An Obstacle of Communication

I have yet again made sure of the fact that I, without a doubt, rest my mind in a different kind of world. As time passes, I have known to develop and grow, especially mentally, but that only backfired. Certainly, I was a naive child at one time, but then I specifically created a method of understanding, and that helped me cope with the most annoying of characters -- my own. However, it seems that my method of communication fails me, constantly, for it keeps making speech a difficult thing to do, and that makes life harder than it already is. So, what is this method?
     Well, the method I developed for a better understanding of myself, my surroundings, and the world, is that of Language. It might sound silly, but none can deny its effectiveness, and I'm willing to bet that most people use it unconsciously. The case I'm willing to explore is that language allows us to create an understanding personality -- one that we actually depend on. That, I did, and I'm inclined to believe that I've grown so very dependent on it that now I cannot get away from the confusion it causes. To explain this, one can easily refer to Bilinguals; people who speak in two languages rather than one. Surely, it's an amazing thing to be capable of, but that doesn't change the suggestion of it being a harmful thing to one's mental stability.
     Personally, I think what we express freely in one language cannot be expressed equally in another. For example, if I speak Arabic as my first language, and I speak it gaily, then I will be unable to properly convey this light-heartedness through the English language, no matter how capable I am in said language. Therefore, I have created this wondering personality that keeps on raising important questions of life. In doing so, I believe I linked my ability to truly express my thoughts to the English language, while keeping my first language as one of happy moments and trivial, day-to-day, talk. Frankly, it disappoints me to see my thoughts scattered between two personalities, but I don't think it can be helped anymore. That keeps me mentally stable and in touch with my ultimate Reason. Nevertheless, it still poses a threat of instability, for there is no found harmony between a fading personality and a real person -- a conversation ceases to be of any importance when its participants are oblivious to each others' meanings.

     It truly pains me to realize that I no longer make sense in the bigger picture, for I created my own definitions, and lived by strange ideologies, which made thoughts and words entwine into becoming one ironic obstacle to my method of communication. I must say, that, in itself, makes it harder to speak to people for fear of misunderstanding.

The Casualty of Desire

Despite my wishes to overcome this mess of a painful phase, I cannot help but fall deeper into depression. Now, I only wish to reach the pit faster than the claws of longing. I must start to write once again, and my Muse shall be reborn, just like then.

Curse of Doom

Breathless, I leave you tied in your room,

Unable to withstand, or even to bloom.

And unto you, I set a curse of gloom,

That which condemns you to eternal doom.

Now and then, I grant you freedom to go,

Yet you remain puzzled and refuse to flow.

I thought your intellect was just slow,

But you proved me wrong with your glow --

It broke through all, and gave you will,

However, a story, you still cannot tell.

My Last Chance

Ah, the holiday just ended with its dull days, and my university routine will begin once again -- one last time. In all honesty, I am frustrated! I'm angry and my pride is choking me with its endless accusations concerning my mental health. I keep suffocating it, almost as a way of balancing my misery with what pleases me. However, it still hurts. Ever since I became acquainted with my amazing professors, I've been resolved to reach my destination and get that bachelor degree right in front of their eyes -- I wanted them all in sight. It might have been a selfish thing to dream of, but I just wanted them to know and witness what they've done; how they helped me grow and become a better person, even if it's not really noticeable. In their presence, sometimes, I cannot contain my awe at their behaviors when confronting certain situations, nor can I really help but admire their knowledge and their splendid passion for teaching, that which shines through their eyes making them glitter like diamonds.

I understand that it is my fault for getting too attached, but they really became an important part of my unimpressive life. If anything, their company made life much more exciting -- more thoughts to play with, theories to explore, stories to form, and poetry to recite. That said, how can one not attach their roots into such a beautifully enchanting soil?

This is my last semester, and I desired to walk it alongside them...

     Dr. Keith, that man who taught me so much and even allowed me the privilege to witness a father proud of his daughter, for I have always seen him as my second dad. They both gave out a warm aura that put me at ease. He's also the one that I will forever be unable to repay, for it was he that gave me an insight on the beauty of writing. If it was in my hands alone, I would have never had the courage to aim for a writing career. Yet now, my ultimate desire is to become a writer. Dr. Keith, I believe, is the man who awakened my Muse. His stories of great writers like Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Dorris Lessing, Stephen Crane, and many more enticed in me a passion I could not control -- a desire to write and voice my opinions. Nevertheless, he is no longer here... No, he's living the adventurous life that he looked forward to, and I wish him all the happiness and health in this world, and I only hope for us to meet one day.
     Dr. Piers, that extra friendly man who, despite his friendliness, has the charisma of a Lion. He was the first professor to have paid attention to my poetry. Even though they were gloomy, incoherent, and lacking in every poetic sense, he taught me to feel the events of my poems, to live and see them. He now is cursed to look into every poetic piece I write to comment upon and edit them with his magnificent knowledge on poetry. Dr. Piers is, in short, that mentor who allows you freedom to experience new things, but always reminds you of the important basics. He taught me Classical Literature, which started my admiration for Homer, and made me realize that Greek Mythology was not just my interest, but the interest of many others of great intellect. With him, I also fell in love with Emily Dickinson's poetry and life -- she fascinates me still. For that, I'll always look up to him as a man of poetry.
     Dr. Martin, a man I admired since I first witnessed, and it was all in his voice -- a calming and friendly voice with which he greeted, very kindly, everyone he knew and taught. He taught me German Language(I) as well as German History, and both classes were so very interesting and entertaining. With him, I learned the similarities between Arabic and German, and it made me enjoy learning it. In truth, I never thought I'd be able to learn a new language, but he proved me wrong. Yes, he is a German professor, but it was he who taught me so much about writing; techniques, plot-flow, reality VS. fiction, and even the English grammar. He helped me grow mentally through discussions, and enhanced my vocabulary through editing the stories I wrote. He is my perfect reader, whom I base my stories' intensity upon. Dr. Martin is an amusing person -- his curiosity enchants me. His openness and childlike manners amaze me. In him, I have never failed to find a story.

All I want at this point is to be always in touch with these great men.