. Creativity is the only means of sanity, but without medication, life itself stands still. Virtue always wins.

I’ve been reflecting about past experiences and the situations that I’ve fallen into. Regardless of my status with religion, I’ve always believed that mankind battles with sin and morality; the conscience as a guide. If tempted by the right desire, he becomes fickle, lured by the canopy of his own iris.

Sometimes it feels like I’ve lived a thousand lives before; I often watch distant memories finding their way back into the bloodstream. They say that you should regret sin, that you should deliberate why you did something. For me, they always gave me reason, and I still remember the sweet taste of the air that I breathed in. Sin itself was always a form of escapism. A medium of living; of feeling something other than sadness. Pleasure and satisfaction are temporary, but for that given moment, submerging myself in those emotions always felt as if it would reverberate into the future. I am forever longing for seconds where I can feel, anything. Sin was always an endurance to live; it cultivated hope.

I’m an impulsive person. This again derives from the root of depression. If ever I think of something that may excite me for a second, I will pursue it without any further consideration. My brain is always seeking something new, because if it finds itself becoming still, there is the threat of insanity overruling existence. My mind works overtime, constantly learning and doing, almost in coherence with an instilled body clock. I realised today that this drive stems from my depression, I can’t sit still otherwise my mind begins to converse with me. I keep busy at every given moment; almost like a race against the hands of the clock. I can’t give depression the chance to reach my fingertips. Sometimes, the minutes run out and the sadness freezes the entire universe.  

This post demonstrates the incoherence of my thoughts; there is no sense of organisation in which they are procured. It’s hope that binds it all together, but it’s strange that the thing that keeps us alive is as fickle as the leaves falling from the trees. It’s easy to catch them in the palm of your hands, and then tear them with your austerity.

I’m still alive; sometimes I don’t know how, but I’m here. 

Heaven Is a Board Game.

Thursday, 5 June 2014

I’m typing this and watching my fingers hit the keys, but it feels like I’m watching somebody else’s hands move across the letters. This isn’t real; my body is fighting against my own existence. Gravity itself is trying to swallow me into the ground, I’m holding on to the surface with dear life; the universe is conspiring against me.

There is no driving force in my veins; survival is intrinsic. I’m numb; like when your eyes are wide open and everything becomes a blur. I can’t see what’s in front of me. Substance becomes a myth, a morsel of my taste buds.

I’m no longer inside my own body, in fact I can still see the movement of my fingers when I urged them to stop. That command, from the brain to my fingertips, no longer exists. The brain stands alone; absent from my tongue or organs. They are no longer lovers, just inhabitants of the same living space.

I’ve turned into a small fragment of myself; a subsidiary version of life. It’s almost like that feeling when you’re trying to sleep, and then you suddenly wake up and realise that you were conscious the whole time. The mind tricks the body into a daydream; revelry is an allegory.

I’ve lost the ability to reflect. It’s either ‘do’ or ‘don’t.’ I’m accustomed to trapping myself inside the crux of anxiety; I’m immune. It’s all temporary; a board game. God is holding the dice, ripping out my flesh by the day.

I don’t know what game He’s playing.

The Lost Children.

Sunday, 1 June 2014

Today, I met up with an old friend and we discussed how it can be extremely difficult to talk about our emotions with people due to their reactions. He urged me to be open about my feelings because it would be liberating, not just through my writing but with the people around me. I am a very private person, I’m also not very trusting, and these are transpirations from experiences where people haven’t reacted so well to my suffering.

It was easy to wear a façade and exist without evoking questions, but by doing so, I spent years internalising how I felt. Sometimes I would write here and use this space as a coping mechanism, but then people that I knew began to find this blog. I became restricted, but now I want to write here openly and honestly. I don’t want to be worried about what people might think, what they could say, or how they will treat me. None of that matters anymore. I’m not ashamed of how I feel and by hiding it, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. I’m not afraid anymore.

