All the Time We Thought We Had

I don't go to funerals very often. Maybe that's why, whenever I do, I become a little clumsy. I never quite know where to look, what to say, how long to hold someone's hand, or when to let go.

The last funeral I attended was almost 7 years ago. My father's.

I was living 14 hours away from the place I called home. Fourteen hours doesn't sound very far when you think about it. You can cross that distance in a day. But when someone you love is dying, fourteen hours can feel like an entire lifetime.

By the time I reached the hospital, Abah was already unconscious. There were tubes going down his throat, machines surrounding his bed, and hundreds of wires of varying colours running from his chest, his arms, and his legs. I remember looking at him, trying to find something familiar beneath all those things. A movement, perhaps. A slight twitch of his fingers. Anything that would tell me that he knew I was there.

But he never woke up.

And I wasn't with him when he passed away either. But I guess that's a story for a different day.

It was 7 years ago, and I still remember how traumatizing it was. I cried in my sleep. Sometimes I woke up with tears already running down my cheeks, not knowing whether I had been dreaming about him or simply missing him. And somewhere inside me, there's this tiny, persistent feeling that I could've been with him if I wanted to. That perhaps I had a choice, but I made the wrong one.

I know it's pointless to think about it now. He's gone. There is absolutely nothing I can do to change that. But guilt is a strange thing. It doesn't seem to care whether something happened yesterday or seven years ago. It just sits there, quietly, waiting for the right moment to remind you of all the things you should've done differently.

What if I stayed? What if I didn't go home? What if I had been there? What if

And then, last Tuesday afternoon, Nawaf lost his daughter.

She was one year old.

Just one.

He had gone to work that morning, like he always did. That afternoon, he received a call from his wife, rushed back home, and desperately tried to bring his little girl back to life. I don't know what went through his mind during those moments. I don't know what his wife said over the phone, or how he managed to get himself home. I can only imagine the desperation, the fear, and that horrible moment when he must've realised that there was nothing more he could do.

But God knows best.

And suddenly, I found myself remembering Abah again. Not because the circumstances were exactly the same, but because I knew a little about what it felt like to have someone taken away from you without any warning. One minute, life is going on as usual. You're thinking about work, dinner, perhaps what you're going to do over the weekend. And the next minute, someone you love is gone, and all those ordinary little things you were thinking about become so ridiculously insignificant.

Remember that post I wrote back in August 2025?

That's Nawaf.

He's my sunshine. He will always be my sunshine.

Nawaf and I have a rather strange relationship. I'm not entirely sure how to describe it. Are we best friends? I think we are. Are we lovers? I'm not sure about that either. But we do tell each other I love you every night before going to sleep. We spend a lot of time together. We laugh at the stupidest things. He calls me darling, calls me baby, and occasionally introduces me as his second wife. I love him, and I know he loves me too. We don't really need to explain it to each other.

And I know for a fact that he loves his family very much.

He has four children. Four children whom he loves dearly. One of them is no longer here, but I suppose that doesn't make him a father of three. He will always be a father of four. It's just that one of his children is now somewhere he cannot reach.

His children know me too. Once, when we went out for dinner with one of his boys, the little fellow called me Mama. Nawaf just laughed cheekily. I mean, how on earth would a four-year-old boy explain to his actual mother why he was calling another woman Mama? It was ridiculous. And we laughed about it.

I miss that.

I miss how ridiculously normal things were.

And perhaps that's why, when I attended his daughter's funeral last Wednesday, something inside me broke.

I saw him standing there, wearing his sunglasses, his face red and swollen from crying. His ghutra was slightly covering his bearded cheek. He looked exhausted. Not the kind of exhaustion you get after a long day at work, or after spending too much time at the gym. It was something else. Something I couldn't quite describe, although I could see it written all over his face.

And then I watched him watching the men slowly shovel dirt into his daughter's grave.

I couldn't bear it.

I kept looking at him. Perhaps I shouldn't have, but I couldn't help myself. This was the same Nawaf who called me darling. The same man who laughed at my stupid jokes, who teased me, who told me he loved me every night. And there he was, standing in front of a hole in the ground, watching strangers bury his little girl.

His little girl.

The child he had probably kissed before leaving for work. The child who would have recognised his footsteps, his voice, his face. The child who was still too young to understand most things in this world, let alone why she was suddenly leaving it.

How does a father make sense of something like that?

How do you go home afterwards? How do you walk into the same house, see the same toys, the same little clothes, and accept that the person they belonged to will never use them again?

How do you sleep?

And more importantly, how do you wake up the following morning and convince yourself that you still have to carry on living?

I looked at Nawaf, and for the first time, I wished I could do something impossible. I wished I could take even a fraction of that pain away from him. I wished there was something I could say, something I could offer, something I could somehow do to make him feel a little less miserable.

But what could I possibly give a man who has just buried his daughter?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

And that's the frustrating part about loving someone. Sometimes, no matter how much you love a person, you are completely useless when he needs help the most.

I couldn't bring his daughter back. I couldn't undo what happened that Tuesday afternoon. I couldn't even promise him that tomorrow would be any better than today.

So I did what I usually do when I don't know how to handle a difficult situation.

I withdrew.

I became distant. Awkwardly distant, if I may say so myself. I convinced myself that giving him space was the most sensible thing to do. That he needed time with his wife, his children, and his family. That the last thing he needed was another person constantly asking whether he was okay when he so obviously wasn't.

But then, how much space is enough?

A day? A week? A month?

Is there some kind of unwritten social contract that determines how long you should leave someone alone after he loses a child? At what point does giving someone space become abandoning him? And at what point does trying to be there for someone become an unnecessary intrusion into his grief?

I don't know.

I really don't.

And Nawaf isn't exactly the easiest person for me to read. I know he's strong. I've always known him to be strong. But I also know that beneath that tough exterior is someone capable of tremendous affection. I've seen that side of him. I've been lucky enough to experience it.

And perhaps, selfishly, I wanted him to show me that side of him again.

I wanted him to call me. I wanted him to cling to me, to tell me how much he was hurting, to let me be someone he could turn to when everything else became unbearable.

But he didn't.

He called somebody else.

And I would be lying if I said that didn't hurt me.

There. I've said it.

A man has just lost his one-year-old daughter, and here I am, feeling hurt because he didn't call me.

How fucking selfish is that?

When I attended the عزاء the other day, I couldn't help feeling that he was avoiding me. Perhaps he wasn't. Perhaps he was simply too overwhelmed to notice who was sitting in front of him. Perhaps he barely registered my presence. I mean, for heaven's sake, the man had just buried his child. He had probably shaken hundreds of hands, listened to countless prayers, and endured more condolences than any father should ever have to hear.

And yet, there I was, wondering why he hadn't come to me.

Why he hadn't looked at me.

Why he hadn't said anything.

It's embarrassing to admit, really.

Because I know that his silence has absolutely nothing to do with me. Or at least I hope it doesn't. I know his world has been turned upside down, and I know that the last thing he needs right now is to worry about whether I feel loved enough.

But knowing something and convincing yourself to accept it are two entirely different things.

Part of me is afraid of losing him.

And another part of me is afraid of losing the Nawaf I used to know.

The Nawaf who would casually tell me he loved me. The Nawaf who made me laugh. The Nawaf who would call me baby as though it were the most natural thing in the world. The Nawaf who had somehow become such a familiar part of my life that I no longer stopped to think about how much his presence meant to me.

