Wednesday, 21 December 2011

Mom Remembers the First Intifada (1987-1993)

Me: What is the name of the 7ara (neighnorhood) where we had the taxi office and grocery store?
Mom: I don't know... Shit Hole Anonymous
Me: (laughing) you really don't know?
Mom: How the fuck am I supposed to know?
Me: Ok, moving on...

Me: What do you remember about the first Intifada?
Mom: The Taxi office and the grocery store were located on the street that leads to The Jabal Al Taweel settlement. At the time it was the only road the lead to the settlement and whenever the settlers would pass by the kids would start throwing rocks, and then the Israeli soldiers would come and start shooting live ammunition. It sucked.

Mom: I remember when the guys would write graffiti on the walls and then the Israeli soldier would come and make us paint it. We used to use shoe polish to cover it up. Pain in the ass. Fuckers.
Me: Why did you have to do it?
Mom: Well, because it was right next to our store.

Mom: One time when I was working at the store the Israeli soldiers threw sound bombs and I couldn't hear for three damn days.

Mom: Oh lord... Amin (my brother who was a teenager at the time) is the one that gave me gray hair. He used to lie all the time. He used to come home all dirty and sweaty and I knew it was because he was throwing rocks, but he would say he was playing soccer.

Mom: I remember once they (the Israeli soldiers) shot my dog. I forgot her name.
Me: Why did they shoot her?
Mom: They said because she kept barking, but I told them she keeps barking because YOU keep walking around. That night I stood in front of the dog and told them that if you want to shoot the dog you have to shoot me first, and then they left. But the next night they came back and shot her right in the head. I then complained to the 7akam el 3askari and he offered me a German Shepherd puppy, but I refused. I told him that I didn't want a new fucking dog, I wanted mine.

Mom: I remember when Hamed's son killed a settler on shar3 Nablus... Amin and his friends went running to see what happened. I was so worried about Amin I ran after him and jumped over the fence... can you imagine me jumping over a fence? your dad followed me and when we got to the korba 3ind el Shinny supermarket the Israeli soldiers were aiming the guns at Amin and he was lying flat on his chest, I got scared I thought they killed him and I started yelling at the Israeli soldiers telling them 'you killed my son!', Amin then got up, and I realized he was still alive and I started beating him for doing that to me.

Me: Tell me about the time Amin got arrested.
Mom: Oh, that was the worst. Three Israeli jeeps came to our store asking for your dad, Mamoun Husain. I told them he wasn't here. They then said, we will take your son and when your husband comes send him to the police station. I said ok... god I felt so stupid, they fooled me... They wanted Amin, not your dad, but they knew if they said that I would have made a scene and we were right next to the kahwa... they didn't want trouble! So, when your dad came I told him to go immediately to the police station and salem 7alak, I didn't care I just wanted Amin back. But, when your dad went there they refused to release him... When your dad saw Amin in handcuffs he started crying. Your dad went there every day for three days trying to get Amin out. They kept him in a tent and tortured the hell out of him to make him sign the confession papers but he refused.
Me: What did he do?
Mom: Him and his friends were throwing Molotov cocktails at the police station by the Friends School. Anyway, they finally let him out and we had to pay 2500 NIS bond which we never saw again. But his friend stayed in prison for 6 months because he signed the confession papers and his dad wouldn't pay the bond.

Me: What did you think when the sulta (Palestinian Authority) came?
Mom: It all just got worse. I remember when Arafat drove around in his car waving to everyone. I wouldn't come out of the store because I thought it was bullshit. I told everyone 'when el yahoodi bdrobak chaf booj3ak wait until your own people bodrobak chaf'.

My mom, Fatmah Salman was born and raised in Gary, Indiana. She is the daughter of a Palestinian man and a Syrian woman. She moved to Palestine in 1978 to raise her family.

Monday, 12 December 2011

As She Waits For Her Plane

Mom: People liked your dad. They didn't like me, but they liked your dad. He always had kelma mnee7a for them, and he used to always smile.
Me: Yeah, I remember.
Mom: I used to always yell at the fucking sh7ad when he would ask for money... "mish darory ta3teehom masaree, bs ma fish da3i tkoni mish mnee7a" that's what he used to always tell me.

Mom: I remember before your dad died I was looking at him while he was sleeping, and I was trying to think of all the bad things that happened between us over the years. I was trying to think of them so I could get mad at him and not feel so bad, but I couldn't think of anything. It all seemed so trivial.