I suffer from Clinical Depression and I have done since childhood. There are two types of depression, one that is temporarily caused by a problem in one’s life like bereavement, and the other is Clinical Depression which is caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain. I suffer from the latter and there are no factors in my life that have contributed to this. I have not lost anyone or had my heart broken, I am not lonely or distant from God.

I wanted to write this to say that you shouldn’t be ashamed of what and how you feel. Depression is real; I can remember sitting in my grandfather’s window sill, staring out at the cars and feeling sad as I watched people outside. I must have been 3 years old, but I remember that feeling clearly because it’s the way I feel now. I’m stuck on the other side of the glass, watching myself and the world from a far. There’s a piece of glass in between, keeping me from feeling, from touching, from living, existing. I’m watching from behind the glass, but this only means that I see everything in more detail. It gives me a better perspective; I see people for who they are, I have wisdom. Depression allows me to truly find truth and meaning in the smaller moments of life. It allows my happiness to reach its peak when a child laughs or stranger smiles.

Depression itself is a taboo, people don’t like to acknowledge it or recognise it as a problem. Most will deem it as a temporary thing like a cold, expecting one to merely get over it. Depression is an illness, it is a disease. Having no physical wounds does not exempt it from illness. Headaches or aches don’t have any visible signs, yet we recognise how painful they can be. Depression is the same thing, but the magnitude is a million times more unbearable. We see paralysis as one of the worst things that can happen to an individual, somebody loses the feeling of their body and can no longer move. Depression is also a paralysis of the mind; you can’t control, you’re stuck inside yourself, you cannot feel.

You won’t understand the extent of depression unless you have been through it yourself. Each day is a battle of the mind and self, and most days you can’t even trust your own head. Waking up with an excruciating sadness each morning can become very unbearable, but you fight through it, and that makes you so much stronger. You have to find the will to live, and that in itself is strength. Depression is humanizing and destructive all at the same time. It breaks you, but it’s not something to hide or be afraid of, and I don’t want to pretend anymore. Being able to talk about this openly takes courage, and I hope that you’ll read this and develop a better understanding of what some of us go through. I hope that you are more aware, and most importantly, if somebody approaches you and discusses how they feel, I hope that you will listen.

We Live In Words.

Sunday, 25 May 2014

We want to preserve as much as we can, we want to leave behind a legacy; to be remembered. It’s why we carve our names into stone, write our names in the sand.

We’re afraid of being forgotten; we want to exist forever. When we write words, a little bit of our soul seeps into them. The ink dries and our souls live on in each letter. We become immortal; those words will forever belong to us.

Writing preserves us in ink; it gives us a means of living on even when we’re no longer present. Our words communicate with our loved ones; our own form of body and presence.

Writing is a form of immortality, we write ourselves onto the page as a means of existing for eternity.

Our souls are never lost.

Our Home of Truth.

Saturday, 24 May 2014

It’s the lies that bind us together; they create the foundations of our relationships. We are afraid of the truth; honesty is detrimental. It unravels the ropes, pulling us apart.

Liberation lives in truth; we're insistent on holding on. Honesty is sustenance in meaningful relationships; legitimacy is the only means of moving forward.

Our lies eventually live in our blood; dishonesty within our veins. We don’t trust our own thoughts or tongue. We lose our own grasp of actuality and meaning.

There’s nothing frightening about honesty; swallow morality and let it guide you to the truth. That’s where you’ll find yourself.

We Are The People.

These are some of my favourite articles:

15 Daily Routines Most People Don’t Realize Are Actually Ruts: 

30 Realities You Will Learn To Accept In Your Mid-20s:

12 Things People Don’t Understand About Eating Disorders:

21 Signs You’re Suffering From A Book Hangover:

The Difference Between Being Alone And Being Lonely:

3 Reasons Why You Should Get Rid of Snapchat Right Now:

What It Feels Like To Get Lost In A Book:

The Inside of Emptiness.

Sunday, 18 May 2014

There is a vacancy in your body, almost like an aching state of hunger in your gut. The ache extends to your limbs and drains your veins of its blood. There is nothing left to give, but barren organs and a fickle skeleton on a pedestal.

