Dealings with Life

As it appears that there's only one more month left for 2019 to end, I felt like it was time for a proper reminder of this year's events...
     For a start, I no longer am unemployed, and I can't express how content I am with the fact that my workplace isn't the worst in this country. Plus, I'm thankful for the company that I'm offered in there -- good people, and good thoughts. To continue writing, even at work, was my main goal, and it's achieved; to write and edit in my own way is like a treat in this line of work. However, I still am determined to pursue further education abroad -- that thought had never left me -- and I will conquer it eventually. All I need now is time, and a dash of luck.

     Speaking of time and luck, they are extremely necessary for the coming month, as I have set a mental deadline upon myself: Silence shall near its end. I have high hopes about it, and I hope to deliver it as promised. I'm prepared to cut down on my reading and sleeping hours for it. I need this first draft to be complete, to reassure me. After all, one can't really edit a blank page.
     Writing aside, reading's been getting better as of late. Since I started working, my reading schedule had seen all kinds of horrors, but I think I'm managing it well once again. It will be made sure of during the month of December. So far, the things I've read were a real pleasure -- an eye-opener -- and I'm glad to have read the works of many great minds.

     Still, not everything is well and going. For instance, During the previous four or so months, I've come to experience something worse than depression: I've called it detachment. In a way, it really affects the mind, dragging you down with loneliness, but that's not all. Its strength resides in its capability to play on a person's existence. One begins to experience an existential crisis with it, and it cannot be any worse. Unlike my depressive episodes, detachment breaks me slowly, forcing me to see the cracks in myself through the eyes of others. In depression, I become dead weight. In detachment, I become non-existent, and it terrifies me. As a way of combat, I've resumed writing a journal, but I can't really say it helps. At least, I know it keeps me sorted.

     Anyway, I think I haven't changed much, but again, it's all in the details, right? I still question the sanity of this life, and I still dig for God's negligence. This life, after all, continues heading downward, and it makes me sick. Human beings no longer seem to understand Humanity, and the lands are suffering because of it. And the few remaining good people, well, what can they do? Why were we brought down to this!?

Be Damned

Be damned, you who turned a blind eye;

Allowing Man to continue his disgrace,

Following the chaotic desire to hurt and kill.

Look at us, what have we become?

What is this wretched evolution?

A dog beaten down to a pulp,

A cat thrown under the blinding sun,

Even the trees are being murdered,

Help, if not us, then those of no will.

Prove yourself! Set this land ablaze,

Show us your goodness; your power,

Save the weak -- protect your creation.

Defend us, O' grand Creator,

Or why else were we created?

Are we meant to be part of this show?

To play along and entertain?

To simply amuse you on your throne?

If so, let this cruel life be damned!

New Year's Realization

So, here I am, back again from the insanity of this ongoing world -- seems like I've survived another year. Let's hope 2019 actually continues as good as it is, reading-wise and all, because I'm starting to feel like January's productivity is nothing but a fluke. After my birthday last year until this day, I've been occupied with reading, and I must say, I'm pretty happy with what I accomplished. Still, I'm a bit disappointed with the story I've been working on, Silence, for it seems I've reached a dead-end for now. It's a shame that I promised people that it would be ready for them to read soon. I should've known better -- you can never control a story; it does what it wants.

     That being said, I've realized something the last time I went to visit dad. I think it was the graveyard's effect, for it looked and felt so different -- so vibrant -- it left a kind of mark. A realization. For many years, even when I decided to be a writer, death never frightened me. Twice now, I have seen it pass by me with only a threat, and that shook me quite well, but not because of fear, but because it came to me when I least expected it. If anything, I wished for death many times throughout my life, and only when I saw the graveyard that day that I realized how absurd it was, wishing for something as natural as death to fast-forward its arrival. Sitting by my dad's grave, immersing myself in that beauty that surrounded me, and feeling the peace of death, I saw that it is not what I wanted. Those wildflowers that bloomed on that barren land, and the butterflies, the bees, and the flight of the usual flock of pigeons, it all seemed so beautiful to miss out on. That moment of birth in the midst of death seemed almost magical, and I saw how foolish I was, wanting to give it all up. Then it hit me, I really don't desire death as much as I desire to continue my studies and get my M.A. nor do I desire death as wholeheartedly as I desire to finish writing a book and getting it published. In fact, I believe now I'm going to work against death's arrival, at least until a book or two are done.

We only have this one life after all, so we better achieve all that we have ever dreamed of.

Gott ist tot

"God is dead; we have killed him," wrote Friedrich Nietzsche in one of his books. Only now do I think I have received an insight to what it might mean, at least to myself. It is true that God might exist, for we have created him through our belief systems, but that's exactly it! We have merged him with our lives; our unholy cores. In the old days, life was supposedly simple. Happy, even. Yet now, the world witnesses its own fall as corruption spreads faster than gossip. We, in our turn, tainted God's perfect image by our own deeds -- our killings and atrocities robbed God of what we once gave him; power.
     We now don't look up to God for peace and safety. No, we now know that God is nowhere to be found in a battlefield. We killed him because we no longer hide behind our Jekyll. On the contrary, this era is all about what our Hyde can do -- doom and chaos is all we seem to see. No prayers sent to God anymore, for we have ended his reign.

I'll further explore this when I get to read "Thus Spake Zarathustra" by Nietzsche. Again, these mean no insult to any religion. I am merely thinking out loud.

New Year's Package

Well, it's been quite long, but important things had happened. First, I'm back home... this old bearer of my childhood is still a great sanctuary for my endless thoughts. I also graduated, so my mind is not quite at ease lately. I must admit the fact that I deeply miss my life as a student; my interactions with the professors, the daily coffee, and all the little things.
     This new year has brought with it quite an interesting package though -- a messy life full of decision making, but at least, it gave me the luxury of a private, organized room, and let us not forget the new enjoyable company; my kitten, Mana. For a five months old kitten, his existence does help me forget -- he ultimately allows me the privilege of a new routine to live by, now that I have graduated. I got really attached to him; it's a funny mess.
     More on this soon...

There's the little devil.

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.

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.

Compassion

Philosophy was always intriguing to me, but I never considered it a necessity. Now, being a student of one great philosopher, I must say; philosophy never seemed better, for this one professor, despite calling himself Dr. Evil, is such a great, passionate person. He almost reminds me of that one man who left, leaving me and others in constant longing. Dr. Evil's classes are amazing, enlightening, yet remain realistic in the pain they induce, for the stories we hear sometimes lack human compassion. These stories also remind me of his stories, for he was always trying to teach us of humanity and beauty, even though he would sometimes act mean or indifferent -- he really cared.
     That said, philosophy had opened my eyes unto a more logical world -- one that is studied and explained through cause and effect, yet not neglecting the spiritual side of things. I owe Dr. Evil too much. He helped me, without even knowing it, to better understand myself and be rational as well as maintaining that compassionate side of every normal human being. I say "normal", because he explained to me lately that abnormalities occur, and with that in mind, I had realized that every belief or theory will get its own fault-line when it comes to handling such abnormalities. I suppose that gives much more freedom to a questioning mind, no?