He has been a constant in my life. And I would very much like for him to remain that way.

But can I reasonably expect that?

Can I expect a man to remain exactly the same after burying his own daughter?

I don't think so.

Something inside him must have changed that day. I don't know what, and I don't know how much. Perhaps he doesn't know either. Perhaps he will only begin to understand it months or years from now, when everyone else has returned to their ordinary lives and he is still trying to understand why his little girl isn't coming home.

And that's another thing that frightens me.

The funeral is over. The condolences will eventually stop. People will return to work, to their families, to their usual conversations about football, the weather, and whatever else people talk about. Life will continue for everyone else.

But what about Nawaf?

What happens when the last guest leaves? When the house becomes quiet again? When there is no longer a steady stream of people coming to offer their prayers and condolences?

He will still have to live in that house.

He will still have to look at the things his daughter left behind.

He will still remember that Tuesday afternoon.

And I wonder how many times he will replay it in his head. Whether he will ask himself the same horrible questions I have been asking myself for seven years.

What if I had stayed home that day?

What if I had been there?

What if

God, I hope he doesn't.

I hope he never has to live with that kind of guilt. Because I know how exhausting it is to keep punishing yourself over something you can never change. And mine was the loss of a father. I cannot even begin to imagine what losing a child would do to a person.

Come to think of it, perhaps I am being selfish.

Actually, there's no perhaps about it.

I am selfish.

I'm sitting here worrying about whether our relationship will ever be the same when the man I love has just lost something infinitely more precious than whatever we have between us.

He lost his daughter, for heaven's sake.

And I'm worried about losing the version of him that I happen to love.

It's almost insulting when I think about it that way.

But I can't simply switch off my feelings either. I can't pretend that I don't miss him, or that his silence doesn't bother me. I can't pretend that I haven't been wanting to hear from him, even though I know perfectly well why he might not have the slightest desire to speak to anyone.

I miss him.

And I feel horrible for missing him when he's going through something so terrible.

I find myself wanting to send him a message. Just a simple message. Something to remind him that I'm here, that I love him, that he doesn't have to go through everything alone. But then I stop myself, because I wonder who that message is actually meant to comfort.

Him?

Or me?

Am I genuinely trying to make him feel better, or am I simply looking for an excuse to hear from him? To see his name appear on my phone? To reassure myself that despite everything that has happened, I still occupy some little corner of his life?

And if he doesn't reply, will I start feeling hurt again?

Will I then spend the next few hours wondering what I did wrong?

I don't want to be that person.

I don't want to become another obligation in his life. Another person whose feelings he has to consider, whose expectations he has to manage, whose messages he has to answer.

He already has enough to deal with.

And the last thing I want is for my love to become something he has to worry about.

So perhaps I should just leave him alone for now. Not because I love him any less, but because I don't want to demand anything from someone who has already had so much taken away from him.

Maybe he will call me tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe a month from now.

Or maybe things will never quite return to how they used to be.

I don't know.

And that uncertainty scares me more than I care to admit.

But I suppose that's something I will have to deal with myself. Because whatever I'm feeling right now, however painful it might be, I still get to go to bed tonight knowing that the people I love are alive.

Nawaf doesn't have that luxury anymore.

There will always be one person missing from his family. One birthday that will never be celebrated the way it should have been. One little voice he will never hear growing older. One child whose face will remain forever young, even as the rest of his children grow up, go to school, get married, and have children of their own.

He will grow old.

His daughter never will.

And I think that's what breaks my heart the most.

I wish I could tell him that everything will be okay. That one day he will wake up and the pain will be gone. That he will become the same happy, cheeky Nawaf I used to know.

But I can't promise him any of those things.

Perhaps he will never be the same again.

And perhaps loving him means accepting that, even if it hurts me.

I just hope he knows that I am still here. That he doesn't have to be strong around me. That he can cry, be angry, say absolutely nothing, or tell me the same story about his daughter a hundred times, and I will listen to it a hundred and one times if that's what he needs.

I don't need him to call me darling.

I don't need him to tell me he loves me every night.

I don't even need him to be the Nawaf I knew before last Tuesday.

I just want him to be okay.

Although, if I'm being completely truthful, I would give anything to hear him laugh again. That familiar, ridiculous laugh of his. The one that made me fall in love with him in the first place.

I miss that laugh.

I miss him.

And I hate that there's nothing I can do to bring back the one person he must be missing more than anything in this world.

I keep thinking about his face at the funeral. The swollen eyes behind those sunglasses. His beard partly hidden beneath his ghutra. The way he stood there while the men buried his little girl.

I have seen him happy so many times.

I never imagined I would have to see him like that.

And I hope to God I never have to see him suffer like that again.

My dear Nawaf,

I don't know how to make any of this easier for you. I don't know what to say, or when to say it. I don't even know whether you want me around right now.

But I love you.

And it hurts me terribly to know that someone I love so much is going through something I cannot do anything about.

Your pain makes me ache.

Your suffering makes me ache.

Your red, swollen face, exhausted from all those tears, makes me ache.

And if there were a way for me to take even a small part of your pain and carry it myself, I would.

I really would.

Because I have already lost my father, and I know what it feels like to spend years wishing for one more day with someone who is never coming back.

But you have lost your daughter.

And I cannot imagine how many more years you will spend wishing for that one ordinary Tuesday morning when she was still alive.

I am afraid of losing you, my sunshine.

But you have already lost her.

And I am so, so sorry.

 "How odd, I can have all this inside me and to you it's just words"

— David Foster Wallace, The Pale King

Rinse and repeat

There was a time I believed I was happy. Once, I could say the word and it lit the room like a small lamp. Back then, happiness wore no label and needed no defense. It hovered at the back of my throat, drifted through my head. I knew it when it came. I didn’t need a cat video to coax a laugh or a pint of vanilla to bribe a smile. Happiness wasn’t something I held; it held me. It was the lightness of a small camping chair set on a shy strip of shore, no one around—only the water’s hush, birds stitching the air, the wind sweeping the rest away.

And I knew it would pass. Nothing keeps forever, they say, don’t they? Even as I floated, some part of me counted the seconds to its leaving. I feared I would lose it before I could taste it whole, like a fruit snatched clean from my palm. I lived as if in a trance—the world could burn and I would still be suspended in that nameless calm—and threaded through it was a whisper: hold your horses, you fool; this will end.

So I kept circling the same track: worrying about letting go, worrying about the wound to come, worrying about who I’d be after. And the worrying curdled what was sweet. The little draught of joy went flat on my tongue, stale at the edges, twisting my stomach.

Then the old ache returned—sadness with its patient face. I thought time would wear it down. It did, in its way, but it left a map on me. Some marks are scratches. Some are jagged and deep. Some I still trace with a finger, asking what bargain I made to be caught in this rinse and repeat.

Maybe I will never know. Maybe happiness is a word we invented to sell the soul a promise it cannot keep.

If I am not happy, then what am I?

My Sunshine

today the sky looked like a clean shirt, the kettle sounded happy, the door clicked right, and you were the reason. it’s ordinary and that’s the best part. i feel steady when you’re here

i love you in the morning, after lunch, and when the lights are off.

thank you for being my favorite simple fact.