Emptiness is someone spinning into a blur until you forget what they look like; you don’t know what thoughts are anymore. Satisfaction and fulfilment are depleted, moments are bare and sterile.

Existence feels far away and you can’t quite reach your own soul. It feels like there is an organ missing, a piece that God forgot to include. Sometimes you don’t quite recognise your own palms.

The reflection in the mirror doesn’t belong to you; the eyes follow movements until your fingertips touch the glass. Your shadow is the devil; the light belongs to the angels. A perpetual battle of morality.

There is a stillness between each breath; you lose yourself to survive. Life itself is a daydream, a fight for consciousness and an attempt of satiation.

Emptiness is when you look at a photograph and fail to recognise yourself; the numbness of passing by strangers in the dark. A void, a loss, a sad song in the night. It’s when you cry into the wings of a dove and feel nothing. 

Emptiness is the vacancy of your bloodstream; your own soul in your broken hands.

How To Get Over Heartbreak.

Saturday, 10 May 2014

This is something that everyone struggles with at some point in their lives, regardless of age or gender. I am often asked about heartbreak and the ways in which one can overcome it. I thought that it may be useful to compile some ideas for a post that can be referred to whenever the need arises. Here are 10 ways to get over heartbreak:

1. Cut off any contact with the other person.
This is absolutely crucial and forms the basis of you moving forward. When you are attached to someone, it is almost as if this person becomes a part of you; there is no way to get them out of your system if you are constantly in their presence. Think of it like a drug that is being injected into your veins; if you want to get rid of the drug in your bloodstream, you will have to stop injecting yourself. You need to be away from them for the sake of your emotional well being. It may be painful, but nurturing that attachment with them is only going to intensify the hurt later on. They may have been a huge part of your life, but it's time to focus on yourself.

2. Delete all of their contact details.
You may think that this is unnecessary, but it is very easy to get back in touch with someone during a moment of weakness, causing disruption to the whole process of you moving on. Get rid of any way of contacting them to prevent temptation. This includes email addresses, phone numbers, deleting them from your Facebook, whatever it takes; cut off all ties. There should be no means of getting in touch, because that’s the only way you will ever let go.

3. Get rid of anything that reminds you of the person.
This begins the process of eradicating the person from your system. Looking at things that remind you of them is a form of masochism. Everything can act as a trigger. Donate things like gifts and clothes to charity so they don't go to waste. It is important to destroy those associations that you have formed, because they'll come back to haunt you in the darkest hours of the night. Also avoid going anywhere that you may have gone together; these triggers are the culprits of pain.

4. Don’t sit alone.
It is when we are alone that our minds whisper to us and our own thoughts drive us to insanity. Spend time with your family and friends, this will not only keep you occupied but will demonstrate that you have many people in your life that love and care for you. This can make the world of a difference and give you hope that everything will and is going to get better. Whatever you do, don't sit in the dark with your memories.

5. Take up a new hobby to fill your time.
You will find that you have a lot more time on your hands and no idea how to use it. Exert your energy into doing something new, whether this is volunteering or joining a gym. Use this pain as a means of creativity. Having something to focus on will serve as a great distraction. Keeping yourself busy at this stage is very important, because it is when you are idle that your mind wanders. If you're too busy living your life, you won't notice your heartache.

6. Avoid intensifying your sadness.
Stay away from anything within the romance genre (movies, books etc.), as this may just leave you feeling worse. Avoid things that are going to remind you of your heartbreak, for example a television show where the girl has gone through a breakup. These things are only going to make you sad, because you are able to relate to them. Your thoughts will always find their way back to heartbreak, so you have to do everything in your power to avoid it. Don't make yourself sad on purpose.

7. Remain positive.
Listen to happy, upbeat music, smile at other people. Go outside and sit in a park. Exercise. But whatever you do, don't sulk or feel sorry for yourself, because these will only cause you to descend. Focus on positive feelings and energy, these are the means of greatness. 

