Move With the Music

My senior year of high school, I was rewarded with a great responsibility - a car.  Well, sort of.  I did not get a car of my own, but I was allowed to drive my father's car to school and back (he had a home office) and let me tell you, it was the greatest feeling on earth.  Even if it meant sitting in traffic to get someplace that should only have taken me ten minutes to get to (but, in fact, took me thirty), I reveled in every last minute of it.  I like to think that the thing that I loved most about driving the old Camry to school was the music.  It gave me an opportunity to get whatever stresses and frustrations I might have had out with the music.  If I was feeling excited, Snow Patrol was excited with me.  If I was feeling angry, Three Days Grace was banging their heads with me.  It was exhilarating.  I even found myself tearing up to the lyrics of a song that especially connected with my present-self, several times.    I don't think much else can move me in such ways (perhaps a really good book or movie).  And so, my dad's 2001 Camry and I bonded over one common friend - music.

Black Memories

They continued along the path of the shimmering lake – his every three tiny footsteps matching her one.  And yet, he kept pace.  His heart-beat, his breath, his tiny feet quickening – all to keep pace.

His arm stretched upward as it linked with hers.  His tiny hand, tiny fingers, remained engulfed in the sea that was her large palm. 

            He won’t let go this time.

He looked into the lake, mesmerized by his reflection.  Her eyes looked into his own through the reflection on the black water – her eyes warm, loving, inviting.

            He stirs in his bed – tossing and turning.

They noticed a baby turtle – overturned, its tiny limbs squirming and wriggling in the air.  He tugged on her long swaying dress with a look of sadness.  Save it.  Save it.  Her eyes looked down at him and she smiled.  She signaled at him to stay put.  He would not move.  He felt her grasp loosen until, finally, his tiny hand lacked protection.  He was alone.

A sharp pain shoots through his body.  His eyelids flutter in madness – wincing in deep pain.  Wake up.  Wake up.  He cannot awaken.  He is stuck in this hell indefinitely.

She approached the edge of the lake – crossing the fence and the sign that warned against her next move.  All for him.  Carefully, she stepped on an unstable rock, attempting to flip the flailing turtle over.

Black.  All he can see is black.  The movie playing in his head nears the end and all he can feel is fear, agony, and black.

The black water stirred below her pale feet.  Her arms moved about like those of the turtle.  Somewhere in the near distance, a little boy screamed in pain – a pain that would forever be embedded in his mind.  Her face quickly changed to a pallid color – her smile wiped away and replaced with a look of distress.  Slowly, as if in a film, she fell, her now tiny and frail body engulfed in the black monster.

Gasp.  He awakes, heaving.  He finds himself breathing one hundred miles per hour.  His body is drenched in sweat.  His ashen face is stained with tears of anguish.  His agony forces him to wish his exhausted eyelids to never again close, again.  Because, in the end, he can’t let go.  He can never let go.

© Nureen Gulamali

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I really can't say where this story popped out from - a very muddled mind, indeed.  I suppose I was feeling a sense of living with one's regrets - even those that we are not directly responsible for.

Make a Wish

It's November 11th - otherwise seen as 11/11.  I'm quickly reminded of my friend Emma who, even when in deep conversation, will snap and tell everyone to make a wish at 11:11(am or pm).  Naturally, she's adorable.  Her beahvior really brings into light an important issue in my life, though.  I am (for the most part) the person that will chuckle and refuse to make a wish because I know it won't work.  Debbie Downer, right?  I could really care less if i'm a party pooper in that sense, to be honest, but it has brought light to the fact that I'm not as hopeful as I want to be.  No, there is no "11:11" god out there that will grant my wish - and there's nothing you can say to convince me otherwise.  But what's the harm in making a wish, anyways?  It's not likely that it'll come true (at least for the sole reason of wishing for it), but what's wrong with hoping?  There is so much I want in my life and I know I must work for it, but what good will the work do in the absence of hope?

Letter To My Past

Dear Little One,

First and foremost, I feel the need to tell you the most essential thing within this letter - you are beautiful.  You are not, by any means, perfect - nor will you ever be.  This is not something worth striving towards - perfection is unattainable and improbable.  For anyone.  You are so strong in so many ways and your heart is truly beautiful - if nothing else, please focus on your inner beauty.  Life will be hard for you.  You will cry, scream, pain, mourn, and regret.  You will lose so many that you love - to life and to death.  But fear not, little one - these are all emotions that one finds necessary in life.  You will grow from your experiences.  You will thrive.  This is not to say that any successes will come without hardship - you must work for everything that is worth fighting for in your life.