I think I am at the stage where I don't really give a shit about what's happening around me.
I'm not saying that I have tons of money to ditch work and whatnot — heck, I'm laden with debts that even breathing feels like a labor.
I can't say that I am depressed, and I can't say that I am not.
It's just... life feels static and running at 200 miles an hour at the same time.
Living feels like being in a void. In a limbo. In a constant loop of uncertainty.
At times, I feel like crying. And most of the time, I struggle to find a single reason to cry.
After all, you can't just cry, can you?

There's a deep wanting to let go. To blow off steam.
But if I can't tell what's the pressure that's been brewing inside me, how could I vent it off?
I just don't understand.
Maybe it's the loneliness.
Maybe age is starting to knock some sense into my head.
I just don't have the answers.

And if you may excuse me, I have some weeping to do.
Goodbye.

Once

 

Your convenience

That was the problem, wasn't it? You left home. But you never did become an adult. Not really. You just fucked up in different and more complicated ways.

Almost

Almost. It slips off the tongue like a sigh, a word so small it shouldn't hold so much weight. But it does. It sits heavy in my chest, a stone lodged in the place where dreams used to bloom.

I built my life on almosts, sturdy little houses made of "what ifs" and "maybes." Almost graduated top of my class, almost married the man who swore he'd love me forever, almost held a child in my arms. Each one a promise whispered on the wind, then snatched away like a cruel game.

And the worst part? The worst part is how they steal your future. You get so caught up in the almosts, the shimmering mirages of what could have been, that you forget how to live in the present. You become a ghost in your own life, watching as real happiness dances past, just out of reach.

Perhaps, almost is the saddest word there is.

Revisiting Shay

It was an odd day. Maybe it was because the clouds looked different or because I wore mismatched socks. I’m not really sure. I stood in front of Shay, the room smelling slightly of old books and maybe a bit of lemon cleaner. Shay had a beard that seemed like it hadn’t been brushed for days, but it made him look interesting, not messy. It reminded me of the scruffy dog I once saw at the park.

We were supposed to chat about usual things, maybe the new movie or the book I was reading. But my mouth had its own plan. I told Shay the biggest secret I had, the one that had been piling up inside me like lego bricks. The secret about how I felt about him.

He looked surprised, like when someone gives you a present on a day that’s not your birthday. For a really long time, he just stood there. The old clock on the wall kept ticking, and a bird outside the window was singing, probably to another bird.

Then, Shay finally talked. “You know, I always thought secrets were like lost socks. They’re hidden somewhere but always turn up eventually.” He looked at his own mismatched socks and then back at me. “I’ve felt something too,” he admitted, his face going a bit red, sort of like a tomato that’s not quite ripe.

The room seemed to get a bit brighter, or maybe that was just my imagination. We stepped closer, like two magnets that had decided to be friends. It felt like standing at the front of a long queue, knowing it’s almost your turn.

Then, doing something I didn’t expect, Shay reached out and ruffled my hair, like an older brother might. “Let’s be brave together,” he said, a playful glint in his eyes. And then, as if it was the most natural thing to do, we both leaned in. Our kiss was a bit clumsy and tasted slightly of the mint gum he’d been chewing earlier, but it was perfect in its own special way. Outside, the world took on a new hue, shadows playing more vividly against the sunlit walls, and the very air seemed to hum with an unseen excitement, as if nature itself was in on our secret.

Someplace Else

You make me happy, do you know that?

How so?

Your existence, your breath, your caramel hair against the morning sun, your porcelain skin against mine, your squinty eyes when you're being naughty, the way your fingers slowly crawl on my face. 

What else?

Your smile. Your perfect teeth. Your little dance in the kitchen. The way you stand. The way you walk. Little silly things you say when you have your first coffee of the day. 

You make me happy too.

How so?

You. You by being you. You make me happy. 

 Even in the mud and scum of things, something always, always sings.

A Raya Note

Couldn’t help myself but to stare at last year’s Eid photo. Doesn’t want to sound sappy nor despondent, but this is how I plunge into the celebratory eve of Eid. The lemang was nothing but thick blocks of salty gooey carbs; the rendang was a pot of runny distasteful disappointment; and home is a vault of silence with unperturbed partitions of messes. 

My head spins with distress, annoyance, troubles, problems, whatever there is. They say, tonight is the moment of reflection, when you sit down, pat yourself at the back for passing through the 30 days of self abstain. Did I fast good enough? Sure I fasted more days than when I was 10. Did I win the fight? It was more like carrot and stick, where my uncontrolled self chasing the carrot to no end.

Have I tried my best? More often than not, I have not. Have I tried to mend the fences? Your guess is as good as mine, I have not. Have I tried to man up and admit my mistakes? No I have not, but I stood by my decisions even though it is wrong. 

Am I a shitty person? I am and there’s not even a remote chance that I am going to deny that. Have I abused the trust that was bestowed on me? I have and even though sorry might be cliched, I ran out of words other than how remorsefully sorry I am. 

This Eid, as with the other Eids I had before, is just another day of me lounging on the couch watching TV while snacking chips  on my belly. The only difference is that this year, it is without my late Abah’s soothing presence, my Mak’s comforting smile, and all other nitty gritty that makes Hari Raya as it is. 

If you ask me how do I feel, which I’m certain you will not, I am just sad and depressed. And as much as I want it to sound casual, it’s a reprise of melancholic epiphany. 

Selamat Hari Raya. Maaf Zahir dan Batin

Dhahran,

Kingdom of Saudi Arabia

Addiction

I realized recently that my fascination towards certain something or certain someone has a definitive expiration date. A date that is so obscure it changes whenever I feel like to. What was it? Was it partly due to separation issue? Anxiety? Over attachment? Low self confidence? There was a time that I developed a worrying addiction to ice cream that I bought an ice cream machine for the sake of experimenting 'new' flavors that I ended up using the machine for only a couple of times. The machine now stuck on the top shelf in the kitchen, collecting dust and in a year, about to be an ancient relic. 

Or when there was a time that I loved luqaimat (sweet arabic dumpling, glazed with date molasses) so much that I bought them every single day for almost a week. And now when the infatuation is over, the thought of it revokes nothing but a speck of old memory.

It happens to writing as well. When I took my shower a couple of minutes ago, I could not wait to get out of bath and start writing - about my short period of infatuation - that it seemed to wane its steam off. Shall I continue writing tomorrow? Or shall this post end here?

I don't know. We'll see when this excitement comes to life again. 

Good night.

Guilt

I’m drowning in guilt. I figured if mistakes weren’t made, guilt wouldn’t hurt. Who would’ve thought that drowning yourself in platitudes was a quick bandaid? Shit such as ‘you did wrong, but it’s a lesson’ or ‘if I were in your shoes, I would’ve done the same’.

Me, you, them, us. We look for an easy fix. We afraid to face our own fear. But if logic would play a role, overcoming your fear is pretty moronic. 

I fear death. Does that mean I should die?

I fear height. Does that mean I should jump off the cliff?

I fear getting dumped. Does that mean I should break someone’s heart?

I fear commitment. Does that mean I should be an ass?

These questions are just like pi. 22 divided by 7. A number so unique there’s no repetition nor pattern. 

It’s never ending. So does our guilt. So what do you do when the guilts are so insurmountable and out of control?

