The truth about Form 5

Well, it seems that it's time for the obligatory 'Freaky Friday'. The time when we Form 5s have a free pass to terrorise the younger masses and publicly shame ourselves. As usual, I won't be participating in the festivities (BECAUSE REASONS), and I'll be deemed a spoilsport by my peers. *internal groan* I can't seem to please these people.

In all honesty, I already know how this day is going to go. The event is going to be dominated by the popular, talented kids who think they're talented. There's actually not many people who can sing in our year, which is really sad. I mean, we'll obviously be dominated by this rap group thing it whatever called Team BDub who'll most likely rap and make me feel uncomfortable and or embarrassed for my generation.

It may be my inability to conform to society's expectations for people like me. I'm supposedly supposed to fit into the archetype of the stereotypical silent weirdo who doesn't have many friends because she's a social outcast, therefore lacking the basic social abilities to survive. The programmer will be as follows: dancing, dancing, dirty dancing, rapping, irrelevant videos, more dancing and likely even more dancing. Having already witnessed some of the stuff that creeps out from the recesses of our minds, I'm actually rather terrified.

The truth is that our year is separated into cliques. We've all been assigned these cliques from Form 1 and even new students soon adjust to the agenda. We all know our place but occasionally different social groups do interact. Like animals in the wild, we occasionally cross paths and share territories but that's about it. The problem is that half of our year hates/dislikes the other half. It's really quite depressing. Again, I'm able to observe this from an outsider's view.

We have the Popular crew which in itself is divided into various subsets. We have the aforementioned Team BDub, who I really don't understand. A group of make individuals who engage in various activities, mainly rapping, music and occasionally art. They even have their own shirts. I'm not sure whether to interpret this as a form of arrogance but I for one would love to have my own shirt.

We have the popular girls who are constant presences in social media(particularly Instagram and Snapchat). They also tend to be overly dramatic and extremely beautiful. They work in conjunction with the popular boys and serve to make my adolescence an awkward and uncomfortable life stage. Then we have that odd group of popular individuals who attempt to transcend the social norms and be more...deep. In other words, they go on about The Fault in Our Stars; blabber about their supposed intrinsic yet extremely superficial view of the world and claim that The Weeknd is the best thing to come to our virgin ears.

Then there's my group of friends, ranging from awkward stereotyped nerds who surprisingly are rather popular, and insecure girls with good tastes in music. Needless to say, with these groups of individuals all on stage there'll never be a dull moment.

-"That pussy kill be so vicious."

People are places are things

I'm never fond of writing titles for posts before I actually write them. I feel Like it takes away from the general idea of the post and I end up getting writer's block because I feel like the title isn't an accurate enough decision if what I wanted to write. 

I'm currently listening to albums online to decide whether or not to torrent it. Currently I've downloaded FKA Twigs, Neutral Milk Hotel, Wild Nocturne, Kelela, SZA ad several BIRP! albums over the past weekend. 

I fell incomplete and inadequate. Like the world doesn't quite understand the eruption of emotions occurring inside of me. I feel like my friends feel like in pushing them away and the truth is that I might be doing that on purpose. Like a child who has grown tired of their old toys, I have grown tired of the tedious interludes of life. I can never seem to compare to other people, especially my friends. Their achievements far outshine my own and I'm sick of it. 

I want to feel like I'm an integral part of someone's life. Everyone seems to be capable of living without me and I just want to feel special. I suppose that that's rather selfish isn't it? I mean, you can't expect someone to feel like you're their world and expect those sentiments to be reciprocated across the board. 

I crave a physical connection with someone. Particularly an emotional connection that transcends from the emotional to the physical, like a metaphysical hand reaching out of their soul and touching yours.

Could it be possible that I'm growing tired of my friends? I strive to make new friends of a higher social standard to feed my life's ambition of feeling like I can be somebody. And to be somebody I have to turn my back on the people who have groomed me into the person that I am today. I suppose it is rather selfish but I see it as sparing them from pain. 

I mean, we're all going to go our separate ways at a later stage and it seems inevitable that our friendship shall whither away like the flowers at my grandmother's grave. As we speak, I am being shunned by my peers and I feel downright shitty about it. 

I mean, people need places to go and just be alone. To reflect on the day's happenings and mishaps. To register the embarrassments made in front of people who we used to hold dearly, our chests, heaving as they glanced in our directions. We need somewhere to go when we want to shun out our peers in a way that is noticeable enough to attract the attention of our friends so that they can comfort us and give us attention. 

People need other people to pay attention to us. We need them to comfort us and to hold us when we cry. We need them to talk to us about stuff that distracts us from our inner turmoil. As we speak, I'm listening to two girls gush over boys and their strategies of how to get dates for Leavers'.

I feel rather out of place. Like the centre piece of a jigsaw puzzle discarded under the bed from a Family Game Night many nights ago. I feel like no matter how many times I read, new words will never sink in. Everyone else's vocabulary seems to be improving and morphing into some fascinating new phenomenon that only hipsters would understand. 

I suppose that nobody understands me. And nobody ever will. 