I warn you as I would have benefited greatly from such a forewarning - you will be broken down many-a-times.  It will not be easy.  You will feel...like giving up.  Do not.  Stay strong.  Remember your family, your friends, your future - for even when it seems bleak, it can hold so much.  You determine your fate - you must take the path less taken.  You must stand up for what you believe in and know who you are.  You will not know right away - it takes time to find yourself.  But when you do find yourself?  Embrace it.

You will yearn to be loved.  Do not let this control you.  Do not settle.  You will have several wonderful people come into your life...and then walk out.  This is not a bad thing - it is simply a part of life.  A part of who you are - who you will become.  Good things come to those who wait.  I am still waiting, but I promise, you will be loved by so many wonderful people that the wait will seem effortless.

Lastly, you mustn't compare yourself to those who surround you.  Though tempting it may be, it will only hurt yourself.  Everyone is different in their own way - you are wonderful for being you.  Not for being your brother.  Or for being your best friend.  For being you.  Where you have a weakness, you also have a strength.  Love your strengths and improve your weaknesses.

I wish I could tell you so much more, but I feel that in order for you to grow to the best of your ability, I must refrain.  Remember, you must never give up.

Forever and Always,
Your Wiser Self

Trick or Treat?

My twelve year old cousin just asked me if I was going Trick-or-Treating, tonight.  I regretfully had to tell him that I would not be because I have not been "allowed" to trick-or-treat since I was in 8th grade.  He gave me the saddest puppy dog face in the world.  When I asked him why he looked so down, he said, "Am I going to have to stop being fun like you, too, soon?"

Being an "adult" sucks.

Religi-os-ity

I have a bone to pick with religion.  Well, not religion - followers, rather.  It has recently become more and more aware to me that many "pious" people around me are, in fact, not pious at all.  I know what you must think, "Who does she think she is?!  She can't decide who is and who isn't religious!"  Au contraire, mon amie.  I have, for instance, engaged myself in multiple conversations that revolve around religion (I actually very much enjoy interfaith dialog).  In each of these conversations, I have found two types of "avid religious" people - only one of which tends to aggravate me.

The first type is the informed religious person - this is a person that has their faith instilled in some sort of basis in which they are properly informed (based on experience, religious teachings, exploration, and the sort).  The fact that they are so enthralled in their faith and religion is actually quite an intoxicating thought - especially (and specifically) when they have opened themselves up to the world.  An important thing to keep in mind is that this person does not necessarily believe in a specific belief system, but rather may also be agnostic or even atheist in belief.  Their ardent (informed) beliefs are just the same intoxicating.

The second type of person is the uninformed religious fanatic (which is not specific to any one religion).  This person is extremely religious, as well - or so one would think. The difference is revealed in the conversations in which they regurgitate information regarding their faith and religion that they clearly do not understand.  If they do not understand or know it, however, how can they be so religious?  I will admit, religion has shown a trend to become more prevalent in times of need (whether they be war, poverty, or moral trouble).  Perhaps we get our sense of "religious-ity", as I call it, from our parents, then.  Think about such a statement.  Thought it is provocative in nature, there lies some truth in it.  If mommy and daddy taught us the things we know today, great.  But the problem lies in spoon-feeding something as powerful as religion.  If all we know is what mommy and daddy taught us, however, it quickly becomes evident that we are living in a skewed world.  Religion is a wonderful thing - a powerful thing.  It has the ability to persuade, save, and conquer.  Hence, because it is such a powerful thing, we must be diligent in nature to ensure that what we are putting absolute faith in is something of which we are clearly informed.  Explore the world, do research on your own, talk to people of other faiths, open yourself up.  I am not telling you to abandon your religion in search of other faiths.  I am asking you to be justified in your beliefs.

It is like Plato's allegory of the cave - if you never venture into the light, you cannot stake your beliefs in the dark.  You may find that you still prefer the dark and may even find that your love for the dark cave has only increased - great.  But until you expose yourself to the light, your love for the dark is jaded.

So, for God's sake - throw the spoon away.

Weep, Weep, Weep

Weep, weep, weep says the weeping willow tree,

A pinch, and a punch, and a kick right at thee.

Mew, mew, mew says the bony agile cat,

Ah, ah, ah – you won’t put up with that.

Moo, moo, moo says the grazing spotted cow,

You’re blinded by emotion – Revenge has control, now.

Woof, woof, woof says the domesticated dog,

Be careful with your actions – what you doubt must be wrong.

Caw, caw, caw says the black and tortured crow,

Wither in regrets and reap what you sow. 

Bang, bang, bang screams the cocked and loaded gun,

Fill your eyes with tears at what anger has done.

Beat, beat…beat cries a sad and dying heart,

What they say is wrong – you mustn’t finish what they start.