You run? Or you just forget?

Saturday

It comes the very moment you wake up each morning. All your wishes and hopes for the day rush at you like wild animals. And the first job each morning consists simply in shoving them all back; in listening to that other voice, taking that other point of view, letting that other larger, stronger, quieter life come flowing in. And so on, all day.

Poison Ivy

I remember that morning. It was really warm. And quiet. Well maybe it was Saturday and nobody in their right mind would wake up that early. Except for one teenager, cladded in her two-piece poison ivy red bikini, looking estranged. She would stand for a few minutes before dipping her left foot in the water, and retracted back. And a few minutes later, she did the same. She looked unsure — I deduced from her complete incongruent behavior, but why would you be unsure if you woke up in the wee hour, put on your nice looking swim outfit and had a mental confusion later?

She left. As much mystery as she would offer to bystanders, it was more appalling that she would waste her time from her uncertainty. Tarek would laugh if he were there. Not because that spring teenager’s indecisiveness, but from the way I observe. He would say ‘you observant freak’. He was never wrong.

Barjas was never wrong as well. But the problem was when I sat on that bench on some random places in Bauen, Switzerland, he was still a stranger. He was still someone that I would not talk to if I didn’t have to. He was still a wallflower, a decorative addition to my long list email recepients. He was at that time, just a name, just a random colleague who wouldn’t even say hi when we brushed off our shoulders. 

I reckoned if I knew him earlier, I would be that girl in the red bikini. Indecisive, uncertain, confused, deranged. But that girl’s problem was perhaps from the cold water itself. The coldness made her feel unsure. The difference if I was at her place, I might not question the temperature, but rather questioning whether if it was worthy to end my life for someone that didn’t even worthy my life in the first place.

She’s lucky. But maybe, I’m not.

The trouble about jumping was that if you didn't pick the right number of storeys, you might still be alive when you hit bottom.

Askhole

It has been a while, hasn't it? It's pretty a while that the little grape trees that I planted grew up to the size of my thumb, spiraling all over the poles, with the leaves drape down like a curtain in some wild fantasy movies. It has been a while that the grape trees wilted, died, and grew back again, just like the green grasses that sprawling after a bush fire.

It has been that a while.

And a lot of things happened in between that. I have been meaning to write, but as I sat down on my table, fingers dancing on the keys, brain juggled in between incoherent thoughts, I yielded at the very last moment. It struck me that the stories that I was going to tell were just another repercussion of the same shit again and again. 

"You're a good person but you refuse to learn", Sammy told me one day on our way back to the parking lot. It was a cold winter evening, not as blistering cold as in Minneapolis, but it's pretty cold enough for Saudi Arabian standard. 

"You know what girl, I sat on my toilet bowl last night and I contemplated the shits that happened to me. And I was pretty darn sure that I was the source of the problem. Remember Custard? Remember how I fucked his life? And then there was Shay, and oh yes, the mighty Liam; I fucked everybody's life with my inferiority complex!"

"Yeah, and yet yesterday you were being an askhole. You want me to explain what an askhole is?"

"I got it bitch. I know what an askhole is"

"And you messed it up Z. I told you you weren't going to get what you wanted. You're gonna get hurt pretty bad if you don't stop. I mean he won't hurt you physically, but are you ready to get your heart crushed and burn all over again? You deserve to be happy, but you chose not to"

If a stranger met Sammy, he would've easily thought that she's a shrink. Or a love doctor. Or a sex therapist. Or a quack. Whatever fits at that very situation. And as for me, Sammy knows a lot about me. In and out. But all this while she thought that she knew everything, and apparently she wasn't. Everybody has their own little secrets, yours truly included. So when I told Sammy about the uncomfortable encounters in between me and Barjas, I wasn't really sure that I told him the complete see-through story. She didn't have to know the story in its entirety, she should just know the bare surface so she could grasp the funky shithole that I was dealing with.

Sammy's advice was like treasures carefully locked inside a chest. It's not like that she dispensed the advice against her will, but it was something that rarely reachable once you get ahold of it, it was something that you could not let go.

I have yet to tell her what really happened between me and Barjas. It took me to a dark road, and that dark road was not the place that you would happily jaywalk just because there's a road in front of you. 

I am pretty lost right now. Along that dark road. I am hoping Sammy would grab my hand and show me the way out. But I am pretty ruined, and I am not pretty sure that Sammy will be there again whenever I need an arm to hold on to. 

Zubaidah Arshad

The Meat Company

Adliya, Kingdom of Bahrain

19 January 2020

James

I get these moments when I have to lie down because everything feels sort of too much and I look up and see the blue, or the grey, or the black and I feel myself melting into it. And, for like a split second, I feel free. And happy. Innocent. Like a dog, or an alien, or a baby.


The End of the F***ing World

Normality in our part of the world is a bit like a boiled egg: its humdrum surface conceals at its heart a yolk of egregious violence. It is our constant anxiety about that violence, our memory of its past labours and our dread of its future manifestations, that lays down the rules for how a people as complex and as diverse as we continue to coexist – continue to live together, tolerate each other and, from time to time, murder one another. As long as the centre holds, as long as the yolk doesn’t run, we’ll be fine. In moments of crisis it helps to take the long view.

-Arundhati Roy

This Bird Needs A Bicycle

As I walked past a perfectly aligned date palm trees along the walkway to my office, I couldn't help to notice the birds that were happily (they were happy I assumed) pecking the fallen dates on the ground.

Life is simple for them. Wake up in the morning, spread the wings and look for foods, fill up their tummies, and get back home right after.

Nothing to worry about. There is no complex love life, no mortgage, no dumb underlings, no loud sex neighbors, no traffic jam, no bad hair day, no office politics, no keto diet. They have no human silly problems to face to.

But then it strikes me that the birds have to worry about prying cats, about the rain that ruins their nest, about finding foods for their hatchlings, worrying about their babies. They have tonnes of bird problems that we silly human may not understand.

But fuck it. I understand bird problems. I just want to be a bird. Let me be a bird for a day. Then I can judge.


This Bird Needs A Bicycle
Zubaidah Arshad
23 Sept 2018
Saudi Arabia National Day
Dhahran, Kingdom Of Saudi Arabia

Revenge

There’s a faint tone of subtlety in the speeches from those who have been the sturdy supporters of the former ruling government.

It is as if watching kids humming dissatisfaction while slowly swallowing the defeat. Hard and gravelly along the throat, but swallowing is the last choice in hand.

People have to accept that ruling a nation is not prerogative to a singular entity.

The defeated has to vouch on the idea that changes come in many forms and shapes. And I believe this time, it could not be any clearer.

Happy Friday everyone.

Love,
ZA

First and Last

Sometimes love does not need to be expressed by words. I Love You, I Need You, I Am Falling For You, are all phrases that are so cliche, it loses its values.

Love is a mutual feeling. When two people love each other, their actions speak louder than any verbal I Love You you've possibly ever heard.

Love is about pretending not to love, but loving is all what we do.

Zubaidah Arshad

Krakow, Poland

1st March 2018

"Do you run?"
"Yes. Out of patience, fucks and money"

Artificial Hope

That warm Saturday morning when I saw you being basked by the mid summer sun ray — you were barefooted, in your wide neck tank top and a floral board short, your hair was golden, glistened by the unforgiving bright sunlight — I knew that my artificial dream had almost came true.

