Scars

I have a past. A dark, tormented past that I try my best to put out of my mind. I cannot. So I have learned to live with it. While battling depression verging on the brink of mania, I made some bad decisions, and inflicted physical wounds on my wrists. Not once or twice, but innumerable times. They were never deep enough to cause any serious damage, but blood always oozed out of them, the sight of which gave me some sick sense of satisfaction, I don't know why. At that time I was obsessed with the thought of death - it was impossible for me to cross a bridge without picturing myself sprawled on the road below, bloody and mangled. Yes, I was disturbed, and in my disturbia I wrote a piece I am most proud of:
Your Best Friend
When you were alone,I was there for you,
Always so close - so close,
You could just reach out and grasp me,
And relieve yourself of your pain.
I never left your side,
Even though you felt
The whole world was against you,
Fate herself was against you.
I always tried to say
You're not alone,
I'm with you,
Right here - so close,
Just reach out and you'll find me.
When you were cold, you felt dead,
I reminded you that you were still alive;
I showed you what you were truly made of,
Even though you had seemed to have forgotten
That blood still ran through your veins.
You heard all those empty words,
Everyone told you you'd be fine
While looking at you with pitiful eyes,
But i never gave you false hope,
I never said anything.
I just did what i knew best;
I helped you.
When your heart bled,
and your soul wailed,
But the tears never flowed,
I helped you cry, helped you vent your anger,
Your frustration, your misery, your hopeless despair.
In desolation, remorse and loneliness,
I gave you hope, comfort and solace.
But I also had to give you a little pain.
A little pain, that only helped heal
Your inner wounds.
And I may have had to be cold, hard,
Even steely;
But that was the only way
I could help you carry on.
I am what you call
A blade.

However, I am not ashamed of my past. I am proud of my mistakes, because they are my mistakes, and have made me who I am today. The scars, both physical and otherwise, will never fade away, but they will serve to remind me of the hells I've lived through, and give me the strength to not succumb to weakness in moments of tribulation.

On Charity

Anyone who's been following my blog would undoubtedly know by now that I'm positively in awe of Paulo Coelho, especially after I read 'Like The Flowing River'. That is a book I highly recommend to everyone, even those who don't read; it can have a life-changing effect on you (as it has affected me by inspiring me to write again and hence encounter catharsis). The book is a collection of thoughts and reflections, much like my blog, but only, of course, a thousand times better.

Here's a short story from that book that springs to my mind every time I pass someone less fortunate than myself on the road.

She was about sixty years old, sitting in a wheelchair, lost in the crowd. My wife offered to help her and the woman accepted the offer, asking us to take her to Rue Santa Clara.

There were a few plastic bags hanging from the back of the wheelchair. On the way, she told us that they contained all her belongings. She slept in shop doorways and lived off handouts.

We reached the place where she wanted to go. Other beggars were gathered there. The woman took out two packets of long-life milk from one of the plastic bags and gave it to the other members of the group.

'People are charitable to me, and so I must be charitable to them,' she said.

I don't think I need to say anymore.

Raw, Unforgiven, No Way Out

Fresh out of a deep mid-afternoon slumber, I find my brother playing WWE: Smackdown Vs Raw 2008. While I watch him with sleepy eyes, I wonder what pleasure people take in literally beating others to pulp, watching them writhe in agony on the blood-splattered floor and burying them alive (he is playing with The Undertaker). The more violent the game gets, the more gratification he seems to draw from it.

I have always been one to avoid any sort of conflict, physical or otherwise. I have never witnessed any 'confrontations' and I have NO idea how I would react in a 'situation' if, say hypothetically, I was thrust into one. I have since childhood been a pacifist (I use euphemism here for the words others use - mainly along the lines of 'pussy'). But I cannot ignore the fact that if everyone just thought the same way, a lot of the problems in this world would be non-existent.

I don't claim to be able to change the world or bring global peace and end the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. I'm just one tiny insignificant person among the 'great scheme of things', albeit one who believes in idealism, but who also despises violence when it's uncalled for. My nine year old cousin, for one, is positively obsessed with WWE (which, in the first place, I believe is a sham!) and I myself have seen the effects of the ideas it promotes. While the so-called 'wrestlers' just put on pretences of 'wrestling', they influence millions of kids and adults alike around the world to resort to the worst when faced with altercation. I use him as just an example, and I'm sure he's going to grow up to have a perfectly normal life, but that is also how gun-wielding criminals are born!

I believe in the words 'to each his own'. As a rule, I don't judge (or at least try my best not to), but I despise violence when it is uncalled for. It's insensible, destructive and an obvious hindrance to every step taken towards 'global peace', todays' equivalent to the medieval alchemists' quest for wisdom and immortality.