Welcome to The Afterlife

Welcome to the afterlife

Where things are not as they seem

Where the lives of the living 

Play out like reality TV

Where the nuances of mortality

Become a bitter nostalgia

Where the seraphims and cherubs are at war

Where the righteous are separated from the  flock

Where the segregation is worse than that on earth

Spirits: separated by their humility

Demons: separated by their humanity
And us
The forgotten.

Below we watch as mortals gather
Clutching cheap plastic plants
And uttering phrases that don't matter
For they are living and we, are not
 For here there are no feelings
Of tenderness or sympathy
No longings for the former life
We reluctantly had to leave
Down there, they pretend to care
And utter vague descriptions of your favourite sports
How you were always there
They vaguely recall a time
When you displayed your talents brilliantly
Not knowing that those talents were,
To you a mere necessity
A formality of existence
A compulsory facet to your character
Prescribed to you by your family.

Behold! They lay wreaths upon your grave
The classmates who failed you
Who ridiculed your outer being
Who pushed you aside in the hallways
The parents that never understood
Who let you slip away between their fingers
Who watched silently as you withered away
A skeleton, wasting away
The teachers who wrote reports
About how you refused to conform
To participate, bow before
To kneel when they walked through the door.

Your shortcomings were critiqued
Your mediocrities assessed
Your confidence shattered
Your achievements compared to those of others
And yet they called this education?
The slaughtering of innocents
Of nights spent reading textbooks
Under the cover of darkness and
Eyes red, minds numb, hearts broken
Bones broken, confidence crushed, friends lost,
Drugs taken, brain cells lost, enemies gained,
Talents hidden, achievements compared,
STUDY. PASS. CRAM. PASS. RELAX. FAIL.
RINSE. REPEAT.
STUDY. SMOKE. PASS. CRAM. DRINK. FAIL.
RINSE. REPEAT.
SMOKE. DRINK. CRAM. FAIL. CRAM. CRAM. CRAM.
SMOKE. DRINK.
INHALE. EXHALE.
INJECT. INHALE. SNIFF. CONSUME. DIGEST.

And before you know it,
You're dead.
Just like the rest of us.

My World (and other pointless observations)

I've gathered that chickens aren't very bright.

People expect you to lead awkward conversations.

Music instantly livens up long trips.

I want to drive endlessly, just listening to music from my favourite artists and never arriving at our chosen destination.

I want to travel. 

Around the world. 

With someone.

And we can drive around these small towns in South America, chatting up locals and listening to their strange tales about the country. 

Then we can try the local cuisine: deep-fried insects; marinaded bushmeat; assorted leaky, rubbery vegetables; meats adorned in spices of the world and of course: rice.

We'll explore the countryside. 

In a busted up little red truck with dust collected in every crevice of it's exterior.

And then the car breaks down but we hitchhike a ride from a passing vehicle driven by a local who doesn't speak a lick of English. 

It will all be so deliciously dangerously inviting.

And then we'll return to our dingy hotel room that we found on the Internet and I booked the tickets even though you advised me not to.

And then we'll make love or fuck, depending on our mood.

We fuck.

Then after that, we'll eat unhealthy junkfood: naked whilst watching Latin-American soap operas in Spanish, laughing at each other as we attempt to untangle the web of lies sewn by the attractive daughter.

We'll visit historic landmarks and take dozens of pictures of ourselves pulling faces and kissing in front of statues.

Most of these won't be posted online, as my insecurities cause us to have a fight and not talk to each other for the whole night. 

In the aftermath of our fight, I realize how stupid I was.

I turn to you and run my nails down your back.

I apologize. 

You promise to take new pictures, with us dressed in all black.

You turn to me and pull me close.

And this time, we make love.

                  -"XO".

The Unappreciative Cancer Survivor

(On another note, please go and enlighten yourselves and read my friend Mzwai's amazing short story http://hellopoetry.com/poem/852957/an-open-letter-xanax/  :) )

OK, so I'm reading The Fault In Our Stars and I've reached that part where she's looking up Caroline Mathers and reading about how strong she was in her battle against cancer and how much of a good person she was. It got me thinking: are all people who battle against cancer changed in some way? If they survive, do they dedicate their lives to helping others? Are they nicer to their friends? Are they more appreciative of what they have?

Is it possible to live with a disease that is almost always fatal, and still be a bitch to the world? I've often wondered why people get cancer. I've heard that its either caused by external factors or by your cells randomly splitting and mutating. In other words, fate would've dealt a very bad hand in your favour. So it's inevitable then. No matter how healthy you are, your cells may decide to mutate one day and you can develop the worst case of cancer and die. We all have the potential to have cancer, it's just that most often than not, it's the strongest of us who get it first. 

I mean, I know lots of people in my year who smoke and drink regularly and they seem pretty healthy, but my best friend Aabilwe, who was slightly overweight but still healthy, ended up losing her short battle with stomach cancer rather abruptly. For a short time after that I was filled with resentment, peering around at all my peers who smoked regularly, wondering why Fate decided to spare their lives and slaughtered an innocent. A cruel thought, but grief clouds one's judgement.