Except that you never knew who I was, you never knew that I was seeing my dream materialized like riding on a ferris wheel — circling the horizon, up and down, the feel of being on top of the world, the soft silky gush of breeze that touched your face  — gazing from afar.

You wouldn’t know. Because I didn't have balls to tell you that I wanted you. Not that I had balls in the first place (literally!), but if I did, I would. Because my jaw locked up like a constantly-smiling clown at a cheap fun fair.

And now you’re gone.
With that girl.
Who stole my dream.
On the mid summer morning.

.
.
.
.
"I Miss You"
Zubaidah Arshad
25 July 2017
1225 hrs
Dubai
United Arab Emirates

Apartment 11B

This picture was taken on the top of the hill at Old Town Ibiza. The day was beautiful and sunny. The people too. Can’t say that I miss a place so much like I miss Ibiza.

Those Little Words

My 3 journals. Journals are not judgmental. They just keep quiet when you poor your thoughts to them. They don't make you look stupid when you tell them your feelings. They don't shrug off when you tell them your problems.

They just there. Silent and your words stare back at your face.

Journals keep me sane. These journals are my solace.

Debt-dy Issues

"He's so funny. He's like my dream boy"
"Jokes won't make your stomach full. Funny won't shelter you from rain and sun"
"Are you this serious all the time?"
"Yes and no. Yes because you've got issues. No because I ain't you"
"I think you got to check your panties, because your pussy is on fire. Hahaha"
"Why do you think it's funny? Your lame bone is on point there"
"You're boring"
"Yeah. Go get your dream boy"
"OK OK OK. I'll give you back your money tomorrow"
"Thanks"


Zubaidah Arshad
25th March 2017
Juffair, Kingdom of Bahrain

Klara Södra kyrkogata

After so many years, I am back in Stockholm. While walking down the alley, I couldn't help to recall the conversation we had a night before.

I thought finally, we had something in common. But I also forget that you can't be forgiving of me all the time.

We just need to get past through the period where things we should've said are kept unsaid, because to be honest, and to be fair, we both know the fact that I always make things worse, and you always pull yourself back. For once, a resistance from you would be good.

And as always, you play the good guy role once again, making me looks like an ungrateful 40-ish spinster who does not know how to say Thank You once in a while.

So this alley, and the leafless trees along the road, just an addition to the bland images of yours. For once I wished you were here, but the fact that you're actually not here, sends a chill relief down my spine.

I miss you Aboody. I really do.

ZA
Stockholm, Sweden

That Man

"Don't push it"
"It is not enough"
"What more there is?"
"He said he couldn't be my boyfriend"
"Hey woman. Boyfriend is only a term. He acts like one, technically he's your boyfriend"
"I need to be labeled. Like 'ZA, the girlfriend of Aboody'. It feels nice to let the whole world know that you are belong to someone. It feels good that once in a while, you're not barking at the wrong tree. It makes you feel that you are wanted"
"Just don't push it, please. Aboody by far is the best guy you ever have in your life. I never heard Liam, Custard, Shay or any other fuckers that you dated before willing to go to your home, bought a shitload of light bulbs, because you're too blond to replace one. I never heard these guys came to your house, bringing over toilet seat because you were stupid enough not to buy one for your own loo.

"He's married. He has a daughter. What he is giving you right now is more than you could ask for. You cannot demand something that even not your own. You cannot wish for something that won't happen. If he loves you albeit secretly or openly, for me, that is more than the world that you could wish for.

"I am really happy when you found him you know. For once, you were yourself again. You start to laugh again, your face lit up like a moon, your smile is genuine. I haven't seen you like this for quite some time. Expectation that you have in your brain right now needs to be lowered down. He loves you, you know that. He won't say that to you. But he loves you. Who the fuck on earth doesn't have a feeling to someone, but at the same time spending hours lying down together under a blanket, watching that foolish La La Land?

"Take a good care of him. I want you to be happy. I want you to be yourself again"
"I know. But the problem is, love is like ice cream. It won't make you full, but it makes you crave for more. His affection towards me perhaps the sweetest thing I ever tasted in my life. His smile brightens up my day. When I feel a little under the weather, I dig back his stupid jokes at the back of my head, and how old the jokes are, I still laugh at it. I feel good around him. He is my dream boy. I know that he's someone's husband, I know that he's a father to a beautiful child, but I can't help to wish that I want him all for myself"
"You can't. And you won't. If you love him, you won't do it"
"What's with me that I always fall for someone's husband all over again? Why can't I get someone that don't belong to anyone? Why don't I meet him earlier?"
"Because if you met him earlier, he might not be the one that you see right now. He could be someone else"
"Maybe"

"Love him. Love all you want. But that's all about it.  Appreciate this moment. For one second, be grateful that he's there for you"
"I am afraid he will change. He promised he won't. But who knows?"
"He won't. I know"
"I know"
"Be strong"
"Can I cry?"
"Yes"
"Thanks"
"Stupid woman"

How can I not love you? You were there in my happiest and darkest moments. You put up with my shits. You are there every time for me.

I love you. I love you Aboodi.

Dream Boy

"You know right that I would if I could?"
"You could, and you should"
"I couldn't. I'm sorry"
"You said you would do anything to make me happy"
"I know"
"Then do it"
"Put yourself in my shoes. Will you cheat someone that loves you, someone that you love?"
"No. But it is unfair. I wish we never met each other. It's better that way"
"Don't say it. I know you're mad at me. I can't lose you"
"Then why showered me with hopes in the first place?"
"Don't shove those words into my mouth. I never said that. I told you to never fall in love with me. I told you I have a wife. I have a child. I can't cheat on them"
"But do you love me?"
"I can't say that"
"Can you deny that you don't have any feelings towards me, at all?"
"I can't. Deep inside me, I love you. But I love my family more"
"If you never married, if you met me before your wife, will you spend the rest of your life with me?"
"I will"
"I love you"
"I know. Me too"


ZA

I thought I tasted Love. I tasted Death instead

31st December 2016

And in this room, Maher and I sat watching each others eyes. Not talking (because we were running out of topics), just listening to his breath and watching his fingers running across the marbles lines. I was simmered in uncertainty.

There were a tad too many times when I pinched my arm just to make sure that I wasn't living in a dream. Because having Maher for a little while was so surreal, because having a feeling that you were wanted was perhaps the best feeling a person could have.

Maher

Do you know when was the last time I cried because of a man? A few years back. 

I might cry again.

Tonight.

ZA

“When you feel homesick,’ he said, ‘just look up. Because the moon is the same wherever you go.”
― Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

Dry

I thought I'd love the idea of being touched by a man. I thought I would love the feeling of being caress, of strong hands slowly running on your back like a trickling sweat, of fingers stroking your hair like a giant comb, of warm breath that brushes your faces, or the jolt when the other lips touch yours.

No. It would be fun when I was in my 20s. When I knew I would look alluring in a pink lingerie. But all of that never happened when I was in my 20s and I never had it now even just to make a wild comparison.

I could only imagine how my life would be back then. And I just can imagine how my life will be if I venture into this for the first time, at the age me supposedly having a teenage son and daughter.

Am I have been silent for too long? 

ZA

Shay left the company. I don't want to believe that it is because of me. I would like to believe that he moved for a better future.