Mom: You guys all turned out tough. I am proud of you.
Me: You think so?
Mom: Oh yeah! Especially you! You always fool people; they think that you are the sweet soft spoken one, they have no idea what you are capable of when you get going!
Me: Yeah, I usually get like that when I have no doubt in me that the person is just an asshole.
Mom: Sometimes you don't have to wait that long to find out. Don't put up with people's shit. I never knew how to stay quiet.

Me: You know, I keep thinking about our house back home.
Mom: yeah.
Me: I keep thinking how it used to be so full. So many people lived there and we had so many pets and now nothing is left there. No one lives there anymore, not even our pets. It's kinda sad.

Mom: I can't believe I'm a widow now. It sounds so weird saying it.
Me: You don't have to say it mom. It's just a word. You can call yourself whatever you want.
Mom: Yeah, I don't wanna be a widow. Being a widow sucks.

Me: I think dad didn't want to do chemo because he knew it wouldn't have prolonged his life or at least it wouldn't have given him 'quality' life. I think he did it for us, he didn't want us to suffer more.

Mom: Your dad was so happy during the last few months he was in the states. He told me so himself. He loved being involved and in control of your lives again. You know how your dad is, you all remained his babies. He is not like me, I couldn't give a shit what you guys do (laugh).
Me: You're mean.
Mom: Oh, come on... you know I love you. I'm just not like that. You are old enough to make the right decision.
Me: I know, but it's still nice to feel like you care. Dad used to contain me. He really put my life together during his last months here.

Me: I remember when I spent the night with dad at the hospital when the doctors were adjusting his pain medication. We spent most of the night arguing. He would get upset every time I woke up when I heard him cough. He was worried I wouldn't get enough sleep for work. Then we would argue about who gets the blanket. He insisted I cover up with two blankets although I was not cold, he was worried I would get sick. It's amazing to me that someone could be in such excruciating pain and still worry so much about the other person. I guess that's what it means to be a father.

Thursday, 8 December 2011

Its Been Five Days

I'm wearing your watch dad... The one I bought you. You said it was the best watch you ever had. It still smells like you; sometimes if I close my eyes and smell it I can imagine you are still here. I also found your cooking recipes the ones you wrote down when you would watch cooking shows back home in Palestine. I promise I will learn how to cook a decent meal soon. I wish I paid more attention when you tried to teach me.

It's hard to believe you're gone, I can't imagine not being able to hear your voice again or calling you whenever I need help. Nitasha came over yesterday and said, " You know, when I come into your apartment now, it feels like nothing ever happened" and I agreed with her, it does feel that way, but I find that even more disturbing, because something did happen here. I am having a hard time making sense out this dad. I know you said you will keep loving me wherever you are, but it's not the same and I really miss you.

Tuesday, 6 December 2011

Inappropriately Appropriate

Mom: Who did you love more, me or your dad?
Me: I love you both the same. You are both special to me.
Mom: Whatever, the dead one always wins.

Mom: (Talking to my aunt and uncle after my dad died) Well, you guys are just dropping off like flies. I wonder which one of you will be next? (awkward silence).

Friend: How's your mom handling everything?
Summer: She is ok, but no matter what it's different for her. We knew the father, she knew the man himself.

Mom: I really did love your dad. He was my best friend. Yeah, he was an asshole sometimes. But I know he loved me too.

Me: You know it's amazing that dad died and was able to leave so much love and positive energy between all of us. He really knew what he was doing.

Me: What are you thinking about?
Mom: Your dad. I keep thinking about him with his cigarette in his hand with one leg over the other. It's hard to believe he is no longer here. I keep going over things, wondering if I did anything wrong.
Me: You can't think like that mom, he loved us. That's all that matters in the end.

Me: I thought this would be so much harder. But I feel his energy and his love and it's giving me so much strength.

Mom: I just talked to your aunt today back in Palestine and she says that a lot of people came to your dad's funeral. She said that everyone was really sad and kept talking about what a great man he was. That made me so happy, he would have liked that.

Friday, 2 December 2011

Mom Talks about Dad and Other Things

Mom: You know, your dad told me that when he dies he wants me to have fun.
Me: *nodding my head* Thinking, 'of course that is what my dad would say he is just so freaking awesome like that'.
Mom: He really said that... I was still back home at the time and we were talking on the phone. He said he wants me to have fun... but you know what I told him? I told him that if he wanted me to have fun then he should have died when I was 20! Not now when I am 60 and I don't have the energy to do anything!
Me: (laughing) you really said that?
Mom: Yeah, I still didn't think he was going to die then... I just didn't believe it.
Me: I know... none of us wanted to believe it.