8. Go shopping.
Buying new clothes always seems to give you a whole new outlook on life. It sounds quite superficial, but it can change everything, if even for a few hours. Find something that makes you feel great and wear it, this will help to restore your confidence. It is important that you work on your self-esteem, because this will be the driving force to recovery.

9. Set some goals.
Focus on your ambitions and the things that you want to achieve in your life. Begin to make a list and you'll see just how much there is that you want to do. Seeing these things in front of you will remind you of your aspirations, and you'll realise that this heartbreak is a blessing, driving you to better things. You'll realise that you have more time to work on bringing your dreams to life, you'll have more focus and determination than ever. 

10. Begin achieving.
Start working on your goals because the sense of satisfaction is going to be the most rewarding thing. This is going to contribute to heightening your self-esteem and you will come to the realisation that you have the strength to progress. As soon as you begin to start accomplishing your goals, the levels of motivation in your bloodstream will soar.

By this stage, it will begin to hurt just that little bit less, and everything will feel slightly more bearable. These things won’t get rid of your heartache, but they will help to reduce it and find ways to cope with it. They will guide you to the light at the end of the tunnel and will make you realise that you are going to be okay. They will help to restore your confidence and get your life back, and although it may feel like the end of the world, your life is honestly just beginning.

Heartbreak is a very humanising experience, because you’re broken to pieces and you have to find the means of pulling yourself back together. These can help, but it is important that you don’t sulk and romanticise your sadness, because heartbreak isn’t beautiful; it’s just pain.

99 Red Balloons.

Monday, 5 May 2014

The children ran around twisting red ribbons attached to balloons, entangling them with each other, swapping them and creating patterns as they watched them move.

Eventually, they let the balloons go, hesitantly, with their palms still attached to the ribbons.

Fear swept their faces, they reached the air to bring them back; it was too late, they were alone now.

They watched the heavens steal them, then found themselves with the remnants of ribbon as a bandage for their wounds.

This reminded me of how afraid we are, to let go of the balloons that we hold, to relieve the ribbons that attach them, to untie the binds and move forward.

We’re still bound to the balloons that we let go of, we’re still holding on for dear life.  We’re tied with ribbons, entwined with each other, tangling the memories of the past, present and future into one.

The balloon may have gone, but our hands become fists; the ribbon clenched. 

Breathing through Social Media.

Saturday, 3 May 2014

It’s strange. Social media was once a form of communication, interacting with people from our past and rekindling lost friendships. Now they have become networks to preserve and document our lives, to validate our existence to others. We have not only lost the essence of survival, but we are now reliant on social media as our source of advocacy and nourishment.

With check-ins and updates. Relationship statuses and photographs. We are creating a stalkers haven, attempting to authenticate our existence by detailing occasions.

Social media has become a form of bragging, a depiction of the perfect lives that we want to live. We document our good sides, whilst our darkness remains buried in the shadows. The outward exterior is all that matters, but are we not ridding our bodies of substance as we progress?

As technology evolves, we are becoming more distant from each other, breeding jealousy and malice into living. Humanity has discovered the art of portrayal, masquerading truth and blurring it into magnetic precision. 

We’re all just living as part of a lie, a conspiracy on a broken thread intertwined with our bones.

So Light Them Up.

Friday, 2 May 2014

It’s difficult to find the balance between selfishness and morality; doing the right thing or saving yourself. 

There are times when you have to make decisions that are good for you by breaking yourself in the process. These are the most complex of choices, throwing yourself into a ditch knowing that you will be responsible for it, having to find a way to dig yourself out and recover your fragmented soul.

We’re all just pieces of the puzzle, trying to fit in, trying to find our place. Sometimes we have to cut off our own limbs in order to survive. 

The things that break us are the ones that save us in the end.

What insomnia feels like.

In one of the beginning scenes of Fight Club, the protagonist says ‘when you have insomnia, you’re never really asleep and you’re never really awake. With insomnia, nothing’s real. Everything’s far away. Everything’s a copy of a copy of a copy.’ This is a perfect representation of what insomnia feels like, but I wanted to construct a more detailed image.

