The world is too tragic for one to wallow in ones own tragedy.

I have a sneeking suspicion I might be turning into the person I wanted to be,
before the tides of puberty finally toppled the walls of vicious A-sexuality...and we emerged, wet winged from childhoods final fort.

I used to be lunatic
from the gracious days.
I used to be woebegone.
And so restless nights,
My aching heart would bleed
for you to see.
but now...

No more I love yous
Language is leaving me
No more i love yous
Changes are shifting outside the words.

I used to have deamons in my room at night
Desire, despair, desire
So many monsters
But now...

No more I love yous
Language is leaving me
No more I love yous
Language is leaving me in silence
No more I love yous
Changes are shifting outside the words.

-Annie Lenox

Hey, don't know if you've noticed what I wrote in flooble. If not, there is a new house rule:
If you read this blog, whether I know you or not, whether it's a one off or you always check out my blog, you have to leave a message in the flooble everytime you come here. It can be relevant or irrelevant to anything on and off this site. Or it can be, my personal favorite, utter, absurd randomness.

Also, I'm doing a charity trek up Ben Nevis to raise money for Darfur. If you're generous, please follow the link bellow to my just giving site. All of the money raised goes to those in need, via the charity I work for...which garuntees that it will be spent wisely on various forms of emergency relief and development work, and not squandered on admin or feeding the endless handout cycle. Also, we do not dsicriminate in the aid we give and we do not try to convert. The 'Muslim' in the name 'Muslim Aid' is the spirit of giving and its importance to the Islamic faith. It might also be because the charity is run pre-dominantly by Muslims, but with 4 Christians and a Buddhist working here, we are hopefully counting down to a more multi-faith organisation.
http://www.justgiving.com/gothonigiri

Terribly sorry for what may have come across as an overly defensive rant above. It is, what it has come across as. Why did the overly defensive rant cross the road? Because Pixi has met with too much negative feeling, suspicion and general ugliness recently.

I'm sad now.

No near or distant past can come to claim me,
like family to bail me out of lockup.
The people I was hold no weight with what I am now.
The choices I've made cannot save or condemn me
but they weigh heavily on my mind and soul.
They incline me this way and that.

I am only me in this moment.
And I only have now
A new now
A new me
Over and over agin
With this burden of self loathing
These memories, shamefully, of better times.
To barely hold on.

Help me make the right choices again. Help me atest now. Believe. Be born anew.

I'm too affraid to use a spoon

-Thoughts before and after an encounter with a girl with plires-

By Pixi

Before:

Shi(KKKK)t!

After:

Oh. Maybe it helped that I could barely get a question about my very valid concerns in sideways from all her enquiries about my hijab. I'm glad she asked. There was something hurt and scared under her agressiveness, but she was one nice angry-at-the-world person.

...

Ultimately, physical pain has the capacity to do two things to a person.

Thing 1: It can calm you, because your biology reacts with an on rush of consolation so that your mind and body is at peace momentarily. And the physical and metaphysical anguish is that little bit less anguishsome...or at least, it doesn't matter in a tragically enduring sort of way.
Thing 2: It can do the oposite. It can bring back all those emotional hurts you'd been refusing to express, and all the pain you'd been hardening yourself to. The physical smart is like the snide remark you did not want to hear when you'd been having an awful week, and everything comes caving down like an avalanche.

No matter how much I tell myself I don't care any more, no matter how good I feel from day to day, because I'm getting over it, I don't think I ever fully can. Even if I become feelinglessly indifferent, I don't know if I can ever forgive you for leaving me here in pieces.

What hurts most are the best memories, and everything that reminds me that you were once the centre of my universe.

Street lights make faces familiar in a mutual existence,
And walking home in the dark hours, everyone is family.
Every day.
To every new possibility, every invitation: why not?
No direction.
No purpose.
No one to return home to.
Just this touchable, solitary state.
Why not?

The language of my body
My inhibitionless gait
My brisk foot steps, careless though vulnerable.
It’s the 3rd year of Uni, come back again.
Where I am seeking company,
intimacy with strangers
Though genuine in my meaningless articulation.

Oh wretched loneliness, why are you so beautiful?

'Good morning, Muslim Aid...?'

Life has come to a standstil. This is the moment of selfhood in an entity eliminating order. The calm, the fullness before a silent destruction of the world as we know it. The giant orb of light, which eats everything in it's growth. A blinding blast. The Mushroom cloud.

From the depths of the crater, I try to climb out. Yet freedom above is a burned and barren land, in nuclear-winter darkness as far as the eye can see.

In the struggle to forget, I find how much every aspect of my life was built arround every aspect of you.

I'm sorry the charity I work for has the word 'Muslim' in its name.
I'm sorry Terrorists blow people up in the name of my religion.
I'm sorry that even though I try, apparently I still can't see things from a non-Muslims perspective.
I'm sorry my head scarf makes you feel awkward.
I'm sorry that though I try my hardest to be accomodating, approachable, and undignifiedly nice, it's just not good enough coz I'm Muslim.
I'm sorry I often feel unjustly judged and discriminated against.
I'm sorry I'm so upset upon meeting with aversion from the likes of poeple who I thought were open minded.
I'm sorry this hurts me, and I can't see why it aught to be expected.
I'm sorry I have no right to be human when everybody else is so flaw-fully so, and forgiven.
It's all my F***ing fault, and I'm so F***ing sorry I want to slice open my gutt with a samurai sword and spill my intestines at your feet.
And the world would be a much happier place when short of one more confused passionate, in dire need of the kind of biblical and Quranic inspiration capapble working miracles.

bibity-bobity-boo

Bellow is an email we recieved this morning, following the launch of Muslim Aid tube collections for Darfur.

This is your first and only warning. If any of my members find your proto-bombers collecting at Tube stations again, you will be receiving bits of Paki instead of money when the buckets are returned.

Commander Bickle
UKDeF
(United Kingdon Defence Force)

Fundraising made a decision not to send out the femail volunteers for this, because even the guys have met harrassment.
Last night the news was full of it. This morning, plasterred across the front page of all the papers are the faces behind 21/7. You don't have to juxtapose the picture of a baby against that of the terrorists to remind us of how wrong what they did was. We know, and we feel the pain and anger more strongly than you, because we are the scape goat. We can't even the point a finger and all our angst at another party.
This morning, A.J had a good rant about the media and the failiure of Muslims to better the image of Islam in the light of all that is happening. His little spew felt great because of all that has been bubbling in me.
It's hard not to feel negative. It's hard not to think this will blow over, because it seems only to be getting worse.

At the edge of the world stands a man who
Stares into two dark choices
Space is arid, and dewy fresh. Crisp, fountain vapour, so you think: Canada. For no apparent reason.
Time has been lapsed out of.
It all ought to be like something you can fall off of
But there is no physical verge.
Instead, it is a verge in essence. Like dying and looking down at your body from above.
Like being given a moment of reflection in suspension,
A second chance place, where you can stare in the eye of your choices,
And truly feel futile.
The man stares, like at the mouth of a cave.
And he knows that either way, what ever befalls him,
His life has come to an end.
His time has past.
That there will be no more dreams.
No more futures.
No more endless possibilities.
The man cries and wishes he will never forget this.

It's all good to be able to turn on the music after something unsavory. Chase the grossed out feeling away. But what kind of effect do these stuff have on us in the long run? Isn't forgetting it suppressing it? And isn't suppressing it just a way of sweeping it under your sub concious?