I felt the same way when another friend of mine was diagnosed with brain cancer. He fell into a slight depression that was infused with melancholic reminders that he may die tomorrow. It annoyed me when he seemed so pleasant at times then unhappy at others. I know that's unfair but that's how I felt. I expected him to be like me and be completely negative all the time and ruin everyone's day with reminders of how i might be dead tomorrow. Of course, he's fine now but the thought that those would've been his last days is rather chilling. I'm not sure if he told the school but I felt special knowing that the case of his health was confined to just his intimate group of friends. It felt personal: intimate, in fact. 

Before my thoughts meander around the bend, I just wanted to reflect on the purpose of this post. I know one person who dogs on TFIOS and I don't blame her. If a person has been diagnosed with cancer, do they really go through an entire life-changing personal reawakening; or do they resent their current situation and proceed to push everyone away so that nobody gets hurt when they die?

If you had cancer, would you learn to appreciate things more or would you grow bitter and angry at the world. It's hard to say really. We can't predict these things. Would a life-threatening experience have the same effect on every person in the world? That's doubtful. There's always going to be those people who can't see behind all the shit and proceed to complain about the shit, instead of actually doing something about it. 

Death doesn't always change people in a positive way, it can always change them negatively. After Aabi's death, I learnt to appreciate things more. I also became a bit more spiritually inclined (as pretentious as that may sound) and began to read more. I just wish she were around to experience this new change with me. However, I'm also the saddest that I have ever been in my life. I'm more negative and my remaining friends think I have depression (a thought, which in itself is rather depressing).

-"I preach optimism but can't actually follow it."

(About my friend who survived cancer, he's doing pretty well. He's still the same person I guess. Nothing much about him has changed and we don't talk about the cancer anymore, at least, not in front of him. We hang out a bit more than we used to but I know he just tolerates my presence. Most of my friends do anyway.)

Book Review: 'Americanah' by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

This is my first ever review on this site, so please don't shoot me. Plus, it's my personal opinion.

We are initially introduced to Ifemelu whilst she's at an African hair salon. She has just decided to return to Nigeria and leave her prospering race blog and African American boyfriend behind. The story of how she got to America is told through a series of flashbacks interwoven into the main story and eventually reaching the present. If you're not too careful, you might get confused but Adichie's writing is fluid enough for the reader to easily follow.

She speaks of traditional African conventions that many Africans can relate to. The love story between main characters Ifemelu and Obinze is both heartwarming and heart wrenching. We get the whole story of how the new guy is supposedly supposed to date her mixed-race best friend but instead has his eye on Ifemelu. So begins their blossoming romance which spans from childhood to early adulthood. 

Obinze idealises America and aspires to study there and live there with Ifemelu. Unfortunately, post-9/11 America refuses to grant him entrance so he sets his eyes on Britain. After struggling to make ends meat and living on an expired visa, Obinze attempts a 'sham-marriage', a common way for immigrants to gain citizenship. He is later deported: shamed.

Ifemelu, on the other hand, seems to fair slightly better in the USA. However, she too finds life abroad difficult. She battles depression that ultimately leads to her losing contact with Obinze and the awful thing is that this all would've been avoided. Anyway, she meets a white guy and they have this lavish lifestyle but she doesn't tell her parents about him, for reasons not elaborated deeply on. She speaks regularly on the racism faced by Black Americans and how she never felt that she was Black until she moved to the USA. 

Without giving much away, this book is absolutely fantastic! I've read very few books that have given me this light feeling. This is mainly because the ending satisfied me, unlike the ending of The Reluctant Fundamentalist. -_-

Losing My Religion

I don't know what's wrong with me. I feel really bad. I mean, I'm conflicted; internally, like Brutus. The cause of my conflict? My religion.

There comes a time in many children's lives when they question their religion. It may start in the tender stages of development, wherein their questions will be quietly dismissed with phrases such as: "He's there. Just know that." "It just is, sweetie." "Because." etc

Then you reach that stage where you're a preteen so you're not quite a teen but no longer a child. Like when you're 12. Then you're a semi-rebellious teen (or passive aggressive, like me) and you start to outwardly question certain things in fits of rage. Now, in my case, (as is the case of a close friend of mine), I tend to bottle up these thoughts and instead choose to sit there quietly in church. Not quite believing, but not quite disbelieving either. 

You see my dilemma? Everyday I pray before I go to bed; pray before I eat and pray for people in need and my friends. I receive conflicting ideologies from my peers, who all hail from different religious backgrounds, if any. I think I'm in that situation that many teens are in: we only belong to a certain religion because our parents do e.g. I'm Hindu by default. 

Now, I'm only saying this from my personal experiences and observations. I do believe that there is a divine power that reigns over us all but I can't outwardly attest to how religious I am. I'm literally the least religious person out of all the people in my group of friends who attest to a religion. I suppose it would break our parents' hearts if we claimed no belief system other than the basic morals of humanity. 

When I adopt my children from foreign lands, I will allow them the basic right of choosing their religion.

