THE STORY OF SARA






Or A Reflection on Ourselves


Ayad Izzet Gharbawi










2008














Table of Contents



Chapter 1: An Awakening. Page: 3.
Chapter 2: University. Page 12.
Chapter 3: Being an Activist. Page 23.
Chapter 4:  The Hallowed Purification Programme. Page: 32.
Chapter 5: The Party Self Destructs. Page: 55.
Chapter 6: Confusion after the Collapse of my Icon. Page: 64.
Chapter 7 Getting a Job as a Psychiatrist. Page 69.
Chapter 8: Afim: Sick or ‘Normal’? Page: 84.
Chapter 9: Having Children. Page 105.
Chapter 10: Omar Again. Page: 109.
Chapter 11: The Meaningless Existence of My Husband. Page 121.
Chapter 12: My Daughter: Lara. Page 127.
Chapter 13: Getting to the Top in my Job. Page: 131.
Chapter 14: Success & Emptiness. Page 142.
Chapter 15: The Shock. Page: 148.
Chapter 16: The Trap. Page: 153.
Chapter 17: The Punishment. Page 162.
Chapter 18: The Barmaid and the Alcoholic Conversation. Page: 166.
Chapter 19: Old Age. Page: 180.
Chapter 20: Seeing My Son: Noor. Page: 184.
Chapter 21: The Unexpected Visitor. Page: 191.
Chapter 22: Conversation with my Social Worker. Page: 195.
Chapter 23: My Visitor Returns. Page: 206.
Chapter 24: Isolation. Page: 210.

















THE STORY OF SARA



– OR, A REFLECTION ON OURSELVES



CHAPTER ONE:  AN AWAKENING



  
            Sara is my name.
  I feel the need to write down the words, or rather, the connected and the unconnected stories, of my life.
  I wish to say straightaway, that I am not an important person; on the opposite.
  I am, in fact, a no one.
  I achieved nothing meaningful in my life, and I was never famous.

  So, why you may think, should anyone read about my life, considering that I am a nobody?
  Well, I think, that precisely because I am a nobody, people should read about my life!
  Why?
  Because, since most of us are nobodies, therefore, I must be a reflection for a significant number of people.
  I am a mirror that most of us do not see; after all, who wants to see what they really look like?

  You see, if I were famous, then I would be in the minority of the population, and, as a consequence, I would reflect the lives of just a small fraction of the people.
  In other words, if I were rich, and if I were to write about my life as a rich woman, then most readers would have absolutely nothing to relate to such a story.
  But then again, to tell you the truth, I am plagued by insecurities and self doubt.
Why am I plagued by insecurities and self doubts?
  Because life itself is full of doubts and insecurities!
  Everyday there are so many events that happen that you do not fully understand - and so they have no certainty.
There are so many thoughts that come across your mind that you cannot believe in with certainty - in other words, you have doubts!
  Life is made up of events, people and thoughts that are themselves uncertain, vague, indefinite, unclear, ambiguous and ultimately blurred.
  That is why, for me, I found no certainty in my life, no sense of definiteness – and the end result is that my image of my personal reality was a blurred vision.

  I could never see an accurate view of my own reality - because I had far too many flawed characteristics.
  I am extremely temperamental.
  I am extremely impulsive; I speak, behave and act without thinking in a sober, rational, deliberate manner.
  I am not a very good judge of character when it comes to people. I often evaluate people wrongly. I misread who they really are.
  I am often very cold with other human beings; I am unable to sympathise and be compassionate to other people.
  I am not a good listener.
  I am a slave to my irrational passions, my dark urges and my undesirable needs.
  Now I am not saying that I have these characteristics all the time – but I confess that I do have them far too often.

  And all these awful characteristics make me quite unable to focus on myself in a logical, coherent and rational manner.
  I am unable to see my real Self; I cannot see where my rational mind tells me where I need to go with my life, rather than where my dark passions tell myself where to go.
  So, maybe my story isn’t worth telling at all.
  Should I write the story of my life or not?
  Will anyone read it?


  I am a member of the weak and the unknown and the unheard class.
  I am a member of the invisible classes, of what they call 'Humanity'.
  Even though, I don’t know what ‘Humanity’ actually means any more.
  I am one non-entity amidst this ocean of Humanity.
  I am a nothing.
  So, what’s the point of my existence and, more importantly, the story of my existence!?


  Actually, sometimes, when I’m in a good mood, I think, yes, come, do not be timid or afraid, and take a serious gaze at my own face, and I hope you will see yourselves – yes, you, the majority of the people out there, this night; for when you see yourselves in my face, you may learn so much about yourselves, and it seems to me, after I have been living and experiencing so long, you may learn from my mistakes.
  It seems to me, that one of the problems so many of us people out there are facing, is that nobody seems to want to take a serious, unbiased way that they really look like – and this is because of fear.


  But what is this ‘fear’?  
  I know that this fear is one reason that causes a nagging and persisting unhappiness.
  This fear is because we are scared to look at ourselves and find a picture that is severely deformed and far too horrible to behold.
  Do you believe that looking at your own face is an easy task?
  I hear you tell me: Oh Sara, all you have to do is to look at the mirror and you see yourself.
  How easy!
  But, I’m afraid, you are wrong.
  Because when you say to me, that all you have to do is to see your face in the mirror, that is not accurate.


  And that is, because the face you are seeing in the mirror is an image.
  That is not your face!
  That’s an image of your face!
  And an image is only one degree of reality.
  An image is never and can never be the whole reality.
  So, you say, why is it that I am seeing an image of my face in the mirror and not the whole reality of my face?
  Because you yourself are scared to scrutinize and stare so deeply at your own face.
  Fear is restraining you from seeing your own reality.
  You may see your real face and it may be a face that is far too ugly to see!



  Now, when I am in a bad, bleak, hopeless mood, I really believe in the depths of my angry heart, that it is utterly pointless to write anything, precisely, because I feel that my entire life is completely worthless.
  Emptiness.
  I feel my life is filled with emptiness.
  Ha!
  How can you ‘fill’ anything with emptiness!
  You know, I feel like ripping to shreds everything I’ve written, and yes, reader, I’ve done that many times – and, then I start all over again.
  And how dare I presume that anyone out there in the world would be in any way interested to read the life of an empty woman who happens to be called Sara?
  You see, at times like these, I have self hate.
  I confess.
  I hate every single thing about myself.
  And that includes my pointless story.


  And so many times, especially at night, when I’m able to write my story, I think, what if no one is reading these words?
  How frightful!
  Could I possibly be that empty?
  Could I – Sara - possibly be so utterly meaningless as a human being, to the extent that no one could possibly be interested, to give me more than a few precious moments of their time, from their important lives?
  Well, for all you people out there whose lives are brimming with happiness; for all those of you people whose lives are so full and busy, so they never experience the utter tedium of boredom; for all those of you people who never face an inner emptiness, a loneliness within their hearts and minds; for all those of you people who have no fears, no anxieties, and no insecurities – then I can honestly tell you to hurl this book away!

  And, yet, I would like to believe that - in the depths of my shaky beliefs and my uncertain certainties - that I have at least one listener with me!
  You know why?
  Because it gives me so much comfort and peace of mind to think that I have one human who is interested to know me!
  The most horrible thing to me is to live in total isolation.
  And to ease that unique kind of emotional pain, is to know that someone, somewhere in this planet actually cares for you.

