Flashbacks, Reflections

It’s a rather hot day for May. I have no complaints at all as this spring has took its good time to arrive. A clear blue sky, a shining sun and warm breeze, powerful hints of summer, powerful reminders of the most random of events.

I was such a romantic in my early teens. An eager youth on a quest to find the love of his life. What I hadn’t realised then was how inexperienced and young I was. But there was far too much going on in my head to pay attention to such trivial details! I was looking for her, the perfect her, and summers set the best context for my quest. One day she’d be Sara, but then Sara breaks my heart by giggling with her friends as she looks towards a group of older boys. She can’t be her, it must then be Reem, until Reem looks away when I smile to her. And so it goes.

Had music on earlier today that made me feel rather nostalgic and I had a flashback of something that happened a very long time ago. I was walking up to a water fountain in a park to drink some water only to see a cute girl arrive almost at the same time. She was Saudi, or she looked it. She had straight, short black hair and a fair complexion. She was pretty, or so I remember thinking, mind you it was close to 20 years ago. I smiled and stood aside offering her the fountain to drink first. Her reaction was to give me a dirty look, said وخر in the rudest of ways, drank water and walked away. All this happened in less than a minute. But I stood there thinking why? And how could such a beauty be so cruel? The sweet naivety of a young romantic boy.

I love those summer flashbacks, they’re always pleasing. Life back then felt so complicated and extremely dependant on the most inconsequential events and the most insignificant people. In reality it was sweet and very simple, but only in retrospective of course. I wonder if I met the same girl at the same water fountain today, how will her reaction be?!

A Throne Of Anguish

Some claim that suffering is the price we pay for comfort and pleasure. I say it defines them. By creating this contrast in our lives, we value and treasure the happy moments and identify them more clearly. But when you are battered, bloodied and bruised, you can hardly keep a straight thought, not to mention rationalise the suffering you’re in as the blessing and lens through which you can most clearly see your happiness.

You are most vulnerable, even to yourself, when you take off your shiny iron armour to show off all the battle dents and scratches. I found that out the hard way. We often forget that beneath that robust, elaborate armour, is vulnerable flesh, often weakened by our campaigns. Battles that are a prerequisite to victory and glory. We forget and we act with the same boldness and we pay the price – a harsh and painful reminder of why we’ve forged that armour in the first place.

Even when we tell stories of our conquests, in pride and vanity, sorrow creeps in. We remember the price we had to pay for those victories. We remember the pain that gave birth to our scars. We remember the severed limbs. We remember the fallen ones. We remember the thorny tree we climbed to sit on that opulent throne. And it is saddest when we find that same sorrow in the eyes of those listening to us tell our tales. Defeats the purpose of bragging altogether.

I say we, and what I mean is I.

The Burden of Thought and Thoughtfulness

What twist of fate in one’s life ends him up feeling responsible for the welfare of others? What curse falls upon him making him expected to feel and act responsible? And at what point do the lines people draw around themselves become blurred to him? One thing I know for certain, any man who is like that is very much lonely. An island, when no man is an island.

We live inside the walls we build for ourselves. Some build low walls and some have them high. Some build them of paper while others choose brick and mortar. But those are merely metaphors for the lies we tell, the silence we choose, or even complete seclusion and solitude. So with what right does the self-righteous come and tell us how to live our lives? And with what right do we cast them off with our lies and silence? One hurts the other with intrusion and truth and the other hits back with deceit. One troubled by maintaining a series of lies and the other by the burden of thought and thoughtfulness. What a wretched cycle!

The Homesick Homeless

Did she have to choose that verse in particular? The song has been on repeat just to hear that verse that exposes what hides behind the mask. It was as if she took me by the hand, sat me down, and forced me to listen carefully to those words. And as they were sung, it was as if she were looking right through my soul. She had no right to do so. Masks are worn for a reason, to hide what is behind them.

