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.


My infatuation towards Barjas — a character that I purposely left out for an introduction — has been a tad too unhealthy. It all started somewhere in August of 2019 on a fine scalding hot Saudi Arabian summer morning when an unexpected ping on Skype popped on my screen. It was a simple 'hey' from him, shooting questions about works and about things that the answers were nothing but public knowledge. There was something amiss with the tone of his text — not that I could vocalize his voice and his intonations — it was harmless, dodgy and shy at the same time. It was as if he wanted me to decrypt his messages and expected me to understand that he was being flirty.  Of course, I understood the assignment, mister.  At that particular time, I figured, if I hadn't reciprocated, I would miss a chance in knowing the man of my dream as well.  Barjas, a 6-foot tall well-built man with broad shoulders, chiseled jawline, manly rough stubbles, sparkling white teeth and smiles that radiat

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. 


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 wr


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?


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.