ZA

Thing happens sometimes. Or just doesn't happen at all.

ZA

What if someone you never met, someone you never saw, someone you never knew was the only someone for you?

"There's no way to tell, isn't it? What if you pass by him, and he throws you a glance, and you take it as only a glance from stranger and not knowing that the guy is the right guy for you? How on earth would you face yourself when you knew that you just missed a chance, a chance of at last being loved by someone that is perfect for you?"

"I have a question. Do you know when are you going to die? Or when you about to get crushed by a giant rock, or the time when someone slaps your head from the back? Can you tell?"

"I know what are you trying to say. Don't fucking tease me"

"You know what, you had a future with Abdullah but your idiotic brain told you to ditch him and fucking sail this life on your own. And now I have to listen to you whining about your sad single life every single fucking day and you won't even accept my advice. You are my friend, but you are a fucking stupid friend. I think I care more about your heart than you do, because what I see, when you say you're going to take care about your heart, what you do is only putting fucking stupid patches on your fucking heart. It'll stop the bleed, you fucker. But it won't put away with your pain."

"I am trying to.."

"Trying what? Being a sad 30 ish spinster?"

"Trying to make peace with my own damn heart"

"I know what's in your head now. Shay?"

"No"

"It is Shay right?"

"No. Maybe yes. I don't know"

"5 billions people are in this world, and you fucking choose him again?"

"I don't know. I think I still love him"

"You love him. He never loved you"

"It's OK Nina. I choose not to believe you"

"Yeah fuck you"




ZA

Too Much Information

I had all the things that I should and could say to Shay, but I chose not to. In fact, I chose to share one of my heavily guarded secrets ever to the guy I barely talk to, to the guy who kept on ditching me for unknown reasons, the guy who kept on throwing away glances as if I was the dirtiest human ever existed on earth.

I chose to be stupid that day. I chose to be ignorant. I chose to leave my conscience handle my emotions on its own. I chose to forget that I had career ahead of me that I should treasure.

I chose to be an idiot. And I am sure this will haunt me for the rest of my life.

ZA

On My Own

If someone came to up to you and handed you a book and you started reading it and then realized it was a book of your entire life, would you continue reading it till the end?

ZA

Why do we think love will fix us and makes us whole when in the end it just leaves us more broken than before?

ZA

Get Home

The hardest thing you have to endure in life most probably is to hang on tight to all of your shits, and still be able to smile in the end.

Tupac Shakur sums it all just right. You gotta be able to smile through all these bullshits.

Chin up and face the world.

Suck it up.

ZA

Eid Mubarak

Selamat Hari Raya. Maaf Zahir dan Batin.

Zubaidah Arshad
Saudi Arabia

The Buaianain - Part 2

Shay and I share a disturbing roller coaster relationship with each other. It was when I joined the company a few years back that Abdulaziz introduced me to him, and the relationship that was supposed to be good along the way, was tarnished by my stupid childish act. When you say women are harder to understand compared to men, you may want to give yourself a pretty hard knock on your head. Shay is the epitome of a super complex, super mystery guy. The only thing that is so not mysterious about him perhaps the fact that he is a fine-built, muscular, handsome man.

When Shay was away for two straight months, life in the office seemed weightless. I couldn't be sure whether it was because I didn't care, or because my heart was so swollen with anger (and with a little dilution of love dose) that his absence was nothing but godsend. It was easy to forget someone when that someone was not around, and it was easier that the multiple awkward encounters on the stairs, or on the hallway, or on the way to the cafeteria, were totally gone. But given my atrocious track record of getting back to the same pool of shit all over again, I met him in his office when he reported back for duty. He had a minor surgery, so I thought it was appropriate for me to give him a courtesy visit. It was fine at that particular time that he even spilled some of his well-kept hidden secrets. It went perfectly well for the first few days until I sent him a Whatsapp message telling him that he was important to me.

Things went downhill from that point onward, the episode of awkward encounters resumed in its supremacy. At one time, we crossed our paths on the hallway. He was from the left side of the building, while I on the other hand, was walking from another side of the building. The destination however was similar - the main exit door. I wanted to look at him but I couldn't. You know, when you met someone that you fond, but you were in a row with him and you were clueless and you were left dumbfounded to what your next move should be. I couldn't pass through the door, barely holding to my racing heart, let alone to get pass through the moment.

A few days ago, I had a lengthy talk with Asmida. She agreed and concluded that I was the one to blame, that I was the root cause for all the turmoil I faced with my opposite sex human interaction. As much as I wanted to disagree, I couldn't. I guess, this what will happen when you love someone a little bit too much.

Shay is somehow special to me. I think so. I would like to think so, even when he thinks the other way round. My problem with getting too involved in the early stage of friend(relation)ship needs to be looked upon. It has ruined a lot of my past relationships with other men. I can't continue to chase for people's love. I need to settle down and embark on a new journey. After all, my eggs won't last long. Someone needs to be born to be my legacy.

p/s: The Buaianain as the post title does not reflect the previous Al Buaianain. I found out that he is as jerk as Shay. I think even worse. That's all.


ZA

One Track Mind

Carelessness emerges together with stupidity. It usually doesn't come single handed, it always comes in pair. Well, for certain others, admitting your stupidity and mistakes are a out-of-worldly affair, but for me, I take it as an instrument to learn more about yourself, some trait that you forget to delve and have a glimpse into.

That's what happened to me when I decided to privatize my blog a few weeks ago. The nice cocoon that I have been hiding all this while was almost blown off - no thanks to my absentminded brain.

I think I got it sorted out, so I will continue to write, and open this blog to public, you know, just to test the water.

We'll see what will happen.

I hope I am not ruining anything.


ZA

Saudi Boyfriend

She was like the dust that clung to his shirt. She was in the silences that had become so frequent at the house, silences that welled up between their words, sometimes cold and hollow, sometimes pregnant with things that went unsaid, like a cloud filled with rain that never fell.

-And The Mountains Echoed

Lost

We are hogging the free wifi because who wants to pay when there's something that's absolutely free? This is beyond weird, we could've spent some time together doing things that will make us know each other better, but we end up sitting in a mall, trying to figure out what we should do next.

We lost our way an hour earlier, got pushed to some weird housing area with eyes looking at us like we are some inmates running away from the cops. Even weirder when he takes his own sweet time, putting himself in the front camera for selfie, like come on, I am here dude, at least have the courtesy to take a selfie together.

I think this won't be the trip of my lifetime. Perhaps for him, it is, but for me, I sense some awkward moments ahead.

We will see.

ZA

The Trip Of A Lifetime (?)

Tomorrow, at 1530 hrs, he and I will board the plane to the (probably) trip of a lifetime. He has been planning this for months, and it couldn't be more fitting that his birthday was a week ago and he just finished his exam a few past hours. This part time master that he rides on, takes its toll on him. He went off for a week leave to complete the exam, and a few minutes ago, a voice note flashed in that he it was so terrible he wanted to drink until he got lost tomorrow.

As a person who takes things literally, that was a little disturbing. First of all, I don't drink. Second of all, I am going to be awkward around the people who drink. Third, this drinking stuff just shifted my perspective towards him. And if you people remember, I listed out the characteristics of a guy that I would date a few posts back. Smoking and drinking never made it into the list, so if he does really drink, that will be really a game changer.