And in that nudity I felt the cold breeze of a reality I am not in any right mind or mood to face. Yet it was but a momentary exposure as composure acted as a makeshift mask. A lot remained, as intended, hidden. A lot remained, as intended, only in God’s knowledge.

Behind the mask is a mind in which a constant storm is raging violently, blowing mercilessly over an army of merciful words. Shouts and screams that leave my mind transformed, on my lips, to poetry. To everyone is the poetry, to me, God knows, are the shouts and screams. It is an army, useless in peace, and thus it shall have none. And as it marches, it longs for a home that, alas, does not exist.

A Certain Pride

She is such a magnificent creation. My friendship with her grew in the most peculiar circumstances. Curiosity led her my way when apprehension kept me away from hers. There’s so much of her to be explored. On the surface you encounter a soft, calming beauty with delicate features. Nevertheless, you also fall under the seductive allure of her graceful curves, which she knows well how not to hide. Her elegant smile adorns her face, never leaving it. A superior sophistication envelopes her every deed. I can wax lyrical about her classical virtues but it is something else that captivates me most, her eye for beauty. She has a way of abstracting beauty from any stereotypical, contextual, or even moral restraints. To her, beauty deserves acknowledgment where ever it may exist. That did not only make her an art lover, but also an artist. And her works clearly exemplify her sophistication and intelligence. She makes links and associations between the different instances of beauty she discovers in people, places, objects, sounds, film, or literature, links that only inspire awe and amazement in her creativity.

But she’s also not without her share of burdens. And at times, it seems a lot more than her fair share. But she fights with the noble virtue of patience, of which she seems to have a substantial arsenal. She is a heart that soothes broken ones and a mind that guides distraught souls. Always a shoulder to lean on. When I said to her that I’m very proud to be her friend, she said there’s nothing to be proud of. Well, I beg to differ.

The Writing’s On The Wall

A quiet restaurant. The sound of wine poured into a glass. Knives and forks scratching on plates. A glance. A smile. The sound of a sip. You speak, and your voice comes out louder than you expect. Someone from the table next to you looks at you in reflex. She chuckles. It’s all so quiet. You try to take your voice down a notch. It borderlines whispering. She reacts to it all. But you read nothing.

Your intentions. Her intentions. The act of innocence in the theatre of life. There’s past. But that was that. There’s present. And it’s oh, so pleasant. The future, well, it’s the victim of intentions. False hope fuelled by strong desire. We keep marching towards a battleground of one to be lost. The writing’s on the wall, but warriors seek war, victorious or otherwise demised.

An old song. That nostalgic beat. Emotions evoked, demons invoked. After deep thought, a new motto is devised: no victim must fall.

That Will Never Happen

I was stopping at a traffic light when I saw outside a cinema a teenage couple. A young boy with long hair and skinny dark jeans and a pretty young girl in short jeans and a black jumper. They had their arms around each other, smiling in elation as they looked into each others’ eyes. Their eyes were radiating joy, love and happiness. I couldn’t help but smile as I watched them cross the street, right in front of me. As they disappeared behind the corner I was able to see them through the shop windows. They had stopped, embraced and their lips were locked in a passionate kiss.

Driving along, there were two things I could not suppress, my smile and a strange feeling of envy. The smile, I felt, was a natural reaction to seeing something as charming as that, but the envy, well I had to reflect on that. In her eyes I could see no care in the world, and in his smile I saw all the pride in the world. As I write these words I’m trying to recreate that feeling I used to have as a teenager in love. My attempts are in vain. What care do they have other than losing the other? What purpose do they seek other than pleasing the other? What meaning does life have to them if not spent in the arms of the other? But I’m not sure what I envied most.

I want a break from time, from life altogether, to feel like a teenager again, to be one rather. To walk with my arm around the shoulders of a beautiful girl I love, her arm around my waist. I want us to walk on that same street, but without any cars or passersby, on a clear cool night like this. I want to hear her smile. Yes, as a teenager in love, I’d be able to hear the smiles of my love. I want to stop and sit with her on a bench. I want her to rest her head on my shoulder. I want to taste her lips, I want that feeling again, God knows it’s never been the same. At that moment I’d have no care in the world. I would be the happiest man alive.

