Why I haven’t written for a while. (Not to be confused with an actual writing but more of an informal information)

1- some of the people I know in real life either follow or know of this blog.

there is something impersonal and liberating about sharing your thoughts on the internet, similar to screaming into the void. But if you’re a private person, no matter how badly you wanted to scream, you wouldn’t do it if a bunch of people were sitting a bit far from you. They might hear you.

2- my inner critic (who i like to refer to as the Bane of my Gotham), has grown stronger and louder.

Before, it used to be that I would think of something, contemplate writing about it, get past that and actually write about it, then contemplate publishing. Some pieces (the ones that sit proudly on my blog) are winners (or really good runners), because they have somehow escaped the discard judgement which my inner critic sentences my writings with, a lot. The rest, well, your time will come one day. Totally.

3-  so much is happening at every second.

good and bad movies are out every two days, TV series come and go, the human world is a mess, people rise and fall every five seconds. And here I am, playing a game on my mobile, thinking about what makes a good thing a good thing and why hasn’t planet Earth chewed us all in yet. It’s overwhelming.

4- I can’t care enough for my opinion to spread it, but i am also fabulous

while i am very aware of how insignificant my opinion is (to the extend that worrying about saying it is pointless), i am also vain enough to wonder if I should entertain the world with my precious ideas. After all, better and more informed people are out there, doing the good deed, but also worse and less informed people are out there, doing what they think is a good deed. I can’t figure out where would I belong if I did the deed.

5- I keep saying I will

While I am amazingly deep and philosophical, I am also lazy and a class A procrastinator. Case closed.

That being said, I am working on dealing with all of these reasons, because I love writing. Aren’t I a piece of work.


You should read this because I am a very important person.

If I could name one unfavorable trait about my personality, I would say that I take myself too seriously.

It’s true: I am my worst judge, critique, and guardian. I’m sure you’ve heard of the saying “Don’t take life too seriously; no one gets out alive anyways.” I’ve always thought it was absurd. Precisely because no one gets out alive anyways is why one should take life quite seriously. Work hard, change for the best, never settle, or am I thinking of my horoscope sign traits? Anyways, there is no way to be sure every Capricon thinks this way, but I definitely am not one of these people who can just brush things off and laugh at themselves.

Here’s thing though: I want to be one of these people who can just brush things off and laugh at themselves.

None of us is unique. Just log into Tumblr and check the notes showing how many people re-blogged a photo quote saying “I overthink” or “I am drowning in my own thoughts” or that “My problem is that I care too much about people” or my absolute favorite Eminem quote “I don’t care if you’re black, white, straight, bisexual, gay, lesbian, short, tall, fat, skinny, rich or poor. If you’re nice to me, I’ll be nice to you. Simple as that.”

Ah, how amiable.

You see, we are most subjective when it comes to the way we see ourselves. We fancy our thoughts to be deep and meaningful. We like to believe our feelings are significant and special. We are the superheroes of this comic book that is our lives. I roll my eyes at us.

But back to my very important pressing problem

 I take myself too seriously. If I mess up, it’s a whole day –if I’m luck- of self-agonizing analysis of how could I do that, why did I do that, will I do that again, can I ever avoid doing that again, what if I can never change? Don’t forget of course, my telepathic mind reading of everyone involved in my messing up. “She must think I’m a failure, they must’ve laughed about it, he must really feel sad for me- who wouldn’t, they must feel I’m not worthy, they were only nice because they were trying to be sweet, gosh why did I say that they didn’t deserve it.” And so on and so forth.

Again, I am acutely aware of how common this belittling of self is among the general public, but I am the protagonist in this story and you shall cater to my every thought.

For me, everything has to have meaning. Everything has to be deep, Meta. I live my life like a movie: there’s a script (it has to be witty and smart and calculatingly representative of my awesomeness), there are many different tangled plots that should eventually mean something, there’s a bunch of challenges that I either win instantly win or may lose for the moment so I can win later on, there are losses that teach me lessons, and there is of course change.

Change is the tricky part, because I both want and fear it simultaneously.

This is no place to end a piece of writing I suppose, but I am special and also I want to sleep so let’s continue this tomorrow shall we? I will be most obliged.

Our Lives is one big Reality Show, but Who’s Adjusting the Lenses?

Just a quick heads up: The title is completely misleading and I’m not sure I even talk about reality shows in here.


Blog’s theme for this week: Write about something opposite to what you usually write about. Challenge yourself. Think outside the box and bring about a piece. Or better yet, forget that there was a box in the first place, and write about that.

I don’t know how to write something that is opposite to what I usually am. Why? Because I don’t know what I usually am, and I don’t know how everybody else thinks they do.

I believe in masks and filters. I believe that none of us is really who we are when we are in public. Note being, public is a loose term that can range from society to only one other human being sitting next to you.

My mother used to always say that to know a person you must travel somewhere with them, or experience an accident along their side.

To know people you have to see them when they’ve run out of time to wear their masks, or keep up their pretense of whoever they “are”.

But even that is not enough in my opinion. One cannot truly ever know another, because good luck to us in truly knowing ourselves, better yet another human being.