Insomnia feels like living on the inside of a dream. Sometimes you’re not too sure where you are, whether you’re awake or asleep, whether anything is real. In fact, you have to look around every so often to make sure that you’re still alive. It feels like you are floating, and you can sometimes feel your brain sliding around in an attempt to complete the tasks in front of you. The screen becomes a picture of words and you find yourself watching someone’s lips while they speak to you, trying to decipher their words. Sometimes your body feels so vacant that you don't know what comprehension means.

Sometimes everything is muted, and your eyes sink into your own head. Then all of a sudden, the sound comes back and your mind leaves your body. Everything moves in slow motion; you’re not sure if you’re visible. You’re watching everything from the outside, finding yourself trying to stretch your eyes wide open to identify whether you’re physically there. Your eyes always sink back to their natural habitats, deep into your sockets until you have to look around to grasp your surroundings.

Your speech is slurred and you have to wait for your hand to move when your brain commands it to. You hear the seconds on the tip of your tongue and in the trace of your fingertips. The thoughts in your head ricochet across the skull but fail to reach your mouth. Everything is protracted; there is no concept of time.

You live with a permanent headache, trapped in the vicious cycle of your own deprivation. 

Sometimes The Angels Smoke.

Thursday, 1 May 2014

Mind you,
sometimes the angels smoke,
hiding it with their sleeves,
and when the archangel comes,
they throw the cigarettes away: that’s when you get shooting stars.

(Vladimir Nabokov)

Only Girl (In The World).

Tuesday, 29 April 2014

I met another writer this week and it was a refreshing experience that I wanted to document.

You’ll find that you’re a rare creature,’ he said. ‘Your mind is like a computer screen with thousands of tabs open, ideas filling your head at all times.’

You’ll have a great memory, remember the details, be observant, a great listener. You’ll notice things that others don’t.

I’ve spent my life searching for some sort of connection with other people and when I meet writers, we form the greatest of bonds in an instance. 

Happiness By The Kilowatt.

Monday, 28 April 2014

Some of you have said that you want to read more about my experiences and how I found the means for survival. This got me thinking about humanity and the travesties that we endure.

Bad things happen all of the time, but it’s after we become broken that we find our own strength. When the worst has happened, we have nothing to fear; we become invincible. That is when our strength arises; we believe that nothing matters anymore. We extract the strength from our own cells, through our skin into our souls.

We always find the means to survive; we are each living proof of this. Even if we are trapped in the melancholy of our sin, everything is transitory and the seconds become our means of transport into another dimension of subsistence.

When people say that life goes on, it does. We continue to breathe which is the only strength that we need to live. Everything else is within us.

Love Thy Neighbour.

Sunday, 27 April 2014

I am all for unity in humanity. We breathe the same air, we bear identical scars, we cry the same tears; nothing sets us apart. Life is difficult enough; we should not be pushing others just to get ahead.

The reason that I wore the headscarf was because people were telling me that it was the right thing to do. I didn’t once pick up the cloth myself, cover my hair and think that this was who I wanted to be. I did it because I was desperate to feel better, about myself, about life. It was the last resort whilst in a state of despondency. When I took off the headscarf, I realised that I had spent the whole period listening and acting the way that others told me I should. I felt trapped by ruling and restrictions that were formulated by others, not God.

Faith is personal. People cannot tell you what to believe, they cannot instil religion into your veins. Your relationship with God is your own. He may not communicate with us in words, but we each have a sense of morality, we know right from wrong. We feel a sense of guilt when we commit sin, and this is what we rely on to keep us from straying. My affiliation with God surpasses everything else in my life; there should never be a mediator.

I write on this blog to liberate my own thoughts, not for your validation or to prove myself and my commitment to God. My devotion runs through my bloodstream, through my actions, through my speech, through my mannerisms, through my character. These are a measure of my faith, not my outward appearance.

I believe that when death comes, God will be, and is the Almighty judge. There is no need for anybody else to stand and attack, they shouldn't be attempting to play God. 