But that will never happen.

 

The Grand Masquerade

One of things I fear most is trying to find an answer to why I sometimes suffer bouts of self-loathing. I just don’t wish to stumble upon something my blissful ignorance had protected me from discovering. Recently I had a tête-à-tête with a mystical beauty that eventually lead me to my ontological dilemma: when am I ‘me’?

Well, lucky for you my reader, I won’t attempt to answer that. Main reason being the second sentence of my opening paragraph, I’m at peace with my denial! But another question poses itself: if there are different ‘me’s that I’m aware of, how many ‘me’s do you have? Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t mean the secrets we all have in abundance, nor do I mean the changes our personalities go through. I mean the different sets of behaviours, let’s call them faces, that we have at any given time. Let’s agree on one thing, if there really are different faces at once, then it means that the person cannot be perfectly happy with any one of them at all times. The context would probably determine which face makes the person happiest in those circumstances. However this is by no means a justification for hypocrisy or for those whose behaviour is extremely different from one situation to the other. I’d imagine the decent among us would have the fewest of faces, all ranging close to each other.

There’s always one dominant face. One that the person is most at ease with. One that comes most naturally and with least pretence. But what if it isn’t the one most people like? What if most people like another set of behaviours of this person which comes less naturally? Or worse, what if the face people like most, which also happens to be the one he’s most comfortable with is the one least accepted by society? Neglect the oxymoron in the question and give it some thought.

Could get draining, this masquerade we call life. Now please excuse me while I put on my happy face.

 

The Marble Bench

I had seen her the night before. How would I begin to describe her? A playful beauty! Yes, that she was. But also a whole lot more. I had known her for a while, but she was never mine and I was never hers. Also, luck was never on our side. But we met, we spoke, I held her in my embrace and I tasted the nectar of her lips. She had paint on her face from the party she was at, that paint rubbed off onto my coat. To this day the faint paint marks remind me of that night we had, along with my black scarf that I wrapped around her bare arms. I can’t tell for sure how long we had spent together. It never felt as if it belonged to time. On one hand, we both were intensely excited about finally being together, on the other hand, we both were a bit self-conscious. Neither of us wanted to take too much liberty with the other’s time. But that series of magical moments felt like a life lived and fulfilled, yet also felt short and unsatisfied! The concept of time as we understand it in our normal lives does not apply to those moments. And with an embrace and passionate kisses we parted as she wrapped the scarf I lent her around my neck.

Then we met again the following night. We walked through a jungle of people and neon, all so colourful and vibrant. Just like her. Aimlessly we kept walking until I spotted that marble bench where we decided to sit. We sat close to each other, puffing on cigarettes and stealing glances into each others eyes. But there was something a bit off that I sensed. When I looked into her eyes, and she into mine, it wouldn’t last long. She’d suddenly look away as if she had been startled by something that she disliked, or worse, something that scared or confused her. I tried to ignore these thoughts so as not to ruin our moment. Towards her I bent, in the familiar way lovers do, to kiss her, but our lips barely met as she quickly looked down. It was her gentle way of rejecting my lips. My heart sank and I almost choked on my words. That must’ve lasted a couple of seconds, but God did feel like an eternity of torment. Endless questions popped into my mind. A mind already congested with plots and plans to get out of this situation with minimum damage to our friendship, our romance and my ego. A strong and healthy ego that was devastated in a matter of a second or two! How I was able to maintain my composure I still don’t know. But I had and I am glad I was able to manage that awkward moment like that. I simply sat back like I was before making that failed attempt.