I think that’s why believers believe in a God: A being so omniscient and omnipresent and all-knowing, that only HE can fully know us- and therefore judge us. We take comfort in that, because then we can project our own past and reality to those other less capable creatures- humans.

You can know nothing about my past except for what I choose to tell you. This version of my past will become your truth, which is completely different from the ‘actual truth’, because my story has crossed through your mind, and crawled through all the locks and the shades and the filters in there.

To be very honest, I have no idea where I’m going with this. It just hit me that truth is a relative term, and if I’m pragmatic enough, I shall dare to say that everything is a lie even when it’s not.

But because I’m not pragmatic enough, I’m sticking with my mom’s theory. So let’s pack our things and go to Morocco, because I’ve always wanted to go there. Like, really.

Ripping a Band-aid off of your soul.

You don’t want to be you tonight. For a change, you want to be someone who is capable of following through with their goals; someone who does not again and again fall to the same old useless pattern because they’re stuck in their familiar comfort zone.

Today, you want to be someone who, after they’ve decided what they wanted, would conjure up the sufficient patience to carry it through and the courage. You lack the courage.

You have a clear view of what you want, and by now you think you know just how to become that- how to achieve what you’ve been dreaming of for so long. Yet you find yourself stuck. Maybe not literally, maybe you’re moving, but it is SO slow that for the naked eye -including yours- you’ve only been tottering in place. Which is even worse.

It is true what they say: when you change, you destroy a part of who you are. No matter how useless or bad that part of yourself is, it is still you, and it was in you for a reason. A long time ago, your soul has invited this part inside. But it’s not your soul’s fault. At that time, maybe it was the only visitor, and you were so lonely that your soul agreed to let it in.
After all, your soul is only looking after you. It would never have allowed such a dangerous thing to enter the most sacred and sensitive parts of you had it known that it would turn from a temporal visitor to a clinging full-time resident. It most definitely would not have let it in had it known it would become excruciatingly hard for you to kick it out.
When it first arrived at your soul’s doorstep it looked week and harmless, but you unknowingly fed it well and helped it grow so powerful. Now, it had entitled itself for deserving as much right of you as any other part of you rightfully does.

Time in time, you forget that it was once only a lonely beggar knocking feebly on the doors of your heart and mind. You forget that had things been different, you could have never opened the door. But of course the idea is most ridiculous; who would have you turned out to be without it?

No matter how much you resent it, despise it, and loathe the nonliving pieces of it, you know that without it you would not have turned out the way you have. Indeed, you like how you turned out- minus it. As hard as it may be to admit, you owe it. You know it’s the truth, and you hate it even more for that.

So what can you do? If there is a book or a movie about a villain posed as a resented full-time visitor, hurriedly refer to it. You’ll need all the advice you can get. It is a battle. You discover as you try to get rid of it, that it had glued itself to your soul ever so slyly, and you cannot risk tearing it off because you are uncertain of how much of your soul you would lose forever with it.

So it became like cancer, if there was such a thing as a needed cancer. For that, you must become your own chief surgeon. You alone must decide whether it is safe to pursue the operation, or if it is too late. You alone must calculate the advantages and the potential costs. Patients have it easy, they’ve got someone to blame: the hospital, the doctors, the equipment… But you? You are the patient and the doctor. You are the ailed and the healer. It all comes down to this: You have a Band-Aid in your soul, are you willing to rip it off?

To feel is human..to not is peace of mind.

For once, she won’t talk herself out of it. For once, she is going to allow herself to BE sad, to FEEL hurt and ACT out the anger.

More than often, she questions her feelings. Tries to justify them, but this time she will allow herself not to.

She excuses herself from the dinner table and heads up to her room. Slowly, she closes the door and deliberately heads to the drawer beside her bed. She takes out her journal and finds a comfortable position.

If she is going to feel, she might as well do it right.


He’s irrational and unfair.

He has this ability to get under my skin and irritate me to the extreme. With only words, he can bite into my skin and push me to my breaking point.

I wish there was a projector that can show people exactly how their words affect everyone around them. Maybe then, everyone would really start paying attention. Not just to their words; but to the tone, attitude, and subtle yet clear feelings that they attach to them.

I HATE feeling things intensely. Some say it’s what makes us human, but feelings are SO overrated. I always like to remember that episode in The Fairly Odd Parents when he wishes for his feelings to be removed and becomes a much relaxed cool kid. That episode strikes me as pure genius.   

Feeling things intensely means giving someone else the power over you. I want to not give him so much power over me. I want to NOT care.

But I know I do, because I hang up on every word he says. I admire and despise him at the same time. I love and hate him at the same time. I miss and fear him at the very same time. A roller coaster of emotions.

His presence echoes inside my head. I hear his words over, over, over and over again. Ringing. Ringing. Replaying. Like a song. Over and over again. 


She closes her journal, takes a deep breath and stares blankly ahead feeling eerily relaxed. She makes a mental note to one day write about writing, and how it can soothe and numb humans just as powerfully as drugs. Not today though.

As she lies down staring at the ceiling, she wonders if feelings things intensely could count as a sport, because she is exhausted.