Mom: I don't care what you all say... your dad had a fucking good life. So you just need to stop being sad. We're all gonna die.

Mom: I always said your dad was a shitty husband but a good father. He loved you guys more than anything. God, it used to make me sick how much he loved you guys.

Mom: The only time your dad was happy and relaxed is when you guys were all home and the door was locked.

Mom: You know, they say that when one spouse dies the other shortly follows. God, I hope I am not next.
Me: (laughing) mom, I think you are thinking of the film The Note Book. Don't worry, I don't think you are going anywhere any time soon.
Mom: I better not. I am not done living yet.

Mom: Shit man I hope when I die it's quick. They say that when you die of a heart attack that it's fucking painful, but at least it's for a short amount of time and then you're dead.
Me: Yeah mom, this is exactly the conversation I wanna be having right now.
Mom: *Chuckles* Well, I'm just saying.

Sunday, 27 November 2011

Conversations with my Father-- Luck, money and everything in between

Me: I don't get it. You made so much money in your life and you only finished the 7th grade. I have a Master's degree and I can barely make ends meet!

Dad: Yeah, I don't get it either, but you know, I was always a hard worker and luck was always on my side. Like, I used to work as a mechanic and when the 1967 war happened everyone left to Jordan because they were afraid, and there was a doctor who had just bought a new car but he couldn't take it to Jordan so he just gave it to me. And that is how I got my first car and became a taxi driver; I would send and pick people up from the bridge, and it wasn't too long before I opened my own Taxi company 'Taxi El Bireh'...It's funny how life is... that's why habibti dayman ba7kilak ma tez3ali men 2ay eshy, you never know how things will change around.

Me: How does it make perfect sense to you to buy a winter coat for $500?

Dad: la2no if you are going to spend money and buy something, you might as well buy the best. Ana ma b7eb albes el sh'3al el mish mnee7a.

Dad: I liked making money and I liked spending money. I had a good life. I had fun... I used to renew sayaret el Mercedes every year! I loved cars.

Dad: Ya3ni ana mish fahem lesh 3aysheen fi Brooklyn bi 7ek 7ara?

Me: Because we are POOR dad!

Dad: Ya3ni bt2daro tla2olkom ma7al ween Amin a5dni el yoom (meaning the upper west side).

Me: No, dad we can't... places like that are very expensive. I don't think we can ever move there at least not now.

Dad: Well, I think if you guys manage your money better and you cut down on other expenses you can manage it. Life is too short not to live in a nice place.

Me: Yeah, you are right. We will see maybe in a few months we can get out of this place.

-- After my dad's visit to the upper West Side and Columbia University, he began to think that not only does Bed-Stuy stink, but that Brooklyn in general is gross.

Saturday, 26 November 2011

Too Far from Home

Today at around 7:00 PM

Dad: I am going to throw you the best graduation party.
Me: Yeah? That would actually be really nice. It will be at our house back home right?
Dad: Right. Back home.
Me: You promise?
Dad: I promise.

Words that Brought him Comfort

I was impressed with Amin's ability to make my dad happy and relaxed in the last stage of his illness. At this stage my dad lost his voice, and had limited mobility. He would get restless at times, trying to say something to us, but we couldn't understand what it was. It was only Amin that could make my dad smile at this stage, and he would say to him as he rubed his chest to soothe him:

"Everything is ok dad. I am going to take care of everything"

"You're going to be ok dad. You did everything right"

"I love you dad. I don't want you to worry about anything"

"Sweet dreams dad. Try to remember your dreams. I'm going to ask you about them later"

I remember trying to use the same words as Amin to soothe my dad, but they did not have the same effect.

I hope you realize how happy you made dad and how lucky he is to have someone reassure him that he did it all right... and not just anyone but his son.

Sunday, 20 November 2011


Whenever I remember you, one particular memory keeps coming to mind. It was when I came back home last summer. I remember making my way down the road and ringing the doorbell. You weren't home, but the door was opened so I figured you had gone to pray. I remember putting my stuff down, thinking how wonderful it is that our house still looks the same. There is very little consistency in my life so it was comforting to know that some things never change (at least that was what I thought at the time). I then remember you coming in after a few minutes... you were running up the stairs with a bouquet of flowers. You had this huge smile on your face, I don't remember anyone ever being so happy to see me. You tell me that you ran out to get me flowers, and you then give me a huge hug that was almost suffocating and you shower me with kisses telling me how much you missed me and saying "heck bedashri abooki"... I then say "didn't you tell me to go find a future for myself?"... You then laugh and say "I know, I just missed you so much".... and I miss you so much dad. I really do.