  I was born in the City, in a middle to low class neighbourhood, where families tended to help each other.
  It was a closely knit community. You knew everyone, and everyone knew you and so, when there was any problem, people would help each other out. You see, in this way, problems became less heavy than they would have been otherwise, because when more people come to help you, the problem weighs less, as opposed to if each family had to cope with their problems all on their own.
  It was a happy childhood; I adored my parents and I thought no one could be better than them.
  They were my icons.
  As a child, they were good to me, and I could see nothing wrong with them.
  But how long did that last?
  By the time my mind was waking up, so to speak, by eleven or twelve, I began to notice, that what I saw wasn't all that rosy at all. My parents used to argue a lot; Dad would scream and Mother would howl.
  And what were the causes of these clashes?

  Both were guilty of countless faults.
  Dad drank too much; Mom didn't pay enough attention to housekeeping and so our house was rather *****; neither parent paid any attention to us; Dad would always invite his 'friends', and they would be rather ****** in their behaviour and with their jokes (or what they thought were 'jokes'); Mom would go for hours on end to her 'friends' houses, and leave us children alone; so, when they were in the mood to fight, good God, both sides of the trenches had lots of reasons, or excuses, to use as ammunition!
  And what battles do we young children witness!
  Dad would scream: "What kind of Mother are you when you do nothing for the house; you don't cook, and so we never have homemade cooking; you don't clean, and so the house stinks and is always in a terrible mess; and then you disappear for hours to God knows where, leaving us all behind! How much time do you even spend with our children? I’ll tell you how long – you don’t spend any time with our children! Children need love, attention and time spent with them; how do you think that affects our children? Do you think that makes then happy?"

And Mom would scream, at the same time: "What kind of Father are you? You're always drunk, and you're always socialising with drunk, ****** idiots. How do you think our children are reacting when they see their Father interacting with the most lewd, disgusting people? You're lazy in your job – and that is when you keep a job more than a few weeks – and, not surprisingly, you don't bring in enough money, and so we live a miserable lifestyle. And, you dare to ask me why I leave this house for so many hours? Of course, I want to leave this house – it's because I cannot stand the repulsive sight of you! And then, you have the nerve to ask me, ‘how long do I spend with our children’? You **** hypocrite! How long do you spend with our children? Not one minute!"


  I would usually rush off to my room, and hide my body and soul in my pillow.
  And as I grew into a teenager, my parents were fighting against each other even more.
  Who was right and who was wrong?
  Sometimes I felt for sure, that Dad was wrong; and, at other times, I felt that Mom was to blame; while at other times, I felt both were to blame; and then again, at other times, I would be so confused that I just gave up thinking about the whole mess, and just wish they never brought me to this world.
  How could I judge them?
  I could never really tell, because I didn't have the facts, did I? Who knows if Dad really was lazy at his job, and if that was the case, why he didn't he realize that we needed him to work harder, in order for us to have a better quality of life? Or, maybe he wasn't making enough money, simple because his job was a low paying one, and so it wasn't his fault that he brought such meagre wages.


  Who knows why Mom didn't take care of the house?
  Maybe she was depressed?
  And who knows why she went off to her friends' house for hours on end?
  Put simply, when you don't have the facts, how can you possibly judge in a reasonable manner?
  But then, maybe, you, my dear reader, will say I am wrong, because one ought to judge the situation by using one's emotions and not just 'facts'.
  To be honest, when I think of those wretched days, maybe they were both 'right' and wrong'; but in what measures – don't ask me!
  What I do know for sure was this: the fact that both Mom and Dad never spent any time with me really hurt me and made feel insecure. I really needed their company when I was a child and right through to my adolescent years, but, unfortunately, they were never, ever interested to sit with me and talk to me – not even for a minute.

  In my teenage years, I clearly remember that I felt that I needed Mom and Dad, because I remember feeling frightened for the first time in my life.
  Why did I feel ‘afraid’?
  I honestly don’t know.
  Strangely enough, before the age of thirteen, all my parents' fighting did not leave me scared; no, my response was one of sadness only.
  
  So, I tried to talk with Mom and Dad, issues that were bothering me, but I found out, to my horror, that they could not answer any of my questions.
    I would ask my parents endless questions like:
"Should I continue studying in school and go on to university, or should I leave and get a menial job?"
"At what age should I get married?"
“Is marriage worth it or not?"
"Should I smoke cigarettes and drink alcohol – or, are these things wrong?"
  “What characteristics should I look for, when I make friends? In other words, what are the good attributes versus the bad attributes in the character of any person?”
  “What is morality?”
  I remember that my parents were themselves confused by my questions, and at the same time they were irritated.
And, at other times, they were increasingly bored with my unending questions.


  Strange combination, isn't it – to be both 'confused’, irritated' and 'bored' with someone nagging at you all the time!?
  I know why they were 'bored'; that's the easy part – it was because, they gradually found me to be a nuisance or an irritant with my questions.
  They were 'confused and irritated', because they felt stuck as to how they could best answer my questions.
You see, they were, themselves, doing all the wrong things, so how could they advice me to do what was supposed to be 'good'?!
  For example, 'Can I smoke and drink alcohol?'
Good question, Sara, but a question that you shouldn’t really ask your parents, when you recall, that both were heavy smokers and drinkers!
  And, when I asked them: 'Should I get married?' How can they answer that one

Syria oh Syria why do you bleed?
Brother fights brother without thought or need
Ruled by a tyrant for so many years
And now the spilt blood is washed away by tears

Democracy by debate you tried and you failed
Now the wives and mothers they cry and they wail
Democracy now sought at the point of a gun
Your country in turmoil, lives being undone

I sympathise and weep at your terrible plight
Your people are dying, no end in sight
Can man ever undo the chaos he's wrought?
Going to war without reason or thought

Syria oh Syria your bloods being drained
By those who would seek political gain
When the killing is done will you be better off?
Is what you might gain worth all the loss?

Your economy gone so how will you live?
The worlds in recession, no money to give
Families destroyed and homes are no more
All destroyed by a political war

I'm too despressed to notice I'm stressed out
Suppressed emotions inside, shouldn't let out
Seeing is believing but what I see isn't real
I am forced to accept these "realities" and ignore the way I feel

I don't mean to sadden, entertain, bore, or aggravate,
For a decade I find that this is how I communicate
The only way I can precisely speak out on the unhealthy pleasures
As the chemicals of my brain, they fornicate

These levels of relationships aren't supposed to be
It'll **** me sometime later, look at how it has ruined my personality
Seeing is believing, but you won't believe what I see
How can I act 'normal' when you won't acknowledge I can't do 'human being'

My animalistic compulsions are fuelled by my failing brain functions
Don't get too close cause I'll try to bite, I sympathise for your flesh when I malfuntion
Don't be scared, I'm not canibalistic, I just like to use my teeth
Humans scare me, I must defend myself, uh, I mean, to smile and eat

I'm not afraid to say it, but I'm scared when I'm saying it, I have to say
I have been observing your mundane human actions, I really don't want to be put away
I always feel foreign, alienated, out-of-place
But because I'm "considerate," I have to bite my tongue to save me some face

I'm too stressed out to notice that I'm depressed
Wanting mental soundessnes, yes, peace, my hallucinations don't give me rest
My taughts speed down their highway, my delusions are always a-fest
They inflict beneath my exterior, but for the public eye, I wear a crest

"I wear my skin well, don't you think?" I lie, becuase it ill-fits
I am totally normal, "I'm fine." Can't change the fact I'm a misfit.
The beams that bear my bag of meat rust and thus begin to weaken
The lethal sagging's caused by the mental luggage, I'm not heard, even though I'm speaking

Many persons think that I'm overly paranoid, I must admit, that I am
You would be the same way too, if about your health, no one ever gives a ****
Help doesn't come, because their 'laters' always becomes 'nevers'
I am not that superhuman, can't keep myself together, forever

They claim that they would help me, some way, somehow, but their actions never initiate
Someday, sometime, it would all be over, through a thorough death physical or mental
Oh yes, I'm still believing, you can't accuse me of not having faith.
I look forward to my healing, but all the while, my brain chemicals fornicate.