I guess that maybe I'm not meant to be part of any religious movement. Even if were Muslim I wouldn't be able to cope with learning an entire holy book and praying five times a day. I can barely cope with the night-time prayer sessions with my grandfather and the prayer meetings we had when I was child. Some people are just meant to exist without any sort of religious schedule. I fear I may be one of them. As a child, I prayed for a miracle like how I read in the Bible about that guy who left the fleece out on the lawn and it remained dry whilst the surrounding grass was wet. Needless to say, my school bag never magically appeared on the bench where I wished for it to be.

At times I feel really guilty because I glorify Islam and its practitioners- romanticising other religions greatly. I mean, if I can romanticise another religion and not find faults in it ethics, then why shouldn't I do the same for my own religion?

Maybe someday I'll wake up and fully embrace and understand my religion. For now I shall just play the role of observer, watching from the outside looking in. Someone once said that fear is the fuel that drives religion. I wonder if he was right...

              -"That's me in the corner. That's me in the spotlight: losing my religion." 

Make Me White

On a recent expedition to the "ever-present-Indian-owned-herbal-store" with my mum, I came across an expansive range of skin-whitening products. I didn't think to take pictures of the products for fear of being accused of trying to steal the formula and recreating the products at home. Anyway, it made me recall a note I made in one of my recent posts. If I remember correctly, I vowed to start lightening my obscenely dark hands and face due to my own paranoia/insecurity. I would just like to rectify that.

Firstly, I hate my dark shin and I don't want to divulge too deeply into why that is. I reckon if I had the money, I would attempt that experiment that that Indian lady did on the BBC. She basically tried all these different skin-lightening products to see to what extent they actually worked. She found that most of them that didn't use the illegal chemicals actually didn't lighten your skin very much.

Secondly, I'm not going to actually buy those skin-lightening products. I view them as impractical and painting an unhealthy image of how lighter skin is best. 

Thirdly, I know that I'm walking contradiction but I'm just being real. In any case, I'm using natural products to achieve a healthy coco-brown glow, as dark as I am. I'm actually using these products to get rid of dark marks left by blemishes and pinching boys. So far I've used yogurt, turmeric, honey, oatmeal, sugar and lemons to attempt to even out the dark blemishes left on my face. So far, they haven't worked but I'll keep you posted. 

YouTube Narnia: August 2014

Seeing as it's the end if August, I thought that I should post a longer edition of YouTube Narnia. Plus I'll be away for the week so I won't post as much (but when do I ever? 😜). I'll try to queue my posts but I haven't done it before, do I don't know if it'll work.

Happy holidays everyone. Xx :) Stay musically enlightened. 🌌

1. "Two Weeks" - FKA Twigs

2. "I'm Not the Only One" - Sam Smith

3. "Yamaha" - Delta Spirit

4. "Stillness is the Move" - The Dirty Projectors

5. "I Didn't Believe" - Flight Facilities ft. Elizabeth Rose

6. "Paradise" - Breezy Lovejoy 

7. "Boom-Clap" - Charli XCX

8. "Babylon" - SZA

9. "FKA x inc" - FKA Twigs & inc.

10. "XO (Full Crate remix)" - Beyoncé

11. "Lost (Stwo remix)" - Lido ft. Muri

12. "Summer of '69" - Bryan Adams

13. "All Me (Stwo remix)" - Drake

14. "Amnesia" - 5 Seconds of Summer

15. "He Mele No Lilo" - Mark Keali'i Ho'omalu & Kam

16. "Missing You" - John Waite

17. "Therapy" - Moderat

18. "Know It Ain't Right" - M.I.A.

19. "Fuck The Industry (signed Sincerely)" - Solange

20. "T.O.N.Y" - Solange

21. "Lost You" - Zed's Dead ft. Twin Shadow & D'Angelo Lacy

22. "I Blame Myself" - Sky Ferreira

23. "Missing You" - Letters and Lights

24. "Love Me Like You" - Ella Eyre

25. "It Ain't Over 'til It's Over" - Lenny Kravitz

26. "What You Won't Do For Love" - Jessie Ware (the acoustic version is better👌)

27. "Losing You" - Solange

28. "Often" - The Weeknd

29. "BFK" - Freddie Gibbs

30. "Shades Of Cool" - Lana Del Rey

An extract from 'Americanah' by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

This brings to mind an interesting issue: black beauty. In this day and age of skin lighteners and relaxers, the image of pale skinned Europeans has been drilled into our minds as being what black women should aspire to be. I noticed that the issue of race has been brought several times whilst I've been reading Americanah. I strongly recommend that you read this book. This extract mostly deals with the issue of racial identification and the controversial issue of race relations.