Thursday, 17 November 2011

November in New York

I never realized how hard it is to die. And whatching you die is even worse.

I have nothing left to say to you, but how could it be that I have nothing left to say?

I wanted more time. I think I got it.

I love you. I love you eternally, without beginning or end, outside any space or time.

Sunday, 9 October 2011

Conversations With My Father Part III

Dad: No one can love you like your parents... a parents love is unconditional... they will love you no matter what you do. Ya3ni hani ana... ta7maltek kteer.
Me: Tayeb w ana t7maltak kaman... you think you were easy to live with!
Dad: *Chuckles*
Me: ya you know what you did...

Dad: El father bydalo father... bydalo 2y7eb ya3ti la 2wlado... w ma bi7eb 7ada y3la 3aleh 2la wlado.

Dad:You know... Ma bathon 3indi cancer.
Me: Yeah...?
Dad: Ya3ni lo 3indi cancer can 7asaet 2ini 25taleft fi hal six months... bs ma 7aset bi 2shy different. You believe that?
Me: You never know dad... they are just doctors at the end of the day... anything is possible.

Dad: What's wrong?
Me: Bad day. I don't get what's the point of anything... it all seems so pointless.
Dad: It's ok habibti... sometimes a person feels that way... bs 2etzakari allah w allah betzakarek.
Me: Dad, I don't know if you've noticed, but God doesn't give a shit about us!
Dad: Lah lah lah ya 7abibiti... Allah ma 7atna 3ala hal 2ard 7ata yensana

Comments about my negativity:

Baseeta habibti... baseeta.... tawli balek 2eshway.... kolshy ok

Dalek metfa2la

Habibti... inti kteer negative... mish 2imnee7 heck

(Apparently I am too negative).

Other things he says that make me laugh:

I love you ya habibti ya chill 7ali!

Habibtii!! I miss you!! (usual greeting form him when I come home).

Ana I never look at the price... ana bs b7es el fabric.... w sob7an allah dayman betla3 a7san no3
(After shopping at MAYC'S and spending $100 on Ralph Lauran PJ bottoms)

Saturday, 8 October 2011

Good Night

Yabaya sho ba7bek ya Qamar ya habibti... you are so special to me... I love you so much. --Dad

Monday, 26 September 2011

Tell The Truth...

The truth is... I hate watching you die.
The truth is... I hate myself for feeling frustrated with you... with the situation.
The truth is... I hate it when you thank me when I do something for you.
The truth is... I don't know how to make this better for you.

Saturday, 17 September 2011

Conversations with my Father (A day in the park)- Part II

As I was sitting in the park with my dad on 34th street, a young guy probably in his mid-twenties is sitting on the bench across from us with a bouquet of flowers in his hands, and he seems to be waiting for "her"... I leave my dad for a bit to get some coffee and when I come back the guy is still sitting there, looking more hopeless and disappointed...

Me: Tala3 dad... shekelo 7al2etlo.
Dad: I know... tab 7ada 7akalo 2y7eb!
Me: 3injad taess 2eli b7eb
Dad: Zay ma by2olo "ma boktol 2ela el 7ob!"... Shayefa habibti ma 3omerk 2et 7bi 7ada aktar men ma howa b7ebek... always let them come to you... if you let them come to you they will never leave you... they will always want more.

I am then silent. Not sure how to respond to his comment or if I even should. I am not accustomed to having these kinds of conversations with my father. However, I felt tempted to share that part of my life with him... I thought about the times I was in love wanted to share that with him... and the times that I was disappointed with love and wanted him to comfort me... Even though I was never able to directly speak to my father about these topics, he always knew when I was in love... and when I was let down by love... and he would always try to comfort me the best way he knew how... whether it was making me tea with na3na3 or making me vigorously clean the house to distract myself.

We then continue to talk...

Dad: Ya3ni wen I was young, ya I was in love... but zay ma by2olo I never lost any sleep over anyone.
Me: Haha... Why not?
Dad: I don't know... I was just never like that... 2ly ma byel7a2ni ana ma bal7a2o... bs el banat kano daymen la72ni...
Me: haha... wallah neyalak dad
Dad: Well, I was always charming to them bs ma konet desperate w al7a2.
Me: yeah, I can see how women could find you irresistible (sarcastically).
Dad: So you want to head home? Or do you want to wait and see what will happen with this guy (the flower guy)?
Me: Ummm, why don't we stay for a little longer... I'm curious to see what is going to happen.
Dad: He is so stupid... a7salo 2yby3li el flowers

Twenty minutes later....