When you are greeted,
With a shell of an
Old wrinkly man,
Do not forget the person i am,
Please try to understand,
That i am not the deep curves within my skin,
Please try to look within.
Do not forget though my speech may be
Inconsistent and slow,
And i may have difficulty with
The ability to chew and swallow.
Do not forget, that these complications,
Do not show,
The things i have achieved,
The family i conceived,
The fresh air that I've breathed,
In many different destinations,
And when you get cross with my hesitations,
Because my actions due to my complications,
May be a little all over the place,
Do not forget,
That embedded within my face,
Lies a whirlwind of memories and dreams,
And though at sometimes it seems,
That i am frail and bitter,
Please understand i am trying to come to terms
With the fact that Im no longer as fitter,
As i used to be.

And when you see me cry,
Do not try to deny me
Of my dignity,
Be calm, be patient,
And look after me gracefully,
Sympathise for the person,
I used to be.
And when you take my body,
Dress it with care,
There is still life there.

And if i stand and stare quietly,
Please wait, for me.
And when you brush my hair,
Please do not rush,
And if i speak in riddles,
Please do not hush,
What may not appear to make sense,
This change Im going through is
So very intense.

And if i soil myself
And your left to clean up the pieces,
Please try to do so,
In a way that irons out the creases,
Of shame and self blame,
And if i forget my name,
Please understand the pain,
That i will never be again,
The same,
Its just my body and my brain,
Don't quite work the way they used to,
And if it appears that Im asking you,
The same question repeatedly,
Please be patient,
I am doing the best for me.

When you look at my pictures,
My photos, my life,
You will see a successful man,
With three kids and a wife.
Young girl, I've battled inner strife,
For almost 90 years,
But nothing warrants tears more,
Than becoming a widow,
Not recognising your own shadow,
Realising your body is no longer your own,
Being moved into a care home,
Where the phone doesn't ring,
Where the birds no longer sing,
And you feel like giving in,
Every single day.
And people constantly say,
How you're turning old and frail,
That your body is aging and turning pale,
And every task you do,
You feel like you fail.

And if in time you begin to find,
A snippet of the old me,
Hold it carefully,
In the palms of your hands,
For the sands of time,
Are slipping too quickly,
Through mine.

So when you are greeted with a face,
With wrinkles so deep,
You could bury your own fears is them,
That sometimes weeps,
Remember, i was once
Like you,
And one day, you will be like me too.
Handle me with patience,
Tenderness, love and empathy,
Handle me gently.

And young lady,
I ask you,
Please be kind,
And remember all i have said,
As i unravel and unwind,
These cognitions within my head.

It was one of those mornings
where you peer out your bottom floor window,
and look up at the raindrops freshly fallen.

You feel broken,
and yet rushed with an unexplainable emotion.
but you know it’s a good one simply with a bad aftertaste.

You see people everyday, no, you stare at them.
You wish for relationships you once had.
Others you wish you could hold,
and those you could never give up.

Have you ever heard the saying about faking a smile?
It’s an understatement.
It’s not sadness, or anger really, just pain.

It doesn't start out as pain, it just evolves, over time.
The madness results in Emotionally caused Physical pain.
The pain doesn't hurt, it just...sits.

This emotion that we've nicknamed pain, rushes through the body,
Arms numbs, legs shaking, eyes holding back, everything.
It’s all caused from sight, with a drop of longing.

You see this person everyday.
You long for the same people every single day.
And your body just longs for them.

It’s not as lustful as it sounds.
You just possess an attraction to these people.
An attraction that even the most specific and descriptive of words could not describe.

You sit there and you are bound by society’s lock on intermingling.
You are bound by the mock and disgust of others.
You are bound by that person of which you desire.
You are bound simply by yourself.

All this.
All of this Emotion, if you will, was bound in that little drop that clings to the window.
That was but a drop of what I feel every single day.

You can’t imagine
but don't let me sound as if I am exaggerating.
For I am not.

I have felt wonderful things.
Things I am not sure most of you have felt.
Though I wish you could.

I wish I could place my hand on your chest
I wish that all of that energy, that emotion, would flow into you and then back into me.
I could look into your eyes, and I would know, that you know, how I feel.

You could understand everything.
You could sympathise.
but the fact of the matter is, you simply can’t.

I do not believe you have felt what I have felt too, no.
Different version and variations, yes.
But this feeling of impossibility, I know you have not felt.

You are common rebel,
this is not bad, no not at all,
you have more opportunities to release this emotion than I ever will.

And i envy you. All of you. Every Last one.

You look away from the rain drops.
You go back to living.
You go back to hiding.
You go back to solitude.

Yeah, it was just one of those mornings I guess.

the following additions will seems like plastic
surgery,
               and in turn will put the encompassed
poem under much strain,
  but as i will say: a 48h marathon can do
that to your narrative "skills"... well... techniques...
   esp. given it's winter in the northern
hemisphere, and two nights and two days
actually feels like three nights and two days,
given we're into our second day, and i've already
experienced a night-time this morning looking
at the clock.

  italics will be pleasantly omitted...

        instead... a maxim style akin to la Rochefoucauld
will be adopted... to merely insert
             toothache when otherwise the ***
is sitting on a leather sofa and thinking what would
be a better chance to juice up the brain with a
psychoactive sedative-effect, i.e. with what liquid?
    coffee on the brain is a sahara, as is famously
known: arabs love their coffee... and their
  baklava dressed in balaclavas - or as we say in
Europe: there's enough water, so we drink alcohol.
    turns out diabetic rates only go down in arabia
if enough sports cars are imported... must be
the g-force diet.

         but hey! look at the title! the title was always
going to to resemble the final version of
the preliminary work, the sketch, of what went on
last night...
                   beginning with the scariest film i have ever
seen: a horror movie without anything to do with
night or its aura (i was about to say aurora, never mind),
a movie from 2002... which ended being more scary
even it almost bagged the lead role an oscar...
        and then what i can only claim to be better than
gaming these days... taking graphic novels onto screen...