I remember extending my legs forward in a relaxed way with my back resting on the bench. I remember looking at my feet as I opened up my heart and mind to her. For who else could begin to understand, not to mention appreciate, the complexity that lives within me. I don’t know if it was an act in order to protect my ego from further damage, or if it was genuine opening up because I wanted it so much. She was inquisitive. I gave vague answers, not to be vague, but simply because my poor mind was suffering a hurricane of thoughts. For as I was talking and opening up, I was also facing a flood of questions surrounding why she had rejected my kiss. One line of thought would suggest she wanted us to be friends and no more. Another suggested she might’ve suddenly hated me for reasons I don’t know. Or maybe even she decided I wasn’t attractive anymore. And then I’d be confused by the fact she’s still here, especially that I asked her if she needed to go and she said no. That sort of confusion clogs up ones mind.

We eventually decided it was time to go and I walked her to her home. She was normal and pleasant through it all until she suddenly said “you’re like a closed book, so mysterious and you never open up”. She caught me off-guard and I was genuinely shocked, given I had just opened up to her with some of my inner most thoughts and emotions. I didn’t want to argue much, I felt guilty of upsetting her happy, playful beauty, that I could only give the excuse that it was my nature and I was sorry she felt so. But it was clear to see that communication was broken and a lot was lost in the translation of my thoughts to words.

I eventually got home with a severely hurt ego. But I am a man of some experience after all and I used tested coping mechanisms to help me get over this hurt, or at least ease it. It didn’t help though that the final blow she dealt me was a vague text message that I ended my night with. At that moment I felt I lost a romance, and most importantly, I felt I lost a friend. And friends like her don’t come along often, if ever.

But I hadn’t, for it was just the splitting of the cocoon; damage needed in order for the beauty of the butterfly to emerge. It’s been a few months since those two nights we had, and to us they are a beautiful memory. One of desires fulfilled and one mixed with regret for a wasted encounter. One thing’s for sure, as our friendship grows stronger and more beautiful, it often gets drunk with the admiration we have for each other and a lustful desire takes over. Yes, I may never be hers and she may never be mine, such is life, but I shall always admire the remarkable being that is her and she shall always be able to solve my riddles.

We Were Wrong

Such luxury there is in hindsight. Clarity of mind and heart the likes of which one can never experience in the midst of all things happening. This sort of clarity is impossible when one is immersed in exhilarating joy or even agonising misery. Even if moments of temporary sensibility come visiting, they are soon brushed aside by the powerful intoxication of love and romance. At that time, nothing in the world seems to equal that euphoria, nothing in the past nor the future. It seems as if happiness took its life from that love, and if that love ceased to exist, then so would happiness. And when that love eventually dies, it feels as if all life also died. Any chance of happiness appears extremely distant, nay impossible.

But all that is wrong. For life continues to exist, and happiness soon, very soon, returns stronger than ever. And oh how things change. The deceased love is often buried in the soil of indifference, and sometimes ugly shrubs of loathing grow on it. In the graveyard of memory, scarcely ever visited, it remains for the rest of eternity. And after a while, the length of which differs from one person to another, complete indifference sets in. And right then, one could begin to look back at things in a rational way. Sometimes with a laugh of scorn and sometimes with a grimace, disbelief overwhelms one’s thoughts. How could I have been so naive? How could I have made such a ‘mistake’? How was I so foolish? Such questions arise causing one to look back at oneself thinking: pathetic!

Yes, we are harsh on ourselves at times. But it’s not always a bad thing. It is how mistakes are concluded and transformed into lessons learned. We move on in life, experience more love, more joy, and more misery even. But most importantly we are indeed happy, despite what we once thought!

I was listening to the song Sunday by Hurts which goes:

The loverless nights, they seem so long,
I know that I’ll hold you someday.
But until you come back where you belong,
It’s just another lonely Sunday.
Maybe we’ll see that we were wrong,
If ever we look back one day
But till you come back where you belong
It’s just another lonely Sunday.

I did not grimace, nor was there scorn in my smile, but a lot of certainty, clarity and happiness.