Dad: Yallah habibti, sheklha mish ra7 tozbot el sha'3la ma3o, lets go home
Me: Yah... I actually feel bad for him....
Dad: Tab lesh ma tro7i to23di ma30 (sarcastically)
Me: I don't feel that bad for him

As we make our way home, we pass by the flower guy and my father then asks him if the flowers are for sale... the flower guy says "No, they're not"... my dad then smiles and says as he continue to walk, "Well, you know you are better off selling them".

Friday, 9 September 2011

Conversations with my Father- Part I

Dad: Who is this guy you keep talking about?
Me: What?... The only guy I keep talking about is Amin, and I'm usually bitching about what an asshole he is.
Dad: (confused)... la 3injad. Meen howa?
Me: Wallah dad it's Amin... bs eza fi hada tani... don't worry he isn't worth discussing... he is also an asshole.
Dad: 2ah! Heck Bedi 2yaki!
Me: Bs lesh ya3ni, inta sho sm3et? (hinting that I know he was eavesdropping).
Dad: (nervously) La wala eshy... ana bs heck.... curious...

Dad: I feel lucky... ma 7asat fi eshy bel denya tmanato bel 7aya w ma t7kak... Ya3ni I wanted a Taxi company and I had it... I wanted a grocery story and I had it... I traveled the world and drove the fanciest cars... I had a good life.

Dad: My only regret is that I didn't spend enough time with you guys growing up... I guess you always think there will be more time... but it all happens so fast.

Me: Dad, what's your favorite memory with us growing up?
Dad: Ummm.... Wallhi I think this is my favorite memory. Being with you guys right now in New York.

Dad: I think I should stop taking my pills (morphine pills for the pain).
Me: What?... What do you mean?
Dad: Ya3ni maybe I don't need them anymore.
Me: Dad, this is for the cancer...
Dad: Yeah, but they say that it's not good for your liver.
Me: Thinking... (who gives a fuck about your liver right now... you have an enormous tumor growing inside of you... pressing on all your other vital organs! That is what you should be worried about!)... Well, dad I don't know about that... but without them you would be in a lot of pain.
Dad: You think so?... ya3ni the other day 2et2a5arat la a5adet el dawa w ma 7asat bel waja3.
Me: I wouldn't stop taking the pills without talking to your doctor first. You are meeting with him next week, you can ask him these questions.
Dad: Yeah... I think you are right.

Dad: I think you should go back to the blad for a couple of years. It will clear your head. Inti kteer confused. At least fi bladna 2el akel 2ylo ta3em!

Dad: Fi zlaem such a bastard... eza mish mo3damhom (laughs).
Me: Tell me about it... I don't trust them as far as I can throw them!

Dad: I can't believe they are doing this and then kal they call me as if they didn't do anything... Keef lama amoot??
Me: It's like you used to always say dad "Bktolo el kateel w byemsho bjanazto"
Dad: (laughs)... Wallah that is true.

Dad: Doctors are stupid. All they care about is money... Sarat 7ayat el wa7ad tyjara... 2amen sh'3la hay

Dad: Keef ya3ni it doesn't have a cure? Kol hal 3elm w ma 3indom cure? Lessa a7san law ma b7ko lalel wa7ad

Me: This really sucks dad.
Dad: I know habibti bs heck el denya... I lost my mother and father too.
Me: This isn't about death and dying... we are all going to die... But I want you in my life I want you there...
Dad: I know...

Dad: Wallahi you are my favorite....
Me: Is that what you tell the others too??
Dad: No.
Me: Dad....
Dad: (laughs-- my dad usually laughs when he is lying) walek wallah... hay bossa sho bedek akatar men heck??
Me: Whatever... all I know is that I REALLY should be your favorite!

Thursday, 11 August 2011


Heart, aching. Mind, racing. Words, shaking. Hope, fading. Love, breaking.

I just want more time.