I want this trip to be something that I will remember for the rest of my life. In a good way. Not the other way round.

Let's just hope that was just his penis talking.

Good night.

ZA

Loving Shits

There's a situation when describing it would be like deciphering Mayan tribe's crazy puzzle - you only see the figures and shapes and you don't have any fucken idea where and when and how it's going to end up, and you don't have the slightest thought of whom it would be solved with, and whose shitty idea is this to create this puzzle in the first place.

It's like staring into the blank night canvas where distant stars look graspable when in reality, the only way to measure the distance is by the light years. That's how far it is. We are only tiny speck of dust in a super massive universe, where the puzzles that lie in, are more greater than the Mayans had left for us to ponder. 

Mayans and the stars gazing aside, Loving Shits is far more greater piece of trivia among other shitty riddles to debunk. I define Loving Shits as shithole-y situation where you got stuck in between being a friend or edge an inch further to breach the friend-lover line. You can't say you love him, but you can't deny that you don't think about him either. It's all about to keep everything calm and composed and restraining self not to go overboard because you don't want to ruin the friendship but at the same time, you would love to test the water and go overboard. And once you went overboard, the regrets start to flush in and out. All of a sudden, you feel like a crap because you just gone beyond the line, and you couldn't take it back, and he didn't reply your text back.

He didn't fucking reply your text back! Imagine the anxiousness - it is far more suffocating than stuck in elevator full with fart gas. 

I can tell you that the struggle is real. Over a cup of tea, you start to console yourself that you can get pass through these shits, that in two or three days time, you will forget him and life would regulate to its normal state again. 

This is all Loving Shits in its bare nature. 

Loving Shits is shittiest form of love ever exist. Because three minutes later, he replied back to your text, complete with a sexy voice note, and a bouquet of roses emoticon in between.

Loving Shits now back to square one.

ZA

That Call

It was one of the days when you had back to back meetings, and the only time you had the time to go back to your room was at the lunch hour.

It was on that particular day when I saw a missed call from him on my office phone. We had no official business at all except colleagues who worked together under the same building, so when I saw that missed call, I called him back to check out what was up.

"Hellooooooooooooo" he made a long resonating 'oooooooo' as if calling some little kids for their breakfast. Cute, bar none.
"Hello", I smiled, and I know he was smiling as well.
There was a pregnant pause, and I continued,
"Did you call me?"
"Yes"
"Anything?"
"Nothing, just to make sure that you are there"
"Ahh okay..."
"Uh huh"
"Bye"
"Bye", he hung up, and I hung up, pretty much in a slow motion.

I didn't realize for how long I smiled while staring at the inanimate phone. But I was sure it was kinda long enough that the meetings right after that seemed weightless.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh stupid women and their fragile emotions.

WOMAN!

ZA

Little Windmill from Amsterdam

In the real world, I am such a powerful figure among my colleagues. I make multimillion decisions, I directed a number of employees, I am the elusive strong white collar woman.

But there are things a woman can't do. Albeit a handful of arguments about the gender equality, we fail to admit that a woman can't do everything at all. Beside a successful man, there's a woman beside him. But don't you agree that beside a successful woman, there's supposed to be a man behind her?

There are four burned out light bulbs in my bedroom and today, after returning home from work, I found my bathroom was flooded with hot water. Turned out, the hot water fitting was broken. As I'm writing this, I can hear clearly the distant sound of water dripping from the bathroom. 

I can call a number right away to fix these trivia stuff, but would I ever call some stranger if there's a man standing by my side?

You know what, the proverb Don't Judge A Book By It's Cover has the best underlying meaning of all. People see me shiny, gleaming with smile from the outside, but do they have any idea what is happening beneath the closed doors?

ZA

The Buainain

You remind me a lot of Shay. Your look, your physique, your smile, your manicured beard, your mustache, your voice, the way you talk, your height. Everything.

Shay has been gone for two months now. I don't know whether he will come back or be gone forever. You come in at the exactly perfect time.

It hurts me a bit that I have to forget you and replace with someone that looks just like you.


ZA

Last Night

Your smell lingers on my bed, on my pants, on the chair that you sat, on every book that you touched. Everywhere.

Admit it. You come over, leave your scent and left just to break my heart.

Why men can be so sweet in real life but not in Whatsapp?

Then he took my hand, and carried me up to the attic. Nothing happened. Only sadness pulverized.

Pop!

"What are you going to do for the weekend?"
"Nothing. Most probably studying for my exam"
"Let's go eat sushi. Do you eat sushi?"
"Yes I do eat sushi. But where?"
"Al Khobar"
"Al Khobar? No no no no. I have to muggle up for my exam"
"OK"

He looked me deep into my eyes.

"Give me one week. Then you can take me wherever you want to. Even to the moon"
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. Anywhere"
"Promise?"
"Promise"

We locked our little fingers and he smiled.

"Promise"

Little Black Book

"Don't you hate him for what he had done to you?"
"A tiny bit. But being wiped out by his smile"
"Are you dumb or something? Never in my life I see someone so brainless as you. After all the shits that you've been through, you still get over the moon by his fucking smile?"
"I do. That's what love does to you. It puts your sanity at the cliff. Either you stay on the edge worrying to fall down or just jump down and being crazy"


ZA

Jeremiah

It was like running straight into Jeremiah. His scruffy curly hair, his lazy eyes, his running-down-to-mustache kind of beard, his faint smile, even the way that he stole his look to me.

It was like witnessing Jeremiah came back to life. As if the wrecked Chevy that tumbled into the sideway of Highway 1didn't leave him any scratch.

And if what I saw was the incidental reincarnation of Jeremiah, I think the rebirth did go wrong. At least Jeremiah wouldn't jump into the line and pretended that he came first. Jeremiah was the definition of a true gentleman, and a gentleman stays true to himself without even trying to be a jerk.

Jeremiah look alike was not the best thing I have to have today. It's exactly like a moment when you are almost fell asleep and got woken up by the tingling sensation for a pee.

Jeremiah look alike is that pee. And he pretty pissed me off.

Ruckers

It was the longest one hour I had to endure in my entire adult life. It was the wait for something that would not happen. It was the wait for someone that would not come.

I should've listened to my guts. Men are all good at words, twist it, play with it. With flair.

It was the one hour that I felt I had turned myself into a joker.

I was fooled. By a man. Once again.

ZA

Listen

And I wish I can talk to someone who understands.


ZA

Visitor

Muteb popped in front of my room, came in, throwing his big decent smile.

"What happened the other day?"
"What the other day?"
"You whatsapp-ed me, remember?"
"Not a big thing. Just a little friction"
"But you sound troubled. Tell me. Was it personal or business?"
"Personal. But I took care of it. But it does not feel casual anymore"
"What happened?"
"I will tell you. But not here. Somewhere else. Perhaps over two cups of Americano"
"OK. Time will heal everything. Believe me"
"Maybe"
"I know it will. Take care honey"
"You take care too"

He left. I was not dreaming. He just left. Like a puff of smoke, dissolved in the air.

ZA

Friction

“If my answers frighten you then you should cease asking scary questions.”

— Quentin Tarantino, Pulp Fiction

Nobody has to know about us

Attibassi

Two cups of mocha classic. Two petite small cups. I knew he wasn't good at coffee that when I placed my order, he said to the guy behind the counter — 'same'. Maybe he wanted what I had. Maybe he just didn't want to think much. Maybe he wanted mocha classic in the first place.

