L'esperanto

This is a letter to whoever takes more time dwelling in dreams than coming up with a to-do list.

You know, the reason I disliked The Alchemist so much -something i didn't have the chance to discuss it with anyone,as I was frowned upon immediately after mentioning how badly I struggled to finish the book and swallow up the silly ending- is because I really believe people shouldn't dream of what they can't achieve.
I'm a realist. I don't day-dream ; I contemplate.

I think it is okay to have a wide imagination and think, only think, of all the possibilities ahead, if we only keep that within the limits of our heads.
Dreamers are weaklings, most of the time (and that's my personal opinion, dear reader, you are entitled to argue) because they don't have it in them to face the real world, nor to be someone in their lives.
So instead, they turn to their  imagination and make themselves significant, you know, like an artist that puffs up his model and makes him handsomer and more muscular. That's just pathetic.

I get that Mr. Paulo was trying to  inspire us to follow our dreams yada yada yada...But if realizing dreams with mere incessant efforts was possible, why would these people wait for encouragement through this book of yours, Sir ?
What is life, real life? it's not really about dreaming. That, everyone can do. It's about being practical and smart enough to know your own limits, and dream correspondingly. If it's too big, it's better to invest your energy in something more down to earth. At least that's what I learnt after pursuing the path of engineering and science.
Sincerely,
-An Ex-dreamer, now a pragmatist

Illuminatus

"In the sunset of dissolution, everything is illuminated by the aura of nostalgia, even the

guillotine" - Milan Kundera

If it's possible to review your own life, to watch it in a dark a theater, alone, on a wide screen, pop-corn in hand, on a cozy armchair, would you- I'm not going to ask whether or not you'll watch it until the end, rest assured, as that is impossible- but would you have the same feeling about certain moments in your life, now you are witnessing them again ?

Mishaps, being punished for something you didn't do as a child, your first shock in humanity ; when you realized how brutal this world can be, your first big lie, Teenage crises , the conflict between right and wrong with you stuck in between, your first F in a test , the first real dispute with your parents, your first fight with a friend/lover, the departure of a close person from this life, being strangers with a once close friend..etc

There are so many events that can be condensed into one life-time, so many you won't remember all of them; but you will always remember how they made you feel . Because feelings are dormant sensations that awaken once in a while, with a scent, a touch, a picture, a color...feelings could be entrapped and left for keepsake inside any object of our choice, they sense the proximity of the object and resolutely bounce into our minds...remember...remember...REMEMBER..

When I watch the movie of my life, a frequent occurrence during which I enter a state of deep reverie I don't easily get out of, I get a warm, fuzzy feeling all the way. I would laugh at my stupid adventures and the silly fights I had, all the foolish decisions I've made so far, the things I lost and I thought I'd never find, the tests I didn't study for and consequently failed, how being around a certain individual who's around no more made me feel, instead of how their absence crushed me. And all the mistakes I've made...the things that I considered as calamities at the time...they would all look so logical to me, so educating, and so luminous.

It's very interesting that memories, whether sad or happy, have a peculiar charm; they look very luminous from afar, and misty, untouchable when you walk through them during moments of reminiscing.

When we remember, dwell in the past, it's always nostalgia that possess us. Ardent nostalgia ; instead of grieving  and morning over the lost youth, and the people who are no longer here. Instead, we talk about the deceased with evident festivity, and the days of our childhood with joy.

But what is it that transfigures memories so much as to change the impressions they leave at the back of our minds ? what makes them so...brilliant ? We often lose memories, or make up memories, consciously or unconsciously, we develop them, add to them parts that were never there, trim some of the painful parts, make them more radiant,
But never gloomier.

Of course, if one had so much control over their memories - and believe me, we ,you and I,do- why would they distort them ? No one, absolutely no one, seeks unhappiness so much as to mutate their past into horrid nightmares. We never exaggerate our mistakes, they all look smaller and sillier the older we get, because we already lived with the consequences, and because we already know how bad it can get, and that it can't get any worse . So instead, we get our pallets and brushes, and set to color the past with the most delightful and refreshing colors. After all, our past is a precious part of our own, to beautify the past is to beautify ourselves in our own eyes.