On Identity

I'm gay. There, I said it. I've known it all along, and except for a brief period of awkward uncertainty, I've come to love this aspect of myself... despite people's preconceived misconceptions about me based on this single fact. I wouldn't say I'm closeted - I'm out to all my friends, a hell lot of not-my-friends-but-acquaintances, and part of my family (though I'm pretty sure the other half is convinced of the truth, or at least suspicious about it). I know who I am, and I'm proud of it.

I don't, however, know how to identify myself to others. Yes, I'm gay; but I'm also a Christian, which goes against being gay. To complicate things further, I'm also Pakistani, which goes against my being BOTH, gay AND Christian! So arises my dilemma - I know who I am, but what do I tell others who I am? My sexuality goes against my race and religion - theoretically, I should be beheaded (or at least stoned to death) and be burning in the eternal fires of hell right now! Or so I'm told, at least.

Speaking of fire, let's add fuel to it. I suffer from regular bouts of depression and loneliness, which many brand "emo". Yet at the same time, I'm supposedly a "social butterfly". I'm a narcissist who's known to have self-image problems, a writer with writer's block and one-dimensional-thinking, a very intelligent person who's known to be terribly naive and has made some of the worst decisions, a singer with limited musical talent, an academic genius who's physically incapable of doing any "real work"... And on and on it goes.

So you see? I'm a lot of words. It's only understandable then that I get confused in my search for identity, and am always at a loss for words when someone asks me to tell them something about myself. It's in those few silent, awkward moments that all these words shoot through my head like a meteor shower, and I' m ultimately inevitably dumbfounded, and at a loss for words (which really is surprising as I seem to have accumulated a whole bank of words over the years!)

I hope one day I will be able to answer the more important question; who am i? It's only myself I am answerable to, and the correct answer to this question would be everything above, and none of it. For everything I wrote here is true, no matter how paradoxical it may seem - all my flaws, my strengths, and things that are neither, but just are, they're all part of me. And that's exactly what they are, part of me (keyword being "part")!

I don't let myself get branded by one particular label, because it's not just that label that defines me. Yes, I may be gay, but I'm also a thousand other things. Preconceived misconceptions based on, say my sexuality, are therefore unjustified. My gay gene, if there indeed is such a thing, makes up only a tiny percentage of my genome after all.

And while I may be no closer to finding the answer to that ever-impending and equally perplexing question, I take solace in the fact that I am me.

And that no one is, or ever can be.

An Old Gypsy Saying

"When I die, bury me standing, for I have spent all my life on my knees!"

I read this line a few weeks back in a book (The Witch Of Portobello- Paulo Coelho) and since haven't been able to get it out of my head. In some weird universal way, we are all victims of oppression; whether we suffer persecution at the hands of others due to intolerance, or are slaves of our own demons. Very few of us actually live our lives with our heads high.

Here's to everyone in suffering right now. May we find the strength within ourselves to make it through this life not on our knees, but on our feet. May we find the strength to overcome despair and light the flame of hope, especially with the constantly, and rapidly, detereorating state of the world around us today.

The Year That Was

Today I turn 20. On the eve of my birthday, a rare astronomical phenomenon took place - the crescent moon appeared with the two brightest planets in our sky, Jupiter and Venus, together forming a smiley face. Gives quite a literal meaning to a line I once wrote, "And the stars smiled down on us."

Twilight Reflections

I'm sitting by a stream under a great tree. I don't know what it's called; I was never good with trees. Yet it takes no expert to guess it's age. As I look up at it, I wonder how tall it is, and whether it still continues to grow. I think not; it seems to be at its greatest height. I look around me, and wonder whether the bridge over the stream was there when the tree was planted. A few cars go over the bridge, followed by a tram, and then there is silence, and stillness. I wonder how technology and natural beauty coexist in this place. I also think of all the changes this place must have gone through; but the tree remains the same, watching the world around it transform.

It's getting darker now, and I look to the sky. I have to pause a bit to take in the view. Patches of pink and gold seem to be scattered carelessly among the gray clouds. It strangely reminds me of drying lava. The horizon, however, is a clear, bright orange. The moments seem to be slipping away though, for soon it fades to a pale blue. I realise the sun has set behind the trees, roads and houses of this city.

My attention is then drawn to the stream itself. I gasp at its silent, reflective beauty as I see splendid colours on its surface - lilac, burnt rose, ash and slate gray. A slow realisation dawns on me - it's the sky that's really awe-inspiring, so much so that even the stream chooses to imitate it.

I look up from my writing to see a couple of ducks wading towards me. An old man walks by me with his dog, probably his only companion. I wish I had a dog.

Then all is silent, and I realise I'm experiencing something I haven't felt in a long long time. The air around me is filled with serenity, with tranquility - with peace. Yet I am not at peace, if that makes any sense.

It's getting harder to write now, with the cover of darkness approaching fast. I look ahead; the sun seems to have sunk comletely now. It's time to cross the bridge, put the sunset behind me and face the darkness ahead. Thank God the moon will be out soon.

Thank God there will be at least some light on the other side.