He drove his Lexus LS 460 to the beach nearby. There was no one over there, except a few obese arabs walking on the pavement, trying to shed some weight. The thing was, he honored my request to go to the beach. If he'd only knew how much I loved the beaches, he'd probably didn't have a second guess.

I stared to the black canvas of a pretty warm night. Light pollution from the nearby villas obscured the sparkles from the stars afar. But the glorious three-straight stars were glorious, just like what I had in Dungun. There were nothing to talk to. Our last encounter was more than a month ago. We were waiting in the car while watching contractors removing a dome of a vessel.

"Say something", I looked at his scruffy face. Scruffy but irresistably cute. His nose was sharp pointed, it gave a clear shadow on the ledge.

"Something", he smiled cheekily without even looking at me.

I smiled in return. It was a good joke but it wasn't enough to make me laugh.

There was a silence. Complete utter silence. Except when the two obese arabs passed us by again, looking more determined than they were 5 minutes before.

"I think we just should go home", dry but I had to say it. There was nothing to talk to. If I were to enjoy moment of silence, I'd rather go out by myself. The idea of going out with someone, at some remote place, was to talk. Exchange banters. Got to know each other better. But all I could see, was a cold man in a tight green polo tee shirt, holding a cigarrette, one leg on the concrete ledge another on the ground. He was almost like a statue, except he could talk, and he could breathe, just like a normal living man.

"Let's go. Are you inviting me to your house?". A trace of hope was imminent, a hint of excitement was clearly plastered on his face.

"No. I don't think so. I'm going to sleep. A lot of craps need to be settled tomorrow".

I turned around and what was supposed to be a face of a happy child with lollipops turned to be a face of a man who was left out of hope. There were no lollipops.

We walked to his car, evading bushes and small twigs. I hold his hand and I pulled him to me and I whispered

"A boy can't have too much lollipops. Sugar ruins you. You don't want to be obese like those two guys we just saw. A little sweet once a day should be suffice"

He looked at me, bewildered. But he didn't ask anything.

In the car, I wondered what did I just say to him. And I realized, I was in bewilderment, too.

ZA

Road 195

The best thing about driving here in Middle East is, the exchange of occasional flirts with hot Arabs at traffic light junctions.

Could've never been better.

ZA

Porn Star

How does it feel to be a porn star? Do porn stars get paid much? Wouldn't they be contracted with some nasty STD?

I am tired of writing reports. Porn star does not sound so bad.

Please keep your judgment away.

ZA

Why Can't You Love Me Back?

Meanwhile..

"You are sexy"
"Thank you", I giggle.

He plays with my hair.

"I love you"
"I love you too" he giggles.

ZA

Solace

Do you guys remember that I always tell you that I need to find my hideout to define myself.

I found one today. I couldn't be happier. My little escape. My little hideout. My solace.

ZA

Collide

Collide. I miss you. You are always on my mind. Good night.

Pray for MH370

There's a familiar name on the passenger manifest. We never ran into each other, but we crossed our paths through someone.

Whatever it is, I hope everything will be fine with flight MH370. Even there's the slimmest hope, it is still a piece of hope.

ZA

Bow Down

I am at the Holy Mosque in Makkah right now, lying on my bed waiting for the car to fetch me up to Jeddah airport. As I was browsing my Facebook timeline, Tony posted a picture of a very familiar face, looking so gleamingly happy in his traditional Malay costume, beside a girl that I didn't know (who looked equally happy).

Custard is getting married today. No invitation. Nothing.

Do I feel sad? No.
Do I feel mad? No.
Do I feel helpless? No.

Perhaps it is the best time for him to end his single, alone, maniac life. He should've told her what happened. But perhaps not.

Congratulations. This world needs a little love.

Describe Your Situation, Now.

Pretty fucked up.

ZA

When It's Over

There are people who can walk away from you. Let them walk. I don't want you to try to talk another person into staying with you, loving you, calling you, caring about you, coming to see you, staying attached to you. Your destiny is never tied to anybody that left. And it doesn't mean that they are a bad person, it just means that their part in the story is over. And you've got to know when people's part in your story is over.

TD Jakes

Little Conversation

I got jealous seeing you talking on the phone with someone that I didn't know. I didn't get jealous because you were talking on the phone – I got jealous because you were talking in a voice so low, with pervert-y smile all plastered on your face, your torso slouched on your chair. I hate it when I went into your cubicle, then you stopped talking, and asked me what I wanted, but the phone was still glued to your ear.

I was so pissed off that you told me you liked me, and yet you didn't do anything to prove anything that you said. I felt like banging my head on the mirrors in the washroom, just to wipe away my embarrassment, for having a tiny bit of jealousy for someone who didn't love me back.

I was so close to tell to the whole world that you asked me out for a fun ride in Bahrain, when your fun ride was merely a term of friends hanging out together. I got lucky that I didn't get invested too much in you, that when I did, I afraid couldn't find the way out.

I am thankful to you. At least the air gets a little pleasant, and the pretty wild flowers are still there to keep my heart warm.

ZA

Void

The leaves were golden, bathed by the evening sun. Everybody left. Except me. The office was empty. Like my mind. An empty office gave me space to breath and an empty mind gave me peace.

ZA

North East

"You can't run away from him"
"From who?"
"Liam"
"What on earth?"
"He's coming here. Working with the same company as yours"
"Why the need to tell me this?"
"It's just that both of you are meant to be together, even when you decided to flee away. Away from him"
"Have you heard of coincidence?"
"This is not a coincidence. This is one end of your fate, meets up another. You and him will complete a circle. You and him look like are meant to be together"
"Come on. He just got himself a baby"
"So?"
"So he can fuck off and don't bother me anymore"
"Tell that to yourself. Tell that to your heart"

Life has a way to reconcile with our past memories. And this apparently, with my pain.

ZA

Shiver

When I thought the winter is over, the temperature plunged into freezing state all over again. It has been a mild 19 to 22 degrees and all of a sudden, it went below 8 this morning. This perhaps to continue until next week, then it's going to be warm and before we know it, the temperature will rise like crazy. Fifty five degrees celcius during the day is a little wild. Who knows it shoots up to 60 and breaks the thermometer?

It is downright eerie. But now, it is pretty cold. It reminds me of spring in London. And it is pretty much like spring right now, with yellow and red flowers sprouting all over the place. Those certainly add some color to this barren land.

Here in this country, there's a popular saying among Arabs.

Like a crazy person who sells his jacket in winter. 

Don't be like that, Abu Rasheed told me with his straight face. When you thought the summer is coming, and you trade off your jacket, and without warning, the cold wind comes again. Don't be like that, he told me once more.

Everything over here is unpredictable. Get your things under your belt. Who knows what might happen tomorrow?


ZA

Frozen

"I am pretty scared right now"

"What are you scared of?"

"Losing you. I am so afraid that when you get yourself a girlfriend, and you get married, and then you start to ignore my text messages, my rantings."

"Then you have to meet someone else other than me"

"Are you meeting someone?"

"Yes, right now. I am meeting you"

"Oh come on Karl. Are you dating someone or anyone or whatever?"

"No. But I hope I can date you"

ZA