We Were There

The best part of my childhood was spent waiting for Sara to come at precisely 3:00 pm ,waving to me from afar just when she turns around the corner. And how we used to skate in our yard and  roam around on our bikes exploring the abandoned houses and getting chased out by the concierge.

We built a tree house, except that it was on the ground. There was an enormous, enormous space -now occupied by a creepy-looking school, that was covered with little bushes here and there and which made the perfect place to play hide and seek, and getting lost.

Abdullah was what you would call a natural jerk ; a mischievous brat beyond measures. I wasn't any better so we got along just fine. He was our neighbor's kiddo...I didn't consider him as a "friend", he was a different entity, more like a family member, but a family member that I wasn't allowed to fight with in front of my mom, so I did it behind her back. I just opened my eyes and he was there, the insufferable creature..We just spent too much time together to realize we aren't really family.
I liked his older sister much better though. Not only we had the same name,but she used to carry and toss me really high in the air. It was awesome.

We met with Sara when I was 6 years old. It was the first day of school and we were standing in line, well, as close to a line as a group of first-graders would be able to form.
I was standing behind Abdulla , because our mothers told us to stick together. He was spouting some philosophical nonsense while I was examining the faces of these boring kids, looking all nervous and timid, when I heard a sharp, girlish voice : pssshheeeeeeww~

She was standing behind me, flying an invisible plane. I smiled because I thought it's impressive to not give a damn about the world..you know, first day of school, a big deal for every kid, you have to behave yourself and try to make friends.....I think I was always like that, taking interest in eccentric people, and getting easily bored with the usual...But she was different ; she wasn't boring. Apparently she thought of my smile as an invitation to make conversation...In the afternoon when we came back by the same bus, we realized we live 3 houses apart, and almost immediately became friends, without noticing and without asking for it, with that innocent fluency with which kids become friends.


We became good friends during grade school, Sara, Abdullah and I. Except for the fact that Abdullah hated Sara's guts, calling her spoiled and stupid and telling her off. I pretended I didn't notice though. For they were both equally stupid-yet-important to me .. ..Life is much simpler when you are a kid, you just content yourself with the false belief that you will stay friends forever, making secret strategies to save the world in case aliens decided it's time to attack the earth, or planning pranks to pull on the kids from the next neighborhood...Nothing could ever separate us.
Little did we know that this is just a child's dream.

I remember when Abdulla decided it's uncool to hang out with the two of us and slowly drifted away to join the guys. I don't remember how I felt when that happened though. Probably relief..Good riddance, egg-head. Sara and I drifted apart when we stopped attending the same school.

How many years have passed ? I don't know,15 years ?

I met Sara recently at this wedding, I recognized her immediately although she got taller and dyed her hair and apparently got married and is currently pregnant with her second child.. But she had the same aura around her.
Time leaves it's mark on our appearances, but the interior, the soul remains intact. We chatted for a short while..there wasn't really anything to talk about of course. ..It's very painful when the only thing you have in common with a once precious friend is memories...hazy memories of our childhood that almost feel like a sweet dream..
Dreams and reality shouldn't mix , people from the past shouldn't spring to the present.
I moved on , remember ? you left me alone, by the tree house for years, I waited and waited for eternity...but you never came back..you grew up, leaving the child in me morning the memories.

It's not really that we stopped being friends ; for people don't consciously make such decisions..well, in most cases anyway. It was Time that separated us. Time ; age, life, growing up, adolescence..Call it what you want..The undeniable fact is that people change, they grow old and they grow apart.

We were inseparable once upon a time;I didn't even attend her wedding.
He and I were like siblings, I don't know which college he attended.

I would say with certainty that we wouldn't even exchange greetings if we met anywhere...Perhaps a quick, imperceptible nod before turning the other way, signifying a mutual agreement to keep trapped this stage of our lives, although dear and precious, between photo albums and ancient Ninja Turtles stickers in the old attic.

For Whom The Bell Tolls

"No man is an Iland, intire of itselfe; 
Every man is a peece of the Continent, 
A part of the maine; if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, 
Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, 
As well as if a Manor of thy friends or of thine owne were; 
Any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankinde; 
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; 
It tolls for thee."