which brings me to a question, and if i ask the question
with a mature enough wording,
i might actually get a serious debate going...
     namely? x-men, first class...
         and i share something with this theme,
did you know that people remember far away from
Chernobyl parks being pigmented, where
   there were segregational duo-incisions in the trees
from the radiation? it happened nearing when i
was born, spring, and the women were told to drink
iodine... that 2002 film shows iodine treatment
   on "mental" patients, you pour enough iodine down
the nostrils you get a better understanding of
epilepsy... ah... the magical things people could ever
think of doing on another human being, let alone
   a courgette, or a steak...
                well, yes, in parks, half the trees were
the colour of spring, all green and asparagus juicy...
the other half were brown, and decaying,
    almost potato skinned, if not simply: potato skinned.
      as i said, i was a foetus at the time,
and apparently some Scandinavian got a microcosmic
whiff of it and panicked... let alone those exposed
too close to Chernobyl, a radiation-pH spectrum
emerged, of who and how they were exposed it...
    cancer, for example, is prevalent in Poland of
those who don't get to experience a midlife mental
disorder of buying a yacht... lucky them...
   which fits nicely into the seriousness of graphic
novels, as that film unbreakable clearly demonstrates...
  all realism of graphic novels actually stems
from batman... my favourite... no super-powers,
plus i had a simulation of being orphaned and raised
by my grandparents for 2 - 4 years while my early
psyche developed, and then redeveloped utilising
a different language, then went back to settle old dues,
and then went back again: charged with having read
    antoine de saint-exupéry on a year long
hiatus that allowed me to watch the 1998 world cup
              in a dark-lit room with my great-grandmother
and see France win... with such jubilation as if
Napoleon just came back from Elbe for seconds.
this is not the point, i said i would word it maturely
and not look half as an ***:
    why does francis xavier sympathise with
max eisenhardt, but belittles james "logan" howlett?

   all things start so small, i just remembered listening
to this song that allows you to lay down words like
bricks in a wall (prometheus' 9th - the man who swam
through a speaker)...

  why does he, is francis xavier just ******* that
one of logan's mutation counter-pluses is his ability
   to regenerate health and vitality, while at the same time
creating a amnesic hinderance to apply his psychopathy?
i guess it is... max on the other hand as unchanging:
fixed memory coordinates, because physically:
he's unscratched... up to a point of how this debate
runs its course... i just don't see how francis has to
belittle logan... just like henry "hank" mccoy is first
belittled as simply bigfoot... the problem with
amnesia is that even you have the capacity to
engage in telepathy (rooting out distant pathologies
rooted deep inside your psyche that never allow
you to reach a full potential - or what's Freud's
case of postulating receding pathologies and subsequently
creating a forward looking theory to work with
in creating uninhibiting constructs -
       francis xavier? nothing more than a psychiatrist...
in the modern sense, without iodine treatment,
or electric-shock-therapy... rather the guy that
says everyone is special via talk-therapy...
  and all psychiatrists have this child in them:
they all want to be telepathic... just like all
manual labourers want to be telekinetic) -
           the oldest chestnut, if there ever was a hazelnut
to boot.

       original, as except of what is to come...
  i mean, what i started off is now bound to italics,
  just to make a point that after watching 48 hours
of things, and having finally looked at symbols,
    i could only write so much coherently,
before donning what looked like some poet's clothes,
and stepping into a foggy highnoon for
  a bottle of beer, a bottle of whiskey, and
     a prescription of insomnia pills...
   well (they're called anti-depressants for old people,
who prefer to treat their "depression" - if not
merely old age, while they're asleep)...

no one would ask for this type
of hiatus...
       some would call it:
being an american spy,
      getting caught in soviet
russia and enduring interrogation
techniques -
    yes, a "hiatus" of nearing
48 hours: of being constantly awake.
       or what certain former
east europeans going back
   to see family members might
ask about, when Lithuania, Estonia
and Latvia are under a national
sway of general jittering paranoia
as reported by English newspapers
   and later established by
            an American president's
tour of the region -
                         or how Crimea
is the 37th or 38th or whatever no. it's
now - or whether it's
           Tartar autonom oblast -
but indeed, nearing a 48 hour long
insomniac "hiatus".

            and i can sympathise with francis xavier
experiences when max eisenhardt is first encountered,
this sharpness of a psyche, rather than its automation
or literal non-existence... this is why i could
            stay up for longer than 48 hours if i wanted to,
but i can see so much in being awake for so long
that natural consequence is that:
a. i have lost the capacity to dream,
  b. i have translated the capability to dream into code
(namely the letters you see before you)
   and
c. i have found a "safe-space" to recuperate from
the pain i feel...
  meaning
      d. i know with what ease people acquire a substance
known as a soul... and with what ease they can
think in this substance, like a fish in water...
    what i'm talking is a lobster a boiling basin,
where your exoskeleton can mean a lot upon
jumping off a cliff, but when your inner flesh,
starts to be almost eaten by the mutation of protein
from tapeworm larvae into edible meat?
      i know this substance, i have experienced it...
and i know that i dare not put a soul into a foetus
that doesn't have a workable tongue, bladder and ****.
  i think it's time to end this preliminary "work".

They all sympathise

and write their best intentions --


to put in the urn.

Mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table
Waiting for Warren. When she heard his step,
She ran on tip-toe down the darkened passage
To meet him in the doorway with the news
And put him on his guard. “Silas is back.”
She pushed him outward with her through the door
And shut it after her. “Be kind,” she said.
She took the market things from Warren’s arms
And set them on the porch, then drew him down
To sit beside her on the wooden steps.

“When was I ever anything but kind to him?
But I’ll not have the fellow back,” he said.
“I told him so last haying, didn’t I?
‘If he left then,’ I said, ‘that ended it.’
What good is he? Who else will harbour him
At his age for the little he can do?
What help he is there’s no depending on.
Off he goes always when I need him most.
‘He thinks he ought to earn a little pay,
Enough at least to buy tobacco with,
So he won’t have to beg and be beholden.’
‘All right,’ I say, ‘I can’t afford to pay
Any fixed wages, though I wish I could.’
‘Someone else can.’ ‘Then someone else will have to.’
I shouldn’t mind his bettering himself
If that was what it was. You can be certain,
When he begins like that, there’s someone at him
Trying to coax him off with pocket-money,—
In haying time, when any help is scarce.
In winter he comes back to us. I’m done.”

“Sh! not so loud: he’ll hear you,” Mary said.

“I want him to: he’ll have to soon or late.”

“He’s worn out. He’s asleep beside the stove.
When I came up from Rowe’s I found him here,
Huddled against the barn-door fast asleep,
A miserable sight, and frightening, too—
You needn’t smile—I didn’t recognise him—
I wasn’t looking for him—and he’s changed.
Wait till you see.”

“Where did you say he’d been?”

“He didn’t say. I dragged him to the house,
And gave him tea and tried to make him smoke.
I tried to make him talk about his travels.
Nothing would do: he just kept nodding off.”

“What did he say? Did he say anything?”

“But little.”

“Anything? Mary, confess
He said he’d come to ditch the meadow for me.”

“Warren!”

“But did he? I just want to know.”

“Of course he did. What would you have him say?
Surely you wouldn’t grudge the poor old man
Some humble way to save his self-respect.
He added, if you really care to know,
He meant to clear the upper pasture, too.
That sounds like something you have heard before?
Warren, I wish you could have heard the way
He jumbled everything. I stopped to look
Two or three times—he made me feel so queer—
To see if he was talking in his sleep.
He ran on Harold Wilson—you remember—
The boy you had in haying four years since.
He’s finished school, and teaching in his college.
Silas declares you’ll have to get him back.
He says they two will make a team for work:
Between them they will lay this farm as smooth!
The way he mixed that in with other things.
He thinks young Wilson a likely lad, though daft
On education—you know how they fought
All through July under the blazing sun,
Silas up on the cart to build the load,
Harold along beside to pitch it on.”