Islam is about intentions, and any negative comments that I receive are a demonstration of your own disposition. A cloth is meaningless unless you have the mannerisms and character to sustain it. You have to look inside yourself and evaluate your actions before you can even take that step.  This was the mistake that I made; the headscarf itself was meaningless because I did not understand the reasoning behind it.

My actions were not about desires or wanting to look better. It was about my mental health, about survival and needing to feel alive again. I have not spoken to most people reading this in a number of years; this post is a testament to the reason why. I don’t tolerate cruelty, negativity or anything on that side of the spectrum. Religion and faith are very personal, and I don’t believe that you should commit to something until your limbs coincide. At the same time, Islam teaches kindness and humility, which is evidently something that a lot of you need to work on. It’s sad that people withdraw from religion, because others are standing with pitchforks, ready to strike.

Religion is about you and God; people have forgotten this and turned it into their own division of ruling. Your pessimism is not welcome here, your opinion is futile.

I Cover Thee.

Saturday, 26 April 2014

I have always believed in God, and sometimes it has been the only constant in my life. When we are young, we are taught about morality and justice, about malice and chivalry, but it is only when we experience it for ourselves that it becomes real. We have to break the rules to learn to follow them. Sometimes we have to try things out to discover that they are not for us.

I know myself better than most people. I have lived inside my own head for a long time, so when I believe that something is right for me, you know that I have spent a long time analysing every fibre of possibility, every morsel of consequence.

When you fall into a ditch, all you can think of is being able to get out. You will hold on to the first hand that attempts to pull you out, because you can think of nothing else but to be rescued. But the first hand that pulled me out wasn’t a means of salvation, in fact I fell back in, deeper than I had done before.

I spent a lot of time with the Islamic Society during my final year of my undergraduate degree. It was a difficult period of my life, and I so desperately wanted to be surrounded by people that would make me feel better. The girls from the Islamic Society were welcoming; they were always smiling, always at peace. They were generous and beautiful, and I did not feel asphyxiated when I was with them. I felt hopeful, and I grasped this feeling with both hands; it was everything.

I often wondered how these girls could be so happy. I convinced myself that it was because they covered themselves and refrained from sin. After some time, the girls began to hint that I should cover my hair too; it would please God, it would make everything better. In the midst of desperation, it was the only thing left to do. I woke up one morning, covered my hair and went to university. It was strange, but I told myself that it would make me feel better. It was what God wanted.

Eventually, people began suggesting that I wear the abaya. This was a bigger step, but they knew more about my religion than I did, it seemed like the right thing to do. I should have stopped, taken a deep breath and thought about how much my belief system was changing. I didn’t realise who or what I was becoming. I went from being surrounded by boys to being covered from head to toe and not conversing with men. My whole life turned around. Covering my hair and wearing the abaya led to a series of changes, such as cutting out male friends completely. Everything I was doing was because I wanted to feel closer to God; I wanted to feel good.

But nothing changed within me. I was still unhappy, and there were always new restrictions appearing. I began to withdraw myself from interaction because it was easier. When I started my Masters, I introduced myself for the first time, with my headscarf on. These people didn’t know who I was before, and for some reason, this bothered me greatly. They didn’t know the real me, and that’s when I realised that this wasn’t who I wanted to be. I felt like a stranger within myself, I wanted to stop and ask someone for directions. I was trapped in this new being; detached from my own self. I didn’t feel like myself anymore. I was outside my own body, watching from a far. I began to fall into an intense state of turbulence, living a new life detached from memories that were no longer mine. I digressed so rapidly that it even affected my speech and my ability to string a sentence together. I could no longer think or feel. I became numb. I wanted to escape the boundaries of life and forget who I was.

I dreamt about removing the hijab, but it always felt as if it would be a disgrace to the religion. Instead, I persisted, and with time I just became more miserable. I didn’t understand why God wanted me to cover my hair or my skin. He wouldn’t judge my faith according to my clothing. None of it was making sense anymore. The headscarf didn’t make me feel better, and I was only doing things because people told me that it was right. This eventually made me feel distant from my religion, I thought that taking off my headscarf would disappoint a lot of people. But then I hit rock bottom, and nothing mattered anymore.

