Closing Pandora's Box

It was one of those mornings; falling out of bed the wrong way, narky moods and that heaviness in the heart which dragged you down into the murky waters where visibility was markedly reduced. And when drowned in the darkness, if you even tried to open your eyes, the particles in the water would cause a burning pain making you shut them again. No matter how much you yearned to see, the pain of doing so would stop you. That same heaviness in the depths of your heart, as it sank, pulled with it a string that tightened the noose around your insides; suffocating and leaving you gasping for happiness. Somewhere in the darkness is a light they say, one that you cannot find and you wonder whether it's too far away or whether you are blind. Yeah it was that kind of morning.

She hadn’t called like she promised she would. Promises, made with such vigour and feeling, yet broken so easily like the snapping of a stalk on a windy day. What are words if you don’t mean them when you say them?¹ Lies portrayed as honest truth. Do not make promises when engorged on the elixir of happiness and neither take decisions when hate has its hooks lodged firmly in your heart. She always apologised when this happened. Maybe not straight after, maybe the next morning, or after a few days, or when she remembered. So he didn’t mind too much. He knew he would hear from her. He didn’t know when, but he knew.

A bench, empty and desolate. Seats covered with moss and insects crawling all over, on seeing it however, he smiled. And the rush began. There were those memories he had always wanted to forget. But he realised that by spending so much time and effort keeping those unwanted memories at bay, he may come to resemble that statue of the grieving parents; transfixed and petrified by the past, looking over the garden that never grew.² Mourning till eternity.

The beauteous yesterday is fading away
like a blushed twilight;
Though nothing can bring back
the hours of sweet treasured past,
I will grieve not but rather find
splendour in the memories.³

The bench looked old and forgotten, but it reminded him of a memory. Many years ago, they had promised one day they would sit on a park bench and read the story of their lives together. And smile. And laugh. And poke. And have fly inviting moments. He remembered the walks at midnight in Hyde Park, hand in hand as they talked, discussing the mysteries of life and all its treasures. He remembered the late night calls and the choking on red bull to stay awake. He remembered the nicknames, sounding so irrelevant to others, but full of meaning. He remembered standing in the rain after lectures and listening to her as she mourned her losses. He remembered the coffee dates and burning his tongue on his first ever mocha while sitting on the train. He remembered craving pizza and it was carried all the way from the other side of the city for him. He remembered the anniversary they celebrated every year and how she always left him speechless. He remembered her last words the day before she died.

Though there were lines in his diary he wished he had never written, there were pages upon pages that he wished to never forget. For every memory that brought about the shackling heaviness in the heart, there were countless more, priceless and pure, that set him free.

He never forgot people. He remembered every memory and smiled. There is always a reason to smile.

*****

These two posts (part 1, and 2) were written in response to a tweet I saw a few weeks ago in which the person had said how the “suckish people” made it so hard to appreciate the loved ones in our lives. I couldn’t disagree more. For every “suckish” person I come across it makes me realise just how blessed I am with the family and close few close friends that I have. And it makes me love them even more.

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Photograph of a book of memories I made for a friend from personal photography, available here.
¹ “What are words if you don’t mean them when you say them.” In reference to a previous post, available here.
² Reference to the statue of the Grieving Parents, by Käthe Kollwitz, in the memory of her youngest son who died on the battlefield during World War I, and was buried in the Vladslo German war cemetery.
³ This was a quote from a very small diary I once gave to someone. Some one from the past, who used to be a friend.

The web of life. Sprawling. Interconnected. Laced together with fine strings of silk. Each thread, a different moment, a different relationship, a different entity, held together with the glue of emotion. Each fine fibre holds firm another, supporting and being supported. And yet at times it feels so flimsy and weak. All it takes is the blink of an eye, a moment, an incident, the breath of a single word to tear it all apart. And then you are left with the pieces of your life scattered across the floor. Battered, broken and longing for a reason to believe.

The silk of a spider is stronger than steel, they say. It acts as a place to sleep, a place to catch food and much more. Who taught the spider how to spin its web? We humans regularly demolish these beautiful structures. What do spiders do? They move on, and rebuild their lives, from scratch.