“Yes, I took care to keep well out of earshot.”

“Well, those days trouble Silas like a dream.
You wouldn’t think they would. How some things linger!
Harold’s young college boy’s assurance piqued him.
After so many years he still keeps finding
Good arguments he sees he might have used.
I sympathise. I know just how it feels
To think of the right thing to say too late.
Harold’s associated in his mind with Latin.
He asked me what I thought of Harold’s saying
He studied Latin like the violin
Because he liked it—that an argument!
He said he couldn’t make the boy believe
He could find water with a hazel prong—
Which showed how much good school had ever done him.
He wanted to go over that. But most of all
He thinks if he could have another chance
To teach him how to build a load of hay——”

“I know, that’s Silas’ one accomplishment.
He bundles every forkful in its place,
And tags and numbers it for future reference,
So he can find and easily dislodge it
In the unloading. Silas does that well.
He takes it out in bunches like big birds’ nests.
You never see him standing on the hay
He’s trying to lift, straining to lift himself.”

“He thinks if he could teach him that, he’d be
Some good perhaps to someone in the world.
He hates to see a boy the fool of books.
Poor Silas, so concerned for other folk,
And nothing to look backward to with pride,
And nothing to look forward to with hope,
So now and never any different.”

Part of a moon was falling down the west,
Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.
Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw
And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand
Among the harp-like morning-glory strings,
Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves,
As if she played unheard the tenderness
That wrought on him beside her in the night.
“Warren,” she said, “he has come home to die:
You needn’t be afraid he’ll leave you this time.”

“Home,” he mocked gently.

“Yes, what else but home?
It all depends on what you mean by home.
Of course he’s nothing to us, any more
Than was the hound that came a stranger to us
Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail.”

“Home is the place where, when you have to go there,
They have to take you in.”

“I should have called it
Something you somehow haven’t to deserve.”

Warren leaned out and took a step or two,
Picked up a little stick, and brought it back
And broke it in his hand and tossed it by.
“Silas has better claim on us you think
Than on his brother? Thirteen little miles
As the road winds would bring him to his door.
Silas has walked that far no doubt to-day.
Why didn’t he go there? His brother’s rich,
A somebody—director in the bank.”

“He never told us that.”

“We know it though.”

“I think his brother ought to help, of course.
I’ll see to that if there is need. He ought of right
To take him in, and might be willing to—
He may be better than appearances.
But have some pity on Silas. Do you think
If he’d had any pride in claiming kin
Or anything he looked for from his brother,
He’d keep so still about him all this time?”

“I wonder what’s between them.”

“I can tell you.
Silas is what he is—we wouldn’t mind him—
But just the kind that kinsfolk can’t abide.
He never did a thing so very bad.
He don’t know why he isn’t quite as good
As anyone. He won’t be made ashamed
To please his brother, worthless though he is.”

“I can’t think Si ever hurt anyone.”

“No, but he hurt my heart the way he lay
And rolled his old head on that sharp-edged chair-back.
He wouldn’t let me put him on the lounge.
You must go in and see what you can do.
I made the bed up for him there to-night.
You’ll be surprised at him—how much he’s broken.
His working days are done; I’m sure of it.”

“I’d not be in a hurry to say that.”

“I haven’t been. Go, look, see for yourself.
But, Warren, please remember how it is:
He’s come to help you ditch the meadow.
He has a plan. You mustn’t laugh at him.
He may not speak of it, and then he may.
I’ll sit and see if that small sailing cloud
Will hit or miss the moon.”

It hit the moon.
Then there were three there, making a dim row,
The moon, the little silver cloud, and she.

Warren returned—too soon, it seemed to her,
Slipped to her side, caught up her hand and waited.

“Warren,” she questioned.

“Dead,” was all he answered.

Your lips churned lies you choked on so
I cannot sympathise.
Sweep up your bones
and lift them as
a sign of your demise.

Does she know her profound effect, on two lowly rejects
or is she luminescent from some mutual recompense
and how do you feel when the exhilaration has faded?

'Secret gratification, I see you behind the blind, pacing
*******, for the girl above your station
It's grating how you feel so humiliated
When you spot me in my lounge,
amused by the situation'

It's a mad sporadic dash to end, how long will she stand
It's a repressed trend but furthermore it soon wanes
and we're all left motionless, unbridled and insane

You, ******, master of disguise
Beautiful young girl, pale blue eyes
Me, misanthrope, full of despise
Cars on the street, I hear the cries
Human nature is strong, I sympathise
But in broad daylight,
can you truly say this is wise?

It seems, your tears filled up your bowl.
It seems, that, your mouth, your teeth, they chewed till they were sweets.
It seems that, your....
I can't do it.
Couldn't sympathise so well.
I am confused, and I am so broken.
I am breaking. I feel so dead.
I feel like, I...I can't...do that...or this...or them...
I have so many things.
"I am holding on..too tightly to certain things..."
I am scared and frightend.
I am lost. Feel forgotten.
I can't seem to breathe.
I am so tired.
Of....me.
Of myself.
This body, this heart, my enemies. .
Oh, how I hope I can be separated from them.
I didn't get enough sleep last night again.
I didn't....
I cant.
My fingers they are sliding across the keyboard, just trying to catch up the wild thoughts of my mind, and I stop, broken.
I want to rest, but I would be lazy.
I want to stop and think, but that's just procrastinating.
I....
I can't.


Sorry, 12258
Sorry God.
Sorry Mother and Father.
Sorry sister.
Sorry. To myself.

"Congrats you failed. Yes you."
I said.
Pointing to the mirror.

You're always asking me why I keep the receipts

From every place we visit even if it's only a

Quick pit-stop at the Safeway where you used to work,

And I won't tell you why because you'd laugh

At me and remind me how silly romance is

Because I know you found that movie ticket with

The blue eyes sketched between the price and the

Title. And I know that you tossed it out the window telling

Me that the cute ticket officer's eyes were brown, not

The same colour as the stormy oceans I see

Crashing below your eyelashes on the nights when you

Won't tell me what your father said to you and that I

Found out from your brother that your grandmother died

The same day that you met me and that's why

You won't talk about her even though you know I can sympathise.

You always ask me why I write down your angry

Words but I can't tell you that it's because it's those

Moments when I know you're the most bare, even when

We're naked.  And I also know the reasons why

After we finish, you always hide beneath the sheet

As though you're afraid I'll see the crescent-moon

Scar on your left hip that you will never tell me

What it's from.

I guess we all have reasons for our secrets but

Why would the world keep spinning in its unsung persistence

If we knew everything about it?

you could start fires with the charcoal under my eyes
and i am so tired of telling people i’m tired
i’m exhausted
i barely get 3 hours of sleep
my mind is tangled with cobwebs that only seem to need dusting at night

i lay awake listening to the creaks of old aged furniture
and i sympathise
i know how that feels, buddy
my joints creak and they’re crisp as autumn leaves
i am surprised i haven’t broken any

alarm sounds at either 8 or 9
day starts an hour later
day continues
day persists until evening lets it rest
evening continues until their shift is over and
night falls
i’m so tired that my body has grown accustomed to it
i watch the time change and the clock tick;
i am so accustomed to it my heart has started following the same rhythm

night fell
a boulder on sunken shoulders
it is still falling and i am trying to carry such heavy weight
i think this is why our backs begin to curve as we grow older
we are crushed and crippled

does the sun still rise even if i don’t see it?
because all i ever seem to see is the darkness of night fall;
i wonder
who can love a clockwork heart?
tick, tock.
who can love a cobwebbed mind?

time to go and dust again.