***

To My Fellow Non-American Blacks: In America, You Are Black, Baby

Dear Non-American Black, when you make the choice to come to America, you become black. Stop arguing. Stop saying I'm Jamaican or I'm Ghanaian. America doesn't care. So what if you weren't "black" in your country? You're in America now. We all have our moments of initiation into the Society of Former Negroes. Mine was in a class in undergrad when I was asked to give the black perspective, only I had no idea what that was. So I just made something up. And admit it - you say, "I'm not black" only because you know black is at the bottom of America's race ladder. And you want none of that. Don't deny now. What if being black had all the privileges of being white? Would you still say "Don't call me black, I'm from Trinidad"? I don't think so. So you're black, baby. And here's the deal with becoming black: You must show that you are offended when such words as "watermelon" or "tar baby" are used in jokes, even if you don't know what the hell is being talked about -and since you are Non-American Black, the chances are that you won't know. (In undergrad a white classmate asks if I like watermelon, I say yes, and another classmate says, Oh my God that is so racist, and I'm confused. "Wait, how?") You must nod back when a black person nods at you in a heavily white area. It is called the black nod. It is a way for black people to say "You are not alone, I am here too." In describing black women you admire, always use the word "STRONG" because that is what black women are supposed to be in America. If you are a woman, please do not speak your mind as you are used to doing in your country. Because in America, strong-minded black women are SCARY. And if you are a man, be hyper-mellow, never get too excited, or somebody will worry that you're about to pull a gun. When you watch television and hear that a "racist slur" was used, you must immediately become offended. Even though you are thinking "But why won't they tell me exactly what was said?" Even though you would like to be able to decide for yourself how offended to be, or whether to be offended at all, you must nevertheless be very offended.

When a crime is reported, pray that it was not committed by a black person, and if it turns out to have been committed by a black person, stay well away from the crime area for weeks, or you might be stopped for fitting the profile. If a black cashier gives poor service to the non-black person in front of you, compliment that person's shoes or something, to make up for the bad service, because you're just as guilty for the cashier's crimes. If you are in an Ivy League college, and a Young Republican tells you that you got in only because of Affirmative Action, do not whip out your perfect grades from high school. Instead, gently point out that the biggest beneficiaries of Affirmative Action are white women. If you go to eat in a restaurant, please tip generously. Otherwise the next black person who comes in will get awful service, because waiters groan when they get a black table. You see, black people have a gene that makes them not tip, so please overpower that gene. If you're telling a non-black person about something racist that happened to you, make sure you are not bitter. Don't complain. Be forgiving. If possible make it funny. Most of all, do not be angry. Black people are not supposed to be angry about racism. Otherwise you get no sympathy. This applies only for white liberals, by the way. Don't even bother telling a white conservative about anything racist that happened to you. Because the conservative will tell you that YOU are the real racist and your mouth will hang open in confusion.

*** 

-Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Existential Crisis

I don't know how to breath any more. I feel inadequate. Whenever I hang out with my friends I always stand awkwardly to the side whilst everyone else socialises. I usually force myself to feel this way. I believe that by distancing myself from the crowd, I am indeed individualising myself: therefore adding another degree to my personality. Makes sense? No? OK, I guess I have to hold your hand through this...

I started reading a new book the other day. It's rather thick(477 pages to be exact, which isn't very long but the print is on the small side), and initially when I glanced at it, I thought the task rather daunting. I've found myself facing the same issue at the start of every book: the reluctance to begin what I know I can't finish. I didn't have the same issue when I started reading The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid, and finished it in 3 days. It was rather slow in the book, but after the collapse of the Twin Towers, I found myself boiling a cup of green tea and sipping it occasionally as I concentrated and the string of words spread on the pages. When I finished it, I felt empty. Like a piece of my soul had been devoured. That night, I dreamt of it. I dreamt of the events that unfolded in the book, and how I grew to slightly dislike America even more; resolving to carry my chalice filled with Southern African heritage proudly if I were to ever go overseas for uni. 

After stewing over that strange ending for a while and trying to decipher whose side Changez was really on, I decided to take on the task of reading Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche. I initially picked it up and a copy of Half of a Yellow Sun with the same starry-eyed gaze I give to other books that are made into movies. I was already swallowed into the bustling world of Philadelphia and Lagos and soon forgot all about how thick the book is and how I should probably get started studying for finals. Once I had reached my goal or reading 100 pages in one day, I shut the book lovingly and reflected on the impact that Chimamanda's words had had on me. It soon dawned on me that at this rate, I might actually finish this book in less than a week and that saddened me. 

You see, this book is so amazing that I don't want to keep it to myself. Sometimes, when I read a book that I greatly enjoy, I don't feel like sharing it. I want it to remain obscure so that no one else can come between the bond that the writer and I share. I mean, it's our  special connection and this book brought me through the strenuous tentacles of boredom that were strapped around me during this first week of holiday. However, it's an entirely different story with Americanah. I want to find someone, anyone, who will share the same burning love that I feel for these characters. I want to carry the book to class with me next term and hold it close to my bosom as I walk around campus. It will certainly be a great conversation starter. People will stare apprehensively at its bulking mass and ask me how far I am, at which point I will reply; "Ah., but my dear friend, I have already finished it!" (Obviously I won't be as animated. I lack personality and possess the social skills of a manatee.) Then I will add the fact that carrying this book around makes me feel more secure. 