I removed the headscarf and abaya to salvage what was left of my sanity. I felt suffocated. My parents had never once pressured me to cover myself, and I realised that this suffocation was completely self-inflicted. I knew that there would be consequences, but it was something that I needed to do. The headscarf had no meaning for me, and I was worried that it would cause me to feel negatively towards my religion. I had to take off the hijab to reclaim my relationship with God.

The first day that I uncovered myself, I honestly felt liberated. It was as if God had pulled the plug and allowed my breath to escape. It has been six months, and they have been some of the most progressive months of my life. I feel alive, like myself. Hindsight is a beautiful thing, and it is only now that I realise the extent to which I withdrew myself from living. I have lost a lot of friends and followers, I have received negativity but I don’t regret my decision at all. God wouldn't want me to be miserable. He doesn't want us to make things difficult for ourselves, He doesn't want us to feel compelled.

I wanted to clarify that I don’t blame the headscarf or abaya for making me feel that way. I rushed into a decision that wasn’t the right thing for me. I didn’t understand the meaning or purpose behind them, and this just led to me feeling detached. I’m still Muslim, and I feel that the way I dress does not symbolise or represent my beliefs. My faith, the beliefs inside myself, that’s what is important. Without those, these things are pieces of cloth.

Eye of the Façade.

Make-up is not about vanity or narcissism; it is about masquerading insecurity and enhancing confidence.

I have dark hyperpigmentation underneath both of my eyes; they are not dark circles but a build up of melanin under the skin. This is common amongst Asian skin tones and many experience this around the sides of the mouth. My hyperpigmentation is not caused by a lack of sleep or a bad diet; it is something that I have no control over. I have spent years attempting to reduce their appearance, but they are two permanent rings that both circle and cover my eye area. I also have deep-set eyes which are positioned deeper into the skull, causing the brow bone to appear more prominent. The combination of hyperpigmentation and deep-set eyes causes my eyes to appear bruised, almost as if they are sinking into my face.

At the age of 12, a boy at school began to tease me about having two black eyes. He would constantly ask if I had been punched in the face, which led me to develop a serious paranoia about the hyperpigmentation. I became so self-conscious that I would even refuse to have my photograph taken. In fact, I have no pictures of myself from between the ages of 11-16. Although this boy did not realise the gravity of his teasing, his comments were embedded in my mind. Every single time I looked into the mirror, my eyes were drawn to the hyperpigmentation. My skin was pale causing the hyperpigmentation to look even darker than it was. This led to people constantly asking whether I was sleeping properly, whether I was tired and whether I was eating at all. Over time, the area seemed to darken and my confidence diminished itself. I looked unhealthy, and there was nothing that I could do about it. I felt ugly and was envious of girls that had bright under eyes. My hyperpigmentation was the first thing that people noticed.

At the age of 18, I discovered beauty videos on YouTube and I was exposed to an entire world of make-up. I had not been particularly girly, but finding out about the existence of concealer was absolutely revolutionary. I found that there was a product that could potentially cover up my hyperpigmentation and make me look healthy; it could make me look human. This seemed to light up my whole world.

I finally began to feel good; I felt confident. I felt pretty. There was light on my face. People began to tell me that I looked like a whole new person. Although I tried not to rely on the concealer, it was comforting to know that I could cover up the hyperpigmentation if I wanted to. The discovery of make-up made me realise that I could play with colour and transform my appearance according to my mood.

People talk about make-up as a means of contributing to vanity but it is so much more than that. Imagine feeling insecure about something your whole life and then suddenly finding out that you can cover your insecurity? It has nothing to do with narcissism; it is a means of breeding confidence. 

I Write Sins Not Tragedies.

Friday, 25 April 2014

Her handwriting was the movement of her mind amongst the page; it was scrawny and disorientated, started off neat and turned into the work of an artist with a purpose.

The flow of the pen was controlled by the speed of her hands, sometimes they didn’t move fast enough.