You walk a lonely path old man but now and then you show us
you're alive
And maybe when you've had a few you'll shed a sorry tear or two.
That's fine.

But if you really must insist on dredging up this ****
Each and every time.
As each new fact's learned don't mistake horror for concern.
Cos it's a lie.

I'm happy. My eyes are dry.
I can't feel pity looking in your killer's eyes.
So chin up son, don't you cry.
The things you did were unforgivable and I'll never sympathise.

Lying just beneath the skin there hides a multitude of sins
That wait
For a ear that doesn't sneer or recoil sickened
Cos they can't relate.

Seize any opportunity; for you've so many agonies
to share,
To unload your woes but that cross you built
is yours alone to bear.

Each sacred tet-a-tet where you might vocalise regrets
makes you renewed,
But don't forget that as they peer at you it's one-way glass
their peering through.

You look through misty eyes - your little heart is opened wide,
but their's are shut.
They can't return your gaze of hopelessness and shame,
They've heard enough.

If I thought there was an afterlife
I'd be concerned for what's coming your way
And whilst I don't believe in evil
You and him came pretty close I'd say

You can repent until your spent or
Flagellate your sorry self to death.
But if your just trying ro tell the world your sorry
Well, you can save your breath.

Leave flowers on his grave and promise that you'll never
misbehave again
Curse the wicked heart god gave you -
If you had the chance you do it all the same.

Mount another charm offensive
Show them all the side they think you lack
But know that no amount of
Humility will ever bring him back.

it's 11:11pm
where sorrowful low spirits cry
sanguine prays to the other side of the sky
the galaxy listens
maybe a little too closely
the cold atmosphere holds many's outbursts
collecting agony and desires
one too many wishes
for the young stars to bear.

but listen to our ambition,
observe our devotion,
sympathise our situation.
scrutinise the inclination of our appetite.

it's 11:11pm
it's a galactic duty for the baby stars,
not for too long.
because nobody likes waiting.
so create that miracle of ours and
f
a
l
l

Though he counted himself brave,
she saw teardrops rolling down his eyes
that could be interpreted in many ways
perhaps on the plight of human life
in this planet, makes him sympathise.

"Brave heart, don't grieve" he heard her whisper,
"Don't see life merely as a balance sheet
of profit and loss, just in terms of money.
It's a system human mind created
for mere transaction of commodities,
emotions clothed in flesh and blood,
you are ideas too, that have mind and limbs,
that touches lives, moves the world,
you can't walk in the reverse, Never.
Be what you were once, you've made history
as well as mistakes, as a tree you've borne fruits
propagated your seeds, satiated the demands,
and alas, littered the surroundings with
dead leaves and rotten fruits, that stink.

**"Brave heart, nothing is perfect, nothing lasts,
it's within the complex cosmic design, that's all"

I take deep breaths

And plan a ******

To **** the bird that flew

Over the crow's nest


On a summer night

I feel the warmth

Of the day not yet done

The sound of laughter

Is all around me

This is cool- I say


I find myself lying on a surgery table

Holding an apple in my hand

I throw it against the floor

And landing there

It bursts into a million

Children of my mind

Spreading into every

Country on the planet

I am the new master

As my children grow and grow

Still in rags I speak

And throw my thoughts into a bin

Their work is finished you see


Still the sound of laughter

Carries on around me

Living is easy

With your head

In the clouds


I saw- and still I hear

The giggles and noises

Of delightful romances being

Born

These should be mine

But they are not mine

Such things are little more than

Mist or whispers

Promises not yet realised

My children sympathise

And bringing me a woman

To sit with me in the tall grass

Together we shall

Plan a life instead

let them be heard from beyond the grave,
let them tell the stories of everyone
ravished and burned
buried alongside the evils the ignorant and privileged
threw six feet below this blood-soiled land
while the fool who granted himself
the glory, the honor, the memory that will never be rightfully his,
lies peacefully in a sacred place

do not silence them if they shake the streets with rage
do not shame them if they burn the metro with blinding fury
this is the least we can do, we cannot simply contain the memory
of every homes extinguished into grey smoke,
of every dungeons that turned into homes,
of every child that only had hunger and violence
for teachers rather than their parents,
of every girl that was marked against her will,
of every iron fist that instilled fear,
of every every bullet fired onwards from that day
of the humanity that ceased to be

let the people fight for the yesteryears,
let it be known that the deeds of the devil will never be forgotten
let it be heard that for as long as we draw breath,
he will be condemned back to hell,he will pay for his crimes
and along with him are those that do not speak their minds,
that choose to remain foolishly blind,
that do not sympathise,
let them all be reminded:
history cannot be changed, only remembered
and if bound to be repeated, will be fought like hell because the Filipino may fall but never bend, may falter but never break, may stand in front of the edge, but with crimson-soaked cheeks and wounded fists,
we will take with us to the death, our oath: never forget. --W

Reality hits me
And it ******* kills me
No, please don't say
That you understand

The physical pain
Is sickening, oh
Why can't I be seen
For what I really am?

Well, the thing is
That I actually commit
To the harmless ****
That I care about

Unlike the others
That don't seem to care
They quit, cancel, flit
I can't help but think that it's unfair

Don't you miss me
Don't you notice my absence
Don't you care
That I'm not there?

I hate the crowds
They misconceive how
I express myself
When I'm just the same as everyone else

Or am I?
Who the **** cares?
Let me be who I want to be
Let me do something satisfactory

No, you don't understand
I'm sorry but it's true
You can't sympathise with me
When you don't have a clue...

continuously surpassing
I know
my obligations
to some this may be
considered trespassing
I empathise
to the point
where I almost idolise
your fragility
and I sympathise
almost to the point
where I would follow
if you chose
to leave

I'm a different kind of lonely when you're not here
When everything I touch seems to miss you too
And we all just sit around in our collective grief

Books aren't supposed to miss people
My guess is that if books had feelings at all
Then really they would just want someone to pick
Them up and hold them

I can sympathise with books

If doors could talk they wouldn't ask where the
Hell we'd been when we got home late
They'd say that they just want to keep us safe and
Maybe try to keep out the cold

I wish I was still your door

My windows don't miss the times when you'd
Stand with one delicate hand on the glass and gaze
Outside in some quiet reflection
Unaware that I could see your reflection in the glass and was
Wondering,
Desperately trying to conclude
How biology, chemistry and physics
Could possibly have combined to create something

So terrifyingly beautiful.

When Alison left the bath to run
It ruined the parquet floor,
It spilled on out like a waterspout
And ran right under the door,
She’d gone back into the bedroom, so
The spill continued to run,
Across the landing and down the stair,
‘Now look what our daughter’s done!’

We couldn’t dry out the parquetry
It swelled, and loosened the glue,
Then bits would lift and would come adrift,
I didn’t know what to do.
Then Barbara said, ‘It’s coming up,
We shouldn’t have laid it down,
I’ll go and choose some ceramic tiles
At that tiling place in town.’

