The Joker

A guy walks into a bar, sits by the counter and begins to cry. A bartender approaches him and asks Why are you crying? He replies Because I'm sad.

The bartender then says You should try to go to the club at the end of the street, there's a Joker there who makes people laugh. He's really good at what he does! The guy pauses and replies I know, I'm that Joker. 

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I heard this little story just two nights ago, and I still can't get over it.

Why do we write? We write to rid our selves of things we cannot do so by any other means. So here it goes.

You know there are moments in our lives which despite our greatest effort to forget, they stubbornly latch themselves into our mind. They sneak up on us when we least expect it--almost an ambush--like in a middle of really good song playing in the background. I have got plenty of these, and unfortunately for me, my mind allows this with a passion. It takes a sliver from a rich repository stashed somewhere, and it stretches that out to a point where the edges are no longer visible. It presses "play", and I find myself reliving those moments in its adulterated version--often with the benefit of menacing soundtrack. It is the worst.

On other, more sober, days, I wonder why it is so hard to prevent these episodes from recurring. I have been told that worrying means caring, and by extension, whatever I irresistibly obsess about must necessarily means a lot to me. But there must be healthier and saner ways--or at least one other way--to gauge the degree of care one has in respect of these worthy things, and perhaps one that is not as excruciating and unpredictable, one that--with some work--is docile and manageable.

This is ironic given that I have made it a point this year to honor my devotion to religion. Sadly, in the heat of these episodes, the holy voices often feel to be very far removed, almost inaudible--and as much as I believe psychology has the power to overcome biology, in practice our baser instincts tend to clinch victory before even its panacea has time to rev up its engine. Maybe this is why people who truly devote themselves to their religion, decide to stubbornly live there--maybe only when one is completely steeped in one's religion would the holy voices be loud enough to drown out the antics of the mind. 

It may be worthwhile for me to try to be so uninhibited and unflinching in my devotion to religion--as it turns out I am more easily conquered by my baser instincts than I wish I was. And it is certainly a better method than what I have at the moment: where I let those moments play over and over, at varying intensities, and over and over, regardless how relaxed or tense I may be at the time, and over and over--up to a threshold where I become numbed. I am once told if you repeat something over and over, it loses its meaning. When it loses its meaning, it loses its sting. So in the mean time, I hope that this is true--because I am still waiting for the episodes to be finally over.

Fading

She was reminded of her first two weeks. She said, the first two weeks were the hardest. She had to be here, without friends, without family members. People back home told her, Wow, you've got it good eh? Working in a foreign land. 

But that was not all true. Sometimes she too felt tired-- from the hard work. She too felt alone. 

Looking back, it was not all in vain. She would keep it all with her-- as part of her as memories-- and she would carry it forever as her memories. 

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There is nothing grander than seeing someone acting on her own decisions, searingly unapologetically. We are reminded that they are the ones which will make us bigger and greater than the limits of our skin and bones-- a bigger and greater force which can only be described as Allah, Allah, Allah, that's God.

Giddy

At what point does a wordsmith cease to be a poet or an author and start to become a prophet?

A wonderful poet in her sheer genius strung these words together:

And there standing against the crashing waves, sits the massive body of a shipwreck, as if the whole of history has been gifted to us. We are giddy with adventure, skipping through the rocks and shouting to the wild horses and the oceans' roars. The jagged porthole opens to us and we pull ourselves into the boat's hungry mouth.  

It is empty and whole.  

Full speed ahead, we climb until we are scraped and muddy--rust children with lighthouse eyes. 

Only the very blessed amongst us have the gift of seeing the wreckage with the innocence of these lighthouse eyes.

The bulk of us have to hustle--and hustle hard--through muscular and decisive acts to maintain innocence. Sadly more often than not, it does not feel as if it is worth the hustle: the beached wreck of a ship is to remain there as it is and has always been, alone and abandoned.

Practice 101

Don't ask the questions you don't want no as an answer to. 

"The question then comes down to What are you willing to give up to do something that you really want? I never stay up past 9 pm. Because I did the math and there is no way that I could write if I stayed up past 9 pm. And a great deal of cheer and humanity, all of that socializing is lost on me. Because I know what I truly want is to be a writer. What are you willing to give up to do something you really want?"