Bad things happen, but life goes on.
It is not long before we go are gone.¹

God gave everyone the ability to make a life for themselves. Yet, “we do not rise to the level of our abilities, but fall to the lies (sic) of our excuses”.² When it feels like it is all disintegrating, remember the spider. Every thread you lay, make sure it is stronger than steel. And try again. Remember, when it all seems to be falling apart, it may just be falling into place.³ Remember, and keep the faith.

*****

Thank you to B for giving me the idea for this post. I dedicate this to Tutti Fruitti and all others who are going through testing times.

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Photograph of an exposed web just after sunrise from personal photography, available here.
¹ A couplet from a poem I once wrote.
² This was a quote I posted on Twitter in the last couple of weeks, but I can no longer remember where / who it’s from.
³ This is another quote I posted onto Twitter a month or so ago. Unfortunately I cannot remember its source.

She said she would call at midnight. The beginning of a new day. But not the beginning of a new story. They had not spoken for a long time and he had waited and worried. It wasn’t the first time either.

As the second hand moved to mark quarter to, he slid into bed, propped himself against a pillow with a book in hand and the phone resting on his legs. And he waited. With sombre excitement. The words on the page became like raindrops, merging into each other, their beginning and end undistinguishable from those around them. He checked his phone again. 23:48. What would they talk about when she called? He had many things to ask her; the lack of replies to his texts, her quietness and where she kept disappearing to. He also had many things to tell her too, but he never got the chance as she would go on and on and on about herself. There were many words unspoken. But that was okay, he didn’t mind. As long as she was okay and said what she wanted, that’s all that mattered.

The alert on his phone vibrated telling him it was time. Midnight had come. He was always punctual unlike many of his friends. People came into his life like seasons. Unexpected and bringing with them a range of emotions, ideas and promises. But when their storms passed and the rains had cleansed away the dirt and the virgin sun put a spring step into their steps, they too would leave. He never forgot the people. The blessings and the curse of keeping diaries. Images of what he had seen and felt remained in his mind, many of them too painful to be allowed into full awareness. Our memories, which lend us a pattern to our lives, also condemn us to relive our past. His eyes bore witness to the struggles and other episodes of trial he had seen through his life. No matter how many times he tried to bury them; the burning of the pages, the avoidance of places, they would shift in their shape like a constantly mutating virus causing infection. A constant struggle to banish those stubborn memories, would only result in them coming back, again and again.

00:27. What if she didn’t call? The last time they had spoken she had been brief and left half way through. He never even had a chance to say goodbye. But she told him why and he understood. He always understood. But sometimes he wished there was some magic to reverse those memories, but no matter what he tried, it didn’t work.

Sleep stole him while he waited. The time was 01.03. She didn’t call that night.

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Photograph of burning letters from personal photography, available here.

While waiting for my train home from uni a few weeks ago I sat down and watched the men with the long coats brushing their ears, suitcase in one hand and the Evening Standard in the other, the boys from school sprinting to buy some chips, the old lady rubbing her hands for warmth. People were running to catch their trains while others waited and planned their journey. It made me think. There are always many trains to choose from, but before you get on one, you gotta know where you wanna go. Same with life.

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Title: Last train home – Lost Prophets

When I got a new phone, I got one with a decent camera for a particular reason. Simply so that I could take more pictures. I’ve decided each week I’ll share a photograph with you.

***

I saw this written on the wall of the train today:

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Title: Sixteen Tons – Tennessee Ernie Ford

Riots and looting started in London on Saturday and have spread all over the country. They were here too, and shops were looted and burned and people made homeless. Here are a few pictures from my town:

A family furniture store that has withstood both world wars up in flames:

And in the morning:

The ashes of a bus:

This was just at the end of our road:

This is what it looked like in the morning:

And from where the water is being poured. Those are flats on top of the shops:

The remnants of an Asian clothes store:

The ironic sticker left on a completely empty gold shop:

How they got into another gold shop:

I saw a toddler wearing a motorbike helmet, walking beside his mother carrying a packet of pampers nappies which they had looted from Sommerfield.

I heard an Asian man with his arms full of toilet rolls say, “Yaar, if only I had a car.”

I saw a woman steal someone’s wheelie bin, which she filled up with alcohol from the Sommerfield storage area and Tesco and wheel it home.

I heard of a woman wearing Superdrug uniform looting Superdrug.