I said that I’d lay the tiles myself
But Barbara would insist,
‘We really need a professional
For a job as big as this.’
I shrugged, and let her get on with it
I never could win a trick,
So the tiler that she employed was one
Ahab Nathaniel Frick.

I’d seen this tiler about the town
All hunched, and wizened and old,
His wrinkled skin was like parchment in
Some leathery paperfold.
He wore a hat with a drooping brim
So the sun never touched his face,
A puff of wind would have blown him in
To leave not a hint, or trace.

‘Are you sure that he’s up to this,’ I said,
‘He isn’t the best of men,
He’ll probably get on his knees all right
But never get up again.’
But Barbara shushed me out of there
Was keeping me well at bay,
She wanted to prove what she could do
In laying the tiles her way.

I didn’t get in to see them then
‘Til the tiles were laid, with grout,
Nor see Nathaniel Frick again,
I supposed that he’d gone out.
I stood and stared at the new laid tiles,
Their pattern was in the floor,
And Barbara, waiting proudly said,
‘What are you staring for?’

‘There’s something a-swirl in those tiles,’ I said,
‘Some pattern you didn’t mean,
The way that he’s put them together, well
There’s a sense of something unclean!’
I said the tiles made an evil face
And showed her the curving jaw,
The squinting eyes that could hypnotise
And the cheeks, so sallow and raw.

She said that she couldn’t see it then,
That I must have twisted eyes,
I wasn’t wanting to hurt her so
I tried to sympathise,
But the monster’s face was set in space
And it wouldn’t go away,
I dreamt about that face by night
And I saw it, every day.

At night, the face seemed to snarl at me
When I passed it in the gloom,
And I worried that it was set right there
Outside our daughter’s room,
Then Barbara thought she heard a noise,
An intruder in the house,
And tipped me out of the bed to chase
The night intruder out.

The moans began in the early hours
And the groans came just at dawn,
Then Alison came into our room,
‘There’s a shadow on my wall!
A man with a broad-brimmed, floppy hat
And with squinting eyes that gleamed,’
I said, ‘That’s it,’ when she had a fit
And our darling daughter screamed!

I went on out to the lumber shed
And I brought a mattock in,
While Alison jumped in the double bed
As the tiles set up a din,
A wailing, groaning, squealing sound
That would raise the peaceful dead,
I raised the mattock and smashed the tiles
Just above the monster’s head.

The tiles rose up with a mighty roar
And shattered, scattered around,
As a shadow from underneath the floor
Rose up with a dreadful sound,
It hissed, and made for the stairway, leapt
And it almost made me sick,
For fleeing out of the open door
Was Ahab Nathaniel Frick!

David Lewis Paget

I haven't wrote anything for so long.
My brain does not allow myself to do so. There are so many things that are bothering me, mostly about myself, who am i in this world, how people see me, what is going to happen to me. Every second i try to make some sense out of everything but i'm left even more confused than i already was.

Reality is scary; simply because you are never sure if you are genuinely aware of reality. That's because what i see myself as, might just be an illusion i created to ease my fear of being myself. I always thought i was a strong person, that i had values and strong opinions, that i am someone who will do big things. I always thought that i am a nice person, that i genuinely care for others, that i'm okay, just a little confused, but am i? Am i any of these things?

I feel like a ghost wandering from place to place. People are unaware of my existence unless i make sure they notice i'm there too. But i stopped blaming society long ago, it's not anyone's fault, i'm not sure if it's mine either,maybe it's my brain's, it plays tricks sometimes. But i am my brain.

Everything feels like it quietly falls apart, slowly but deadly and you can not notice the damage unless you straight up look at it. I don't think i am as okay as i say that i am, but i am okay enough, and i guess that's what's wrong. I can't wish for help because i am okay enough. It's a fine line that keeps me hanging there. We fail to care about ourselves unless it's obvious that we should. I guess i am like that too.

I don't know when i'm right or wrong, when i'm happy or just getting by. I find myself unbearable, weak and tiny, like a trembling deer chased by lions, only i am both the deer and the lion. I don't seem to be able to hide my genuine feelings anymore. I started to catch myself hesitating before answering to "how are you" or i keep repeating the phrase "i'm anxious about this or that". I seem to not be able to fake a smile anymore or other times i'm smiling too much. I trust people who seem to sympathise with me, strangers or not, i ran to open arms like a homeless puppy or i poured my soul on small glasses and forced myself to stop before i break them. It's weird because i sometimes feel in control and other times i'm all over the place or when i talk about myself to curious eyes i say too much as if i truly know what i'm talking about.

I fear so many things, so so many things that keep me from living. I want to do things, be with people, date, say my opinions out loud, i want to live and not force myself to carry the weight of my head everywhere i go. There are times when i put my guard down and i close my eyes and i feel my head falling to the side, too heavy to keep it still. I fear everything but love so much.

The reality of who i really am is suffocating and i don't know, i don't know, i don't know. My god how i wish i could cry in public and whine and scream on top of my lungs "******* all!" just because i can't be any of them. Or to make my mum understand that when i tell her that i am not that good i mean "mum!i!am!not!okay!" but i'm scared to hurt her. How could i choose to make my mother cry when i tell her that i think about death a lot. But i'm not doing it, because i am okay enough.

How i wish i could date the guys that call me "interesting" and want to get to know me, but i'm too scared of speaking to strangers so i act cold to turn them down when in reality i'd love to feel their warmth on my skin. If i wasn't afraid of going to new places, or talking to people, or experiencing life, or not ******* up every line i say because i'm too stressed to actually put my words in a correct order. There is such a huge gap between who i want to be or how i feel like i am and who i actually am or even who i end up looking like.

If there was no fear, how could my life be? Who could i be if i wasn't afraid of being? Really, is there anything in my life other than my loneliness and a universe of polluted thoughts? Am i anything more than flesh and bones? And how? How can i change and find myself? How do people know who they are if i, who knows too much about myself cannot understand a single part of my existence? If i can't understand myself then how can i ever be able to truly understand others, to be happy, or to be alive? How could i truly ever live my life without feeling the weight of myself dragging me down?

I sense the catastrophe running through my veins. Really, how small can a person become? I feel so small in my own room, even smaller in my own life. Am i even as big as a dust in space, as alive as a falling star or is there nothing for me? I wish i could be someone you turn to face, but maybe my sunrays faded away and maybe i'm way too small to take up all that space; but for you to look at me, that would have been the biggest accomplishment i have ever made.

We all know that history repeats itself
And when you finally face defeat, it's hell
The torture one has no choice but to go through
Free seats to a painful ordeal, Row 2

I don't think you have ANY idea how it feels
When your state of mind just surrenders and kneels
It's agonising, you just wanna release what you hold inside
The feeling stays, it will never roll or slide

What's going on is the truth that you can't deny
All I can do now is just rant and cry
And that's what this is, but do not sympathise
There's the indisputable fact that I was victimised

I was taken for an idiot, I guess I just realised.

is such an ugly word.
It's ******
      gory
      heart tearing.

People think they can
                                       understand
                                       sympathise
                                 relate on some level.
That's what I thought-
but you simply
                           CAN'T.

The depth of emotion for such
a blatant mi
                 ra
                cle is stronger
than you could
imagine.

And then it's
               taken
               away.

