Snippets from 2012

'This is my new favourite place to eat,' she says, reclining back next to me in the yellow leather couch with a small content smile, and I immediately decide it's going to be my favourite too. I can tell she feels so at ease, and there's nothing that can spoil my good mood now. Opposite us sit my sister by blood and another sister by heart, conversing softly, and the sound of the fountain on our side drowns out what they say. We lean forward, attacking the strawberry-filled white-chocolate-topped crepe with our forks. They say money can't buy happiness, but good food with the right people always does.
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It's past midnight, and we're watching the video of my uncle's wedding. The wedding that happened in 1997 and that I've watched- at least- forty times since then. It is the funnest that's ever been, and although I wasn't there, I've memorized every detail and could relate it second by second with my eyes closed. All of us are huddled on couches, watching, screaming and laughing like there's no tomorrow. At some point, my uncle's kids decide to renew their parents' marriage. (Our family's adoringly crazy like that). The television screen shows a young couple, standing on the large, green front garden of our family home, against tall palm trees and a Baghdad night sky. A few feet away from the screen are the couple in real- him greying and her three pregnancies later, with an audience clapping and singing around them with the enthusiasm of a fresh event. 

When we finally go to bed, massaging our tummies from all that laughter, I'm crying. Miles away from us is the setting of that happy day, the front lawn dead and yellow, trees abandoned, the home deserted. I want to go back home, and I was never there to begin with. Will I ever? And if I do go "back", will I feel as at home as the other authentic Iraqis? 

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(8) du du du du du du (8) Adds life to life... 
Du's tag-line was made to describe my sister, actually. We're at the airport waiting for her to come back and awaken our dead home. If there's anything I learnt this year, it's that you can miss someone so much it aches.
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There's a conference on technology and business happening in the hall across, and I'm staring angrily at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, wondering how she got here. What on earth do you have to do with this? And why, why, did you agree to be a speaker? You who can't open your mouth with more than two people looking at you without blushing crimson!

Suddenly, a girl staggers in, panting and shaking. She leans on the sink. I steady her and the next thing I know, she's passed out. Fifteen minutes later, I walk into the conference room calmly, knowing exactly why I was destined to be at the bathroom by the conference hall that exact moment. It had nothing to do with a talk on how technology shapes business.
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Cafe Ceramique. There's an aura around here that makes me feel there's nowhere else I'd rather be. We've picked our ceramic bowl and the colours we need. Now we divide the bowl in four sections, decide that each of us will paint the personality of whoever sits next to us. For two hours we bend over the bowl with careful strokes. Occasionally gasping over a minor mistake. And occasionally turning our attention to the meals on our side. But mostly, concentrating on painting. We agree not to look at everyones' parts until we're done, but it's easy to tell what someone's painting by the smile or smirk on their face. Later, we all leave the cafe loving each other a little bit more.

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Cruel Kids- Part II

I may have done my share of persecution as a kid, but sometimes I think about situations where I played victim, painful as they may be, because self-pity can be so comforting!

So this particular tragedy took place several years prior to our previous episode. It was a rainy day outside, with the sort of cold weather that lashes at your face like a whip. A group of six and seven-year-olds huddled around their teacher on the thick, soft carpet of their classroom's "book-corner". The warming radiator and the soft voice of the teacher sitting before them made them feel all cosy, tucked in safety away from the fierceness of the world outside the window.

I sat cross-legged with all my classmates on that carpet, listening intently to our form teacher and trying very hard to contain my excitement and mirror their expressions. POSTMAN PAT was coming to our school! Postman Pat with his black and white cat! 

'He's not even a real person,' said one bored boy.

'Yes, he is,' the teacher's smile remained unwavering. 'He particularly asked to see you lot. He will be telling you all about the secrets of his job, and taking individual pictures with each of you. Wouldn't you like a framed photo of you and Postman Pat?'

I noticed I was sitting up on my knees by now, and quickly re-positioned myself.

'Now what I want you to do is think about any questions you might want to ask him. Think carefully because you might not get another chance at this.'

I knew right away what I wanted to know. Everything to do with how letters my sister and I were writing to our father overseas, with lame school rhymes and crooked arabic lettering, were reaching quickly enough for him to read and reply. 'I'm going to ask him about post between different countries', I blurted out. 

'Not now...keep your questions in mind and ask Postman Pat in person.'

So a few days later, Postman Pat and his black and white cat arrived, and we all stood there shyly while he let us stroke his cat and told us all about the mail and how it worked. I kept trying to peer into the open mouth, which is where my sister had told me a disturbing night before I would find a pair of eyes of the person suffocating under a costume. 

It was finally time to ask questions. Several arms shot up in the air, including mine. 'Let's just go in order, shall we?' he said, stroking his chin and pointing at the first person in line. He continued answering questions until there was just one person in line before me. He pointed at her.

'Dear Postman Pat,' she recited loud and clear. 'I  would like to know about post between different countries.' 

'Oh, my! I was waiting for somebody to ask that question! Come here, my girl.' She sat on his lap as he delivered the explanation with renewed enthusiasm, an explanation that I was only half listening to. And then too soon it was my turn, and I stood there tongue-tied as he went, 'No question? Not curious about anything?' 

I KNOW. It's silly and I wouldn't give it a second thought if something similar happened today. Who cares about who asked the question as long as it was answered? But seeing as how I can't look at that photograph of Postman Pat and myself in a strained smile without remembering this, I know kids can be super-sensitive sometimes.

A Mercy to Mankind

He would cut up his cloak to be able to move rather than disturb the cat sleeping on it.

He would embrace the poor and radiate his warmth, undeterred by rags or social status.

He would never be the first to let go of a handshake's grip.

He was famous for his bright smile that flashed perfect white teeth.

He befriended the dark-skinned and the foreign at a time when only the prejudiced were welcomed.

He would stand up in respect whenever his daughter entered the room, and give her his seat.

He received with open arms visitors, offering all of the little he had.

He neither pressured, nor forced his teachings on anyone, inviting them instead with gentle reasoning.

He was diplomatic- open to third solutions, his ear always ready to listen.

He made sure everyone around him was fed before he turned to his hunger.

His lap held the weight of many children, careful to always build their confidence.

His tongue only knew the sweetness of words.

His heart never held an inkling of hatred, his tears abundantly flowing for his enemies.

He was so, so far away from what you are doing in the name of his religion.

"And we have not sent you except as a mercy to all creation" The Qur'an 25:56

Blind is the eye that doesn't see You

Don't tell me nature isn't a miracle. Don't tell me the world isn't a fairy tale. Anyone who hasn't realised that, may never understand