It was when her body and soul were one; when she was whole, that the words moved her organs. 

Electrified Veins.

Thursday, 24 April 2014

Technology emitted rays; they messed with the stillness of our minds, made us see everything in pixels and encryptions. It distorted our sense of self, made us do things we never would. The rays, they messed with us, consumed us, trapped us within ourselves.

You saw the images, heard the clicks, even with your eyes closed. You couldn't see your hand anymore; they replaced it with machinery, gave you superhuman powers, pushed you far enough so you couldn't control the movement of your fingertips.

With the touch screen, each moment of contact was a source of nourishment. Electrics in our engineered veins, currents as blood cells. 

Softer Than A Limb Torn Off.

This breaks my heart into pieces every time.

Some of my favourite lines are:

'No one would put their children in a boat unless the sea is safer than the land.'

'No one spends days and night in the gallbladder of a truck feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled mean something more than journey.'

'Maybe it’s because the blow is softer than a limb torn off.'

'The insults are easier to swallow than rubble, than bone, than your child’s body in pieces.'

How To Save a Life.

Tuesday, 22 April 2014

I wondered what death meant. An absence of a person, the vacancy of their body, the loss of a mind. You would grieve for memory and presence, but you could still taste their hopes and dreams.

People injected themselves into you, filled up your bloodstream and expanded your veins. When death came, your physical being was taken; the voice was still alive.

My pulse has frozen,’ he said. ‘I can hear the whisper of Satan.’  

We pulled ourselves together with candle wax on cracked hands; it melted and merged, then solidified on our palms.

I wondered how long God had yearned for our souls. 

When We Stand Together.

Sunday, 20 April 2014

It's amazing how much changes, even when we think it's all the same. It's only when you put everything together that you notice the evolution of self.

The Insecurities of a Human.

Thursday, 17 April 2014

Putting words onto paper makes them feel final; spoken words are transient. By writing things down, we preserve them; we give them meaning and truth. Words visualise our thoughts, bringing them to life; a form of animation. We can see just how profound or ludicrous the insides of our minds can be. Writing is a form of systemising and liberating thoughts. Sometimes we need to write our deepest secrets onto paper, to share them and be rid of them.

I am going to share my biggest insecurities, and by doing so; I hope to achieve two things. I want you to experience the dynamics of somebody else’s mind, and I also want to use this as a form of interaction and a basis for your own blog post. I write about my personal insecurities quite regularly, so for the sake of diversity, I am going to concentrate on my physical insecurities.

1. I find it difficult to smell things unless they are very strong, for example, I cannot smell the perfume that somebody is wearing. In fact, I can only smell perfume directly from the bottle. For this reason, I am generally quite paranoid about smelling bad myself, because I will never know. It sounds silly, but it is something that has always bothered me.

2. I drink a lot of coffee and have done so for a long time. I am always conscious of my teeth looking yellow and becoming stained by the coffee. I constantly use whitening toothpastes and treatments just in case. My front tooth is also slightly bigger than the one beside it, and I am always mindful of this when I laugh. I also have a strong fear of them falling out. Sometimes I wake up in a state of panic, and have to check if they are still there.

3. Last year, I put on a whole stone in weight due to illness, which caused my skin to stretch very abruptly. I now have a variety of stretch marks, and although they are in places that are generally covered, I have a few on the insides of my upper arms. They are not as prominent as they once were, but I am so conscious of people noticing them that I avoid wearing t-shirts in public.

4. My relationship with food has always been a problem and I am absolutely terrified of weighing myself. If you know my history, you will understand why.

I have never shared these with anyone. By writing them down, I am able to see just how ridiculous they are. You may read through them and identify each one as being quite silly, but they are things that genuinely cross my mind on a daily basis. Although I have deeper insecurities, these are things that I am too afraid to talk to others about.

Upon writing this post, I found this corresponding article: I hope that it encourages you to replicate the post on your own blog. If you do go ahead, please leave the link to the post in the comments. I love to read and discover new blogs.
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Let me tell you a little secret. You can only save yourself.