Against a door
on your knees
doubled over
throat hoarse
eyes swollen
tear tracks
skin under nails
scratches down face.

fades in. there's laughter and cheers found amidst the new ties between the two that multiplies into an odd number of 5. it's late with dim lighting, character 1 takes shelter with character 2. conversations that are kept for caffeine indulging individual ensue. they mumble about their fears and thoughts and pacify each other with sentences that caress ankles like waves. end scene.

cut to the early morning scene that trails onto the lunch time crowds, character 1 and 2 interlinked regardless of how fast the clock ticks. promises about the water being thicker than blood made and hands held before the bell rang. native and young fingers, interlocked, close. 'i'll see you later.' only one word could be used to describe that tone - vibrant like a shade used to describe sunflowers. end scene.

times past like old photographs piling up to my knees on the ground and the scene it fades in different hues and voices. not the familiar ones that belonged to a multiple of 2. no, they're sitting across the hall oblivious to the electricity running beneath us. same faces with different stories while i took my leave, the prolonged leave that continues as my absence runs from a sick leave to an exit. i think about it from time to time, the water in my palms weigh more than the blood running through these veins. stories with alternate endings that continue to exist despite putting the book away, end scene.

cue flashback that's tainted with a days old dust, i looked at the pale blue ocean swirling beneath us like the hidden tales buried. emotions locked away by those who turn a blind eye and are too caught up with their bargaining of the 'fittest' competitions. the place i used to hold on the shelf, removed for bits and pieces of lives around me being carried out without the main protagonist. the waves stayed as they slowly became nothing but a smudge on a watercolour canvas, like the small mark you all left on my existence. no chances to say goodbye even though i practiced it to myself, under my breath from time to time. it falls out of my mouth and lands oddly. never expected but then again is anything really ever? the silence was the print on the answer sheet that the group left in my mind, filling up the void that now takes it place.
the distance between us      and me.
voice like a overused tire by the roadside, not to be missed as is drowned out by the rapid voices that fall into place like a waterfall. as we left that island behind it was really just me who left it all behind, ties broken, water spilt into puddles on the pavement. ‘goodbye.’, voice is soft and isn't heard by those surrounding, not like it ever was to begin with. fade out.

(((( water evaporates, blood leaves a stain))))
knives pressed into my spine is nearly like a regular tune that comes on through my headphones. fear that cripples the living daylight out of me and resolves with me living in the darkness for a week odd. unexpected, once more. then again wasn't morals plastered with words in neon encoding, 'expect the unexpected'. played me out better than a monopoly game and faster than a game of UNO.
detached and without a cause, lacking the need to put on a life jacket to face the indigo currents that leave a bruise in a similar hue.
roll the credits boys, there's nothing to see here.
trying repeatedly was one-sided and drenched in thoughts of my own that formed clouds above your head that was rooted to the ground. i am so out of breath trying to race through makeshift bright-light stores in the night when it fuels your adrenaline and it's just a chase. it's a one way tug-of-war and no one's trying to win me over. wouldn't want anyone to shower on your beach cocktail party now, would we? an emotional imbalance would be such a bother. unable to mimic your laughs but to sympathise with your cries in the bitter nights. disappearing faster than it hits the pond's surface without a trace, nobody remembered nor tried to fish it out with a net of memories.
it's 2am and i can't even hear myself think and --
the whole routine of silhouettes watching me take my leave without any say reminds me of the insignificance present through my veins. no requests to stay for a few days, a week maybe and hopefully even longer. maybe people wind up being more important to me than i am to them.

ain't nothing worth this ****!

we all know it's all
toughness and darkness
We'll get through this
she'll be right mate
but it ain't pretty, or sweet
We are just dirt beneath feet
that walk upon us, not noticing
the exhaled breath from us
pushed out by trampling masses
trying to find the Finish line
You may want to own it
but I'll never claim it as mine!
I'll stand holding the ribbon
that drops at your feet
but, Sorry you didn't come First
that is reserved for the ones
who were trampled beneath
your over eager heartbeat
***** this life, if it's just a race
don't ever make eye contact
with a sad face, their tears
may make you cry
their empathy will never run dry
but you will never understand
why moisture leaks from your eyes
here is some recycled paper
just dry your stupid sigh
I care not for your fake tears
***** this life if you sympathise
with your false fears
Turn about your unconnected, dysfunctional
HEART, your repetitious apologies
are smart, but unlikely to change my mind

**** it all and
***** This Lifetime
if we are just going to dance
to the pretend music of,
Yours or Mine
issues that are
neither of ours, to begin!
I refuse to hold onto the ribbon
any longer...

*You Win

Symmetrical Syria we sympathise in synchronisation of sirens and sadistic nature.
Those man made craters, aren't the force of Mother Nature,
They depict only hatred and a tyranny statement,
That says our generation will never see peace,
Just pieces of you,
Torn and decimated from targets based on generalisations,
As if a minority defines the whole population.
We seen it before in Iraq,
Now we're back for more with pre determined attacks.
When they asked first,
They said no at once,
Cue the worst still yet to come,
They asked again,
And they bent and broke,
From the rubble comes a white smoke,
But there's no new pope,
And there's no hope,
Just none.

The headlines say ISIS,
But the mind might miss the fine print,
The truth is inside it,
But we're not inclined to find it,
Propagander at its finest, from the highest to those that digress and make our minds up for us in the name of democracy's mindset.

If it's not in your name, then who can we blame?
Those men we empowered time and time again?

Watching news, with a second of thought,
Of course you believe it,
Who needs a secondary source?

No remorse,
of course.

Just corpses and a sea as blood as far as the headlines will breath.

Sabres,
labouring to stop their rattling
like
cattle in the abbatoir,
where
the next step is a step to far.

I see a dancing ballerina troupe, arms attendant at attention,not to mention vested interests with the dull of bullets bouncing off cash registers,where nothing registers but the profits,not the loss,
who tosses the baby out with the bathwater ought to look before they leap into the frying pan.
I can sympathise with eastern eyes set on the west but would not like to take the test they're taking now.
One more cow in the cattle shed,one more country to be bled and we are fed and once more titillated
by aggravated assaults.

I have always been told that good people always win,
but reality is painting an imagine which speaks the opposite.
The same way that people believe that all their beliefs will get them through pain,
The same way, but different beliefs gets them to the same page again.
why is it that all good comes to an end and evil continues to rise.
And why is it that we can't sympathise with the realisation?
Every day is a chance to help fight the battle between evil and good, but were do we as people stand?  
If earth is just a battlefield
where is our homeland ?

i wasn't at least surprised
by your callous gaze on me
another name, another notch
on the bedposts where you can't sleep

i learnt through that december
that a kiss can be empty after all
that a label i so easily dismissed
really does means 'just friends' and nothing more

i know it silently haunts you
losing the first honest thing you'd ever known
but it's hard to sympathise with a boy
that swears love to girls who then walk home alone

The bitter wind hits your face,
you put on layers, But
are never quite warm enough
always one part that insists on, staying
cold, refusing to accept the warmth
you offer it.

Wools and furs,
Nothing helps, yet when
a roaring fire is waiting
your feet start to realise, they're
defeated.

You look out and sympathise,
With the poor soul running from the hail,
Nose red, hat half off
fighting and losing the battle.

The warmth is shared,
But it's got a special place in it's heart, for
you, the smile is passed,
You realise your home.