© Nureen Gulamali

I wrote the above piece after recalling the passing of a loved one.  It is not something I wish to recall, and yet, it haunts me quite often.  It is not something that should not go unremembered.  We cannot act upon our vengeful impulses; a single moment's actions has consequences that are unthinkable.  It is not a story.  It is life.

The bond that comes with time...then fades away.

For the first half of my life, I spent a lot of time trying to build meaning full relationships with my grandparents - my grandmothers, in particular.  It was difficult to say the least.  For one of them there was a language barrier;  For both there was a culture barrier.  I did what I could to win them over, for what grandchild doesn't want their grandparents to look at them adoringly?  But no matter how hard I tried, I never felt like I was the grand-daughter they expected me to be.  Being the headstrong little girl that I was, my previously fleeting efforts to win them over turned into pointless defenses that were often considered impolite.  But what was I to do?  I can't say my decision to be somewhat cold and bitter towards them was either warranted or appropriate, but it occurred, nonetheless.  I quickly felt whatever closeness I had managed to savor fade away and I only grew to feel more and more estranged and bitter.  By the time I was fifteen, I had lost both of my grandmothers.  I was not as torn up as I should have been, but it was obvious that I was affected by these losses.  Now, at nineteen, I can see how stupid and childish my behavior was.  Every child has their fits and tantrums - it's unfortunate that mine cannot be resolved.  I know that they both knew that I loved them very much and I know the same with regards to them, but I would be lying if I said I didn't have regrets.  I suppose my purpose to this post is to warn - a warning I hope all will heed.  Life is short - you've heard it before.  But for every moment that slips away, you lose a moment of opportunity - whether it be education, love, service, or simply relaxation.  Do not let time out of your grasp, for once you do, it slips away far too fast.

Control Thy Pen!

I find that when I am upset (or anything to the extent of feeling negative) or lying in bed, my writing flows much more easily.  This is, as you can probably guess, problematic.  I am reminded of the famous poets that found their pens at work most after a heartbreak, death, or deep realization (for the worse).  Well, I do not want to have my best friend die, nor do I want to have to experience teen angst after my boyfriend gets tired of me to be able to write well.  At the same time, I often find myself writing poems or "eloquent" writing when doing the most inconvenient things - sleeping (almost), driving, showering, exercising, etc.  Why does my mind feel the need to punish me so?  Certainly I could pull over in the middle of the freeway, pull out my pen and pad, and write away.  Downside?  What good use would the writing be if an angry hitchhiker kills me soon after?  Exactly.

Don't get me wrong - to say that I cannot write on a regular basis would be a terrible mistake.  It is, however, common knowledge that many people find inspiration in feelings - usually of the extreme ends.  Let's be honest, how many people do you know that sit down after a regular day and write their best piece of writing?  I can guarantee you that those people are basing whatever writing they are coming out with on previous thoughts or emotions.  I am taught and told almost everyday that creativity flows through everyone on a daily basis.  But how do we control such a wild force?  It is apparent that in life, some are able to utilize and wield their creativity in both different ways and different increments, but how are we able to increase our various creative ways and the amount which is available to us?  Can I simply say with assurance in my voice, "Creativity, I beckon you!"  I'm going to have to say "nay" to that suggestion.  I know it's not like a piece of meat in which I can choose my exact cut, flavor, and amount, but to say creativity is uniform would not only be preposterous, but also "sinful" in nature.   I wish I could just disregard such questions, but I cannot.  Writing is who I am.  My very being.  The words flow through my veins.  They pump my heart and fuel my body's every action.  That's it, isn't it?  My "many ways" of being creative...is writing.  And then some, of course.  Theatre.  Music.  Art...not.  I will not say that my brain will not waste any more time on such a silly question as, "How may I manipulate creativity to be nicer to me?", but I will appreciate the wonderful gifts I have grown to think of as an innate part of myself.

Self-Destruction In Mid-Air

If I told you I was not one with my body at this moment, would you laugh?  Would you tell me that "out-of-body" experiences are things of the mythical worlds?  I looked down at my life, today.  Down - not at.  It was...enlightening, to say the least.  How can one be so destructive?  So...bitter.  I don't remember getting this way.  Life has handed me so many things - of which I have made both fruit punch and lemonade.  And yet, I can't help but see how I am pushing everything away.  It's ridiculous to see how hard I have worked for some things, only to screw them up in the end.  What can one do at that point, though?  Do you look back and say, "Wow - that was a mistake."?  Or do you look back and say, "I don't actually regret that at all...despite what one might think."?  And if you think the latter, what does that mean?  It's not that I don't value these things in my life.  I do - whole heartedly.  So, maybe the issue isn't that I don't care.  Maybe the issue is that I care too much.  Maybe it hurts too much to lose these things on something other than my own accord.  Maybe it's just easier this way.