-John Donne ,Meditation XVIIl. Devotions upon Emergent Occasions

It was a day like every other . The sun rose like it always does, people woke up,went to work,students went to school ,kids played football in the parking lot..
And robins chirped merrily while jumping between the branches..
It was the perfect day to glitter and be gay.
Except for the fact that 47 people died in a bombing in some obscure city in some obscure country.

I stopped at the channel to scan the newsflash, which, by the way, was not a newsflash at all. Death became a common occurrence nowadays; so much that death bills became the usual introduction on the News.
"47 casualties have been reported in a bombing in the city of X. More details to follow. In other news, actress XX's newborn attracts the attention of the press being the most fashionable child in Hollywood."

There was a moment of reflection. ..i don't usually think about such things ; but just realizing that these two pieces of news were not at least separated by a moment of silence in memory of the deceased ,instigated a very curious happening. I felt like i slipped from the top of a high building, one too high it takes several days to fall..and then I hit the bottom. I sure took my time falling, and I severely crashed to the ground to my awakening :

I didn't even flinch.
I was not affected.

I didn't even stop to examine the magnitude of that figure, the number of souls that left this world at the same time, and left their houses without putting the probability of getting killed for no reason in their minds, the number of souls that left and to which was dedicated no respectful amount of time to mourn, as the reporter didn't even change her tone while shifting to the next report, and as the earth kept rotating, and the rest of the human population breathing, walking, talking gaily and LIVING in total oblivion.

It dawned upon me, the truth. The ugly truth.
I'm, we are, monsters of the most horrid type: humans.

You know, what's horrid about humans is that they are civilized. We are dexterous in our brutality, and audaciously philosophical in our atrocity.
We can utilize our utmost faculties to devise a killing machine..while hideously contrasting that by proclaiming vain banners of human rights and equality ; including equality in the right to LIVE , ironically.

Truth is, unless it's of a close relation, death of another human does not affect us at all. No matter how courteous or pretentious we are, it does not produce in us the genuine feelings of grief that translate into an honest "I'm sorry for your loss".

'tell you what, sir Donne, every man's death doesn't affect me, because i'm not involved in mankind.

Batushka, I'm afraid that you would be very disappointed to see that your romantic words have been basely abused as slogans of empty ideas of peace and brotherhood. There was never a bell that tolled in people's hearts at the demise of a fellow human being. 

The Beginning

It was a little before noon, I remember it clearly, that lovely summer day. Not a trace of a cloud in the blue sky. A choir of cicada were trying to sync their noisy aria. And some construction workers were busy building a two-story masjed, carefully handling the scarlet-colored bricks.

I was 8 years old. Barefoot, resting my head on my palms, I sat on a desolate block outside my grandmother's house, looking into the distance.

What was I thinking at that time ?

I couldn't tell.

A child's imagination, fertile and immaculate as it is, so young and naive, so daring and sublime, is a supernova. There is an infinite of possibilities, and there are no limits.

One moment I was thinking of nothing, the next I was thinking of everything all together, slowly drifting towards the end of the flat cosmos on the raft of reverie, whistling to my self songs of innocence all along.

"Why are you sad ?"

A deep-sounding voice interrupted my meditations. I raised my head to see a tall youth, wearing a warm smile. It was a strange smile. I didn't really register what he said because i sat there contemplating his strange smile for a good while...A strange smile indeed..The best way to describe it is (allow me to borrow the wisdom of Mr. Fitzgerald at this point, dear reader ) :

"He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey".

And it was exactly that kind of smile. The kind of smile that could relate stories without a single word spoken.
Of course I could only seize upon its meaning looking back on it now, after the accumulation of enough years. I wonder why I still remember his face.

Who was this person ? He lived in our neighborhood for sure, as I saw him a couple of times before..But who was he ,really ....the entity inside this physical shell of a body..The transparent soul that could penetrate into the deepest depths of a child's heart and speculate her obscure state of mind, what she ,herself, couldn't realize ?

Such an insightful soul could only be as pure and light as a cloud... He was a cloud taking a stroll on earth..and decided to make a stop to reveal an astounding observation of his own.