It comforts me, you know, having a book handy in your bag. Well, any reading material really. Just sticking my hand into the bag and feeling that reassuring lukewarm temperature of the worn pages and the cool cover of the book brings me immense pleasure. I believe that you can tell a lot about a person from the types of books they read. People who don't read, in my opinion, are not open-minded enough. Reading allows you to enter the world of the author for as long as you desire. You meet these characters and share in their life's story; laugh with them; cry with them; fall in love with them. 

If you haven't caught onto what I'm trying to say, then I suggest that you invest in some therapy. Seriously, you clearly don't understand words or people. *Sigh* Basically, I don't want to finish reading Americanah. I want to savour the moment when I turn the yellowing pages of that book and inhale the subtle smell of age. It's funny right? How books always smell like age. There's no way to describe their smell. Magazines smell like carrots and books smell like...well, books.

              -"Knowledge is power"

Dear sweet Ms. Ebony Brown

I loved her.

No matter what I did to please her, she never seemed to reciprocate my feelings.

It was during the summertime. I was wandering through the park, contemplating various colourful suicide methods, when she came along. 

Dressed in a summer dress that resembled the inside of a runny yolk. Hair as dark as the burnt chestnuts I foraged from the fire after Christmas dinner, when everyone seemed to disappear into their rooms and call it a night whilst I remained: sole, solitary. 

And her skin. Fuck, her skin! As dark and as polished as the hood of a vintage mustang that some fat, rich white guy likes to collect and store in his fancy garage in the suburbs of some prissy neighbourhood with a generic name straight out of a clinical surgery. Her pristine outer casing was only shattered by sporadic indentations that would simply be classified as 'blemishes'.

Anyway, I decided to speak to her, for I desired her. I desired to fall into her inky deepness and explore her depths. I wished to experience the intense pleasures of a foreign love which I had never known. I wished to placate her feelings and bear her ramblings of those things that most men fail to comprehend and those which women value above all else. But most of all, I wished to experience the pleasure of defiance; of rebelling against the strict values which had been bounced off my exterior for many years.

When I approached her, she seemed perplexed by my interest in the book that she was reading. Naturally after inviting her for a drink (after which we proceeded to fornicate passionately and repeatedly on the polished wooden floors of my apartment), I made it clear that our love was simply an act of rebellion. A simple move to oppose the social norms of what my race and culture detailed for me. She agreed. I could not imagine that I would ever develop feelings for her.

At the time, it seemed like a practical idea. She would provide me with both physical satisfaction and a regular topic of discussion at family gatherings, while I would provide the perfect companion for her various social gatherings and art exhibitions. However, I failed to consider the omission of personal conversations as 'pillow talk' after satiating my hunger. Sure enough, we began to develop feelings for each other. Thereafter we began to parade our taboo relationship to my immediate family and social groups. When we grew tired of the lack of attention our relationship brought, I proposed to her. The shock and disapproval plastered on my parents' faces served only to fuel the adrenaline rush I felt. Naturally, this sort of relationship could not be tolerated by them, so I was promptly disowned, with my new love declared as a 'blemish' on the family lineage.

We never planned to have children. It all happened so suddenly. After the baby, she feel into a deep depression. Postpartum is what they call it. Doctors said that it may take years for her to recover. After the birth of our daughter, I lost my wife. It's like...we welcomed a new life at the expense of hers. She grew terse every time I spoke to her. Every move I made seemed to annoy and anger her even more. She took to carrying carving knives around the house. At family barbecues she constantly rambled about a new abstract art project she was working on. "It's gonna be big," is what she said. "I can just feel it. I'm getting goosebumps just thinking about it. Look." At which point we were prompted to touch the chicken flesh on her gaunt arms. When asked what the subject matter of her painting was, she would always wave away the person and mumble that "it's something big."

I soon grew tired of living with her. Both of us: the baby and me. We grew tired of her. I once caught her shaking the baby and screaming uncontrollably when she wouldn't stop crying. Our sex life suffered the most. She would not let me touch her; shrinking away the moment I reached out my pale fingers towards her. The rare moment when she did let me into her fortress was riddled with awkwardness and pain. She groaned and cried, and not in the sexy way either. Under the bright, clinical light in our bedroom I could plainly see where all her imperfections lay. The skin on her face was taut and seem to stretch unnaturally under the weight of her bones. She was frail and her skin had lost that radiance which it had once possessed. My skin, which used to pale in comparison to her rich mahogany, now seemed to exude a healthier tan compared to her now unhealthy complexion. I never mounted her again.

I missed her. Despite the fact that our initial pairing was simply an act of defiance on my part, it quickly developed into so much more. The days leading up to the end of summer were times of both distress and frustration. On several occasions she wielded her knife at me. On numerous occasions she threatened the lives of both me and our daughter. It grew too much. For her.

The police said that it was suicide. It was pretty obvious that she had grown very unhappy in those last few weeks of summer. I remember thinking at the funeral, "Why me?" It struck me as odd that none of her acquaintances from the art museum ever showed up. Standing in front of that gaping hole as they lowered my wife's corpse into it really brought the shocking reality that I had lost the love of my life to the forefront. As I stood there clutching our 5 month old, I realized how tiny and insignificant our lives really were. And how lonely I would be now. My family had abandoned me and Ebony had made no mention of any living familial connections.