I heard the cries of a lady whose house was on fire.

I saw an injured pregnant lady ask for refuge at our mosque and we fed her the food prepared for iftaar and gave her drink until the ambulance came.

I saw armoured vehicles containing riot police from Cambridgeshire, Devon and Cornwall and Wales the day after. But by then it was all over.

*****

Please remember all those around England who have been made victims of such selfish, stupid and sickening actions. People have lost business’s, their homes, their loved ones and in some cases their lives. May this violence end soon, and may peace return to the streets of this country.

Please also remember the suffering of those around the world who due to war, famine, natural disasters and or disease are also undergoing difficult times.

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Title: Nursery rhyme.
Photos that are not my own were taken from here and here.

This is the final award I have recently been given. When I first looked at it, the word Rad reminded me of German back in high school. Rad in German means bike. But I don’t think this award has anything to do with bikes.

It was given to me by the lovely Sana Castellano (@ A Life Worth Living). Apart from being lovely, she’s funny, witty, clever (aren’t all med students?) and I think she has been going through relationship issues with her blog recently *insert fly inviting moment here* (inserted). Her layout has changed so many times recently that I sometimes had trouble realising it was the same blog I was reading. Now it’s a nice and lovely purple. I think she has resolved her relationship issues with her blog so you can pay her a visit and read some of the awesome things she has to say.

The rules of accepting this award are relatively simple (or not depending on which way you look at them). All you have to do is post a picture you have taken or one from your camera / phone, and give it a caption.

True love in a 330ml can. <3

This picture was  taken by my little brother (or his friend, I can’t remember) at a mosque event a few years back. My hair was so long it wouldn’t fit in my hat. And the eye lashes. Well 2 friends of mine liked them so much they offered to give me a free makeup session involving things that I didn’t even know the meaning of.

Anyway, onto the awarding part. Here are a few awesome bloggers that rank 6.759+ on the Rad scale.

1. Sana Castellano (@ A life worth living) totally deserves this. Yes I know it’s a bit weird to give back an award to someone who gave it to you, but in this case I hope you can overlook that. If you don’t believe me, just check out her blog.
2. Smiley (@ Sparkling Smiles) hates dislikes (?) awards because of the attached rules and regulations. But she totally deserved this. You don’t pre-book people to write your biography unless they’re good. She’s not good, she’s A-M-A-Z-I-N-G. Take a read of her recent posts and you will nod your head in agreement. Every post that her fingers type is just so wow. Pretty good job for butter fingers ;).
3. Zαìήαβ (@ Dummy Escape) is pretty Rad (no not in the bike sense of the word). I like her blog because it’s simple. People try so hard to stand out from the crowd that they end being the same as every one else. This blog is different; it’s not hard on the head, nor the eyes and it’s beauty lies in its simplicity. I like it, and I think you will too!
4. Since I started following Ella Unread’s (@ From the STUPIDEST corner of my mind) blog, I have never left her writing without feeling something. She writes short posts, but they are soaked in emotion and humanity, so much so, you’re bound to come across one that’ll make you nod your head and say ‘Me too’.
5. One blogger that is never afraid to say things bluntly, or speak of topics that many people would rather brush under the mat and act like they never existed is Azra (@ Azurah). Her posts can leave you LOL-ing, shaking your head in disgust or scratching your chin deep in thought and there are only very few people who can do that. I personally have learnt a lot from reading what she has to say.
6. Furree Katt (@ Furree Katt) is cool personified. Her blog is a place where you can laugh and have a generally good time. Her writing is always refreshing and fun to read, and the writer herself is a very nice person.
7. AcetylCholine (@ Critical Velocity) is probably the loveliest, funniest and most awesomest Martian you’ll ever come across. And you still want to know why she’s a worthy recipient of this award?
8. I decided to leave Yours Truly (@  {{ Yours Truly }}) to the end of the list because she deserves a special mention. Like all the other people in this list, she is an excellent writer who can keep you captivated for a very long time in words that are extremely thought provoking and true. She is an amazing writer who writes once every 6 or so weeks. That is why I mentioned her last. :P

I hope and pray you all have a lovely and productive week ahead.

[This is a scheduled post]

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Title: Fireflies – Owl City