For all the world, myself included, I was just a child looking into the distance on a beautiful summer day.

I didn't know I looked sad. I didn't even realize I was sad..

On that warm day in June, I realized that , at the very end of the world, the farthest point that can be reached by an artless boat made of a young imagination , the ultimate conclusion of reverie, there is nothing but unhappiness.

On that warm day in June, I realized I was a Toskliviy.

I don't think I ever made it back home.

Kawthar

We were at the mall the other day , strolled for a while then decided to take a break so we headed to the food court and sat to dine.

It was a beautiful day outside , the place was crowded ..Nothing was out of the ordinary..

Until a faint voice interrupted this fanciful harmony. It was going on for a while, but grew clear enough for people around to take notice..It looked like someone was calling another, repeatedly and mechanically. A lady calling out to her stray child, apparently ..

"Oh , a lost child...she will find her in a moment."

She didn't.

The mother continued calling and patrolling around the place..Gradually her calls became louder and louder, sounding more anxious with time. Finally the calls became neurotic screams. She just stood in her place and started screaming at the top of her voice...and collapsed when her knees failed her.

A child wandering off is nothing out of the ordinary. My younger brother used to get lost most of the time and found in the weirdest places, but I never remember my mother losing control and screaming like that ; it's a given that what's lost will be found after all.

You wouldn't jump to the worst-case scenario ,i.e a kidnapping case, immediately ; not in this country at least.

But this thin and fragile mother couldn't help assuming the worst, I think......her smothered shrieks were heart-piercing....believe me; heart-piercing.

It's as if all the panic of this world was gathered and intensified ,and kept bursting in vain despair.
No one seemed to pay attention to her desperate cries that could brand a soul with agonizing sorrow ..No one seemed to care, in fact. Not a single person rose from their seat and tried to help her look for the child, or at least try to calm her down.
They, we, just continued our lives as if this poor thing, this tormented mother was a phenomenon that occurred in another dimension. Probably we thought of it as a curious incident : "hey, some lunatic lady was screaming at the mall today ! "..

Of course we wouldn't stir; after all, we, I dare say, don't understand "what's the big deal" , why would this seemly lady cause such a scene in a public place, instead of looking quietly for her lost offspring or just looking for security for help.

No one in this lounge would understand how this mother felt : losing sight of her precious child, the prospect of not being able to see her ever again ,growing restless while imagining all the possible dangers that she might be exposed to, away from her mother's caring, protective embrace..

No one would ever understand the pureness of that river of tenderness flowing from a mother's heart, the giant, deep-rooted arbor of affection cultivated along with this tiny, defenseless newly-born creature with red clutched hands, and all the condensed feelings of care, protection ,patronage and love, condensed in the word "motherhood".

We are not this child's mother in the end, and we would never fathom the agony of this mother whose child was lost.
But her screams are still ringing in my ears : "Kawthar !..."Kawthar!"..."KAWTHAAAAAR!!!".

I hope she found her.

Tears of the Iron Lady

She didn't reply to my usual sneers and I immediately realized she was out of humor.
Her eyes were swollen. One has to shed a great deal of tears for their eyes to swell this much.
I was at a loss of what to do myself.

It was the first time I've ever seen her cry; to be precise, to have seen her after the fit, not only is she the toughest, most brutal and annoying female figure I've yet to encounter, but she also has this pride, a vanity that prevents her from ever showing her weak side to anyone , no matter what the situation is..

Which is why I recoiled. This is new.

When you don't know what to do, you do nothing. You just observe, and observe I did.
What am I to say to her under such circumstances, after all ? With what words is a person ,who is easily moved to tears my a mere poem like myself , is supposed to comfort this Iron Lady ?

I finally woke up to the fact that ,no matter how strong you are, no matter how strong you pretend to be, there is a time when everything falls crumbling upon you, and you just...lose control and break down.

Your inner weak self that was curled, hidden like an unborn child, gets exposed to the scorching rays of the sun ..and no longer can endure the shame of its own weakness and the curious gazes of all the jesters.

If there is anything i'm sure of , though, it is that a proud heart always succeeds in gathering its scattered pieces and healing in some lonely corner where no one can see, and returns all polished and shiny, as strong as ever.