It was just me and my daughter.

Us against the world.

I threw her engagement ring into the grave. I resolved to take my daughter to a local church and have her baptized. 

-"Elle vit dans ma cœur."

The issue with Leavers' Dinner

The thing with Leaver's Dinner is how seriously everyone is taking it, and that worries me. Well, it's being taken seriously in my circle of friends at least. The overall atmosphere among certain social groups in my gender bracket is a mixture of excitement and indifference. I'm mainly neutral when it comes to my enthusiasm.

Ever since the start of this year, my friends and I have been haphazardly preparing our entrance to the dinner and who to bring as dates. Rebekah is already set up with Amrit, although even if they weren't going together she would undoubtedly have been asked out by every other guy in our form. Personally, I don't really want to go with anyone. I mean I do, seeing as I am a typical teenage girl who requires the fervent wails of a gentleman suitor to stave off my thirst (hoes these days). 

I mean, it would be lovely if I caught the eye of a strapping young gentleman and he decided to ask me out to leavers'. However, that remains very unlikely as I'm not exactly the most attractive or interesting person out there.

The problem is I'm too picky. I want someone to ask me out but I don't want it to be just anybody. I think that that's a problem for many girls. You want somebody to like you but it has to be someone mildly attractive otherwise then, what's the point? I think that's awful. But after all, we women can be heartless beasts at times.

Back to the dinner issue, my friends and I have a horrible reputation when it comes to planning events. However, a recent expedition on the last day of school went rather well; with us successfully attending the colour festival in support of Gaza and then Chinese food after, with most invitees present. A small victory under our belts.

The problem is that there aren't many resources around to get all the stiff we need: mainly dresses. This sounds pretty weird. I'm having First World problems in a Third World country. 

I'm reluctant to attend this s*** anyway. I'm conflicted actually, like Brutus, I am facing an inner conflict between my morals and my loyalty to my friends. Well, I really shouldn't worry them with my personal hang-ups. I have 2 theories about Leavers':

           1. I will go there and see everyone in my year looking all attractive and happy and I will get depressed and sick to my stomach because I know that I'll never be that happy so I end up having a horrible night and alienating my friends (as usual 😩). 

             2. I don't go and instead opt to spend the evening attempting to host an Xbox Party with Snehin (who'll probably go to the dinner anyway) and we'll spend a few trying minutes attempting to connect and then give up. I will sit there playing a game alone whilst my mum gripes at me that I should've gone to Leavers' and how I've disappointed her as a daughter and a woman.

Basically in either scenario I'm f***ed: my friends will be mad at me either way. Hopefully the after-party will prove more auspicious. I plan on getting tipsy with my friends (for the first time in my life, f*** I'm such a loser) and start conversations with people that I'm too afraid to talk to now. 

         -"Let's get drunk and tell each other things that we were too afraid to say sober"

Upon reflection...

As my final week of exams draws to a close, I can't help but wonder how much better I could've done if I had applied myself. Sitting in the computer lab blogging while I waste away an hour doesn't seem like the best place to start. Well, I did  finish early after all.

Upon reflection, I have realised 5 things this term:

1. My social ineptitude and depression have hampered me from making any new friends (and have succeeded in making me push away and alienate my current ones)
2. My taste in music is far more superior than my peers and anyone who reproaches my statement will be fed to the wolves
3. I need to start bleaching my skin because all the black boys I'm friends with say that I am too dark (plus the guys I like tend to go for yellow-bones)
4. My blog layout sucks and my presence on social media is missed
5. Boys suck!
6. I decided to add this last one to stick to my whole non-conformity case- Lots of people get on my nerves!

Aside from my useless meanderings and forays into the unknown, I have realised that I have truly let myself go. Both in the physical sense and the metaphorical sense.

NOTE: I am typing this during an alleged ICT practical mock exam and the hot guy behind me is helping his friends cheat by printing the paper for him.

There are a ton of things that I need to get done during the holiday. Firstly, I need to redefine and reshape my blog layout, as it looks rather childish and I am embarrassed to even open it up on web browsers at school anymore. Secondly, I need to make new friends, as next year my A-Level class buddies list is looking decidedly empty. Thirdly, I need to slap-a-nigga! (Sorry, I'm getting a little irritated at this blatant act of dishonesty going on behind me. I mean, can't they use Gmail chat?!) Actually, I want to read mostly. But I know that I have to study this holiday, as it has become apparent that I am failing mocks. Just the thought of all those fledgling books waiting for me in the library excites me above other things. I can't wait to burst into the library and inhale the musty smell of books: both new and old.   

Next term is going to be hectic. We have about 3 weeks of proper lessons before we have a study break then start our finals. Then we have Leaver's Dinner and all my friends are pressuring me to wear a dress and get a date. It will truly be a expressing experience, seeing as my Sri Lankan buddy Ovini is leaving for home and I am decidedly the worst person when it comes to keeping in touch with people. Or talking to people for that matter. Or existing!

Oh well, I best sink into a hole of dispairity at my social ineptitude and steely determination to die alone. 