Wednesday, 25 May 2011

On Love- 201

"I have never understood how a geniune, elementary, thoroughly true love can remain unrequited since such a love is nothing but the urgent and blessed appeal for another person to be beautiful, abundant, great, intense, unforgettable: nothing but the surging commitment for him to amount to something. And tell me, who would be in a position to refuse this appeal when it is directed at him, when it elects him from among millions where he might have lived obscured by his fate or unattainable in the midst of fame... No one can seize, take, and contain within himself such love: it is so absolutely intended to be passed onward beyond the individual and needs the beloved only for the ultimate charge that will propel its future orbiting among the stars"

--Rainer Rilke

Friday, 20 May 2011

I have Yet to Learn how to Say Goodbye

I used to think that I know how to love, that I had it all figured out, that it was always "them" that didn't know how to love me. Now... I'm not so sure. I don't know if I know how to love anything, even myself. My heart weighs heavy from the pain I've caused.

Now... he is leaving, just like the ones before him. I wish I could say something to make him stay, but my words fail me. I see him fading away in the distance; becoming another memory, piercing another hole in my heart.

Thursday, 28 April 2011


He is becoming impatient... he is getting bored and distant... They say we create our own experience. Did I create this?

I think love will never find me.

Hope-- words always fail me.

Tuesday, 26 April 2011

The Couch and the Stage

"The bad news is that life is not always dramatic, and we all have a tendency to get stuck in repeated, destructive patterns. The good news is that if we are actors in our life's drama, we have the capacity to revise old scripts, take on new roles altogether, and create ourselves anew just by engaging our imaginations and heeding the signs we pass along the way. All the world is not, of course, a stage, but... crucial way in which it isn't are not easy to specify"-- Goffman

Saturday, 16 April 2011


‎"To love humanity means to show up when we need each other... show up... just be there"-- Alice Walker

Thursday, 14 April 2011

Dream Dreams No One Ever Dared to Dream

I miss having someone to dream with; our dreams were always limitless, remember? I often times did not understand your dreams, but they still inspired me; they made me eager to explore the mysterious world you always talked about... I've been confused lately, I am excited for the future, yet terrified of what it holds for me. My biggest realization this past month is that I am terrified of death. At times like these, I wish you were still my friend.

Tuesday, 18 January 2011


You have a genuine gift to be immediate. You are a delight and has become a part of my journey in life. Keep developing your internal world. I think you'd be a fabulous therapist as you spend more time in therapy and supervision. Take advantage of seminars and trainings available. The healing profession requires a lot of emotional energy, so make sure you get plenty of support.
You are very precious to me and it touches me a great deal to know you're growing and healing. I see such amazing sensitivity and keeness that you are gifted with! Don't ever let anybody distort your sense of self by imposing their projections on to you.

-- Dr. Grace Wong's email correspondence with me- 2010

Monday, 10 January 2011

Mahmoud Mansi

This post is my friend's response to the post "An Empire Built by Fear is Bound to Collapse":-

Fear is something I personally loath so much, although it is there. But sometimes I find out that fear is an illusion. Sometimes it does not exist, and keeps us away from life it self ...

I do not know you maybe, but I feel that you are a person who needs adventure, safety is good, but it does not satisfy you.

Part of you is a gypsy woman who longs to dance on the shore and find her own treasure someday ,,

A writer from an island.

Remeberance is One Thing, an Experience is Another

Words, gaze, laugh, smile, whisper, touch, kiss, promise, broken... Moments in time, too soon forgotten, remembered only in passing.

I don't remember you; I don't remember moments of love, hatred, laughter or sadness...

All I remember is your body, your touch, and the way my body felt with every kiss.

An Empire Built by Fear is Bound to Collapse

I realized something today... I realized that most of my life has been built out of fear. Fear of disappointing loved ones, myself, and fear of the unknown. I can't explain the feeling of coming to this dreadful realization... it makes me want to walk away from everything I've created. It makes me want to wash my hands clean from everything and start all over again. However, even if I had the chance to do it all over again, I don't know if I would make different decisions, I don't know what it's like to live a life, or to make choices and decisions not based on fear. I want to learn and discover who I am away from familial and cultural expectations. I don't want to hurt anyone, but most importantly I don't want to regret... What does that word even mean? I want to be a free spirit but I am not. I locked myself in a cage, and I don't know how to get out. I want someone to process all this information with, I want someone to go over the odds with me, but even so I push everyone away for fear of not living up to their expectations.

I write to you, because you are a stranger... I don't know you and you don't know me and most likely our lives will never cross paths... But I write you because I feel the need to send this out... to someone who doesn't know me, who may provide me with some words that may ease the pain for a while longer.

Thank you,


Tuesday, 4 January 2011

Love me the Way I Want to be Loved

I am your moon and your moonlight too
I am your flower garden and your water too
I have come all this way, eager for you
Without shoes or shawl
I want you to laugh
To kill all your worries
To love you
To nourish you.

-- Rumi