- سيمون (that's my name in Arabic) :)

YouTube Narnia: July 2014

Just a few suggestion to get you through those school day blues. We all know that money is tight mid-month, so why not make those mundane trips to the bank exciting with a little music? :D Stay musically enlightened everyone!

1. "Worst Guys"- Childish Gambino ft Chance the Rapper

2. "Telegraph Ave(Oakland by Lloyd) - Childish Gambino

3. "It's Not Over" - Panama

4. "Reagan" - Killer Mike

5. "Rusty Nails" - Moderat

6. "Water Me" - FKA Twigs

7. "Would've Been The One" - Solange

8. "Brooklyn Baby"n- Lana Del Rey

9. "Kodama" - 20syl

10. "The World Around You" - Apparat

11. "You Don't Know Me" - Apparat

12. "Dayglo Reflection" - Bobby Womack ft Lana Del Rey

13. "Stay Home" - Self

14. "You Get What You Give" - New Radicals

15. "I Try" - Macy Gray

16. "Young Girls" - Bruno Mars

17. "Through The Wire" - Kanye West

18. "Indecision" - Sampha

19. "Bank Head" - Kelela

20. "Teen Spirit" - SZA

Destructively deconstructing destructive distractions

Dazzled in an array of fine light

Glowing embers upon the hearth

I find you

Resting. Waiting.

Upon my arrival at this brief interval, filled with turmoil and dread

I still find you. Wandering through my head

Whether it be accompanied by another man

Flowing upon a river of love

Caressing the soft virgin features of some one else

I still find you.

Perched upon a tree

Precariously overlooking the sight of my shortcomings

Graciously gazing upon the acts of my love

Taunting me with those sweet eyes

Those pale thighs

Those tender lies that you spit

So viciously as I recoil

Redress. Regress.

Sink into the inviting warmth of your rapture

You're subtle. Motionless

I digress.

  

The shattered dreams that hung so precariously over yonder

Over that cliff

Over that hill

I find you.

Wasting away your days chasing after fantasies

Mindless ones that gnaw at the heart strings of a careless teen

Passionate ones that fill the minds of lusty housewives 

Careless mistakes that I would rather live to not regret

Childhood memories that one would sooner forget

Lest they attack you with the sudden hunger of a drunken uncle on a solitary and unaccompanied visiting hour

Cherishing each memory as if it were special

Ignoring the flaws of each member involved

Harmlessly setting fire to the fields of wheat that the village needs

Destructively deconstructing destructive distractions

And that is how I feel when I am with you.

Reading is awesome!

I've taken to 'reading' quite often during the past couple of weeks. Not 'reading' in the sense that you'd think of the verb but 'reading' as in the action of picking up a book and planning your entire future based on the contents of the pages. 'Reading' as in deliberately putting everything else on the back burner in order to accommodate your new found obsession.

I quite like the idea of reading. I suppose I've fallen more in love with that than anything else in the past few weeks. I don't know why, it's just that the thought of picking up a book and immersing myself in someone else's world absolutely excites me. It excites me more than warm toast and the butter has just melted and is gracefully gliding down the rough surface if the toast and into every crevice...

I find that I often get scared when starting a new book. I'm scared of opening the book and taking in that glorious, musty smell of recycled paper and immersing myself into a new world. I'm scared of taking in the beauty of every letter typed into the page; of every grammatical or spelling error that I may encounter; of every stain or pen mark left by a careless reader which I may encounter. 

I'm scared of falling in love with the characters. And I'm especially scared of letting them go.

It goes like this: I make all sorts of new friends in these books. These weird and wonderful characters who don't care about my height, weight, personality or general appearance because they'll never meet me anyway. And I'll never meet them, which makes me very sad. 

I mean, what do you do when you have completely immersed yourself into someone else's world and then you're violently pulled out of it? I find that once I near the end of a great novel, I procrastinate more and come up with more reasons as to why I shouldn't read it. Well, right now at least.

I never want to let go of these characters. I don't want Richard and Sally to get married just yet. I want them to carry on this incessant game of 'cat-and-mouse' that annoys the hell out of me. I don't want Martha to tell her parents that she's a lesbian just yet because I keep replaying in my head how badly that scenario would turn out. Or it could turn out quite beautifully and they would hug and kiss her and tell her that they still love her and that everything will be okay. Even though things in these sorts of stories are never okay. Well, not really. 

It turns out that Uncle Ben raped Sally when she was younger so she thinks that Richard will do the same to her and she stabs him ten times on their wedding night at The Hilton. She then stumbles out on the street and Martha's car strikes her down and instantly kills her. Martha was on her way to her parents' house from the hospital after finding out that her lover have her AIDS because she's secretly a back-room whore at the Chateau Mormont. Martha leaves the scene and reaches her parents' house and tells them everything and they comfort her and tell her that they are all going to live happily ever after.

Only they don't because Martha dies from AIDS as karma because she didn't turn herself in. Sally is buried in some dingy graveyard next to her husband but they get their names wrong and no one ever comes to visit them. And Martha's lover is still working at that back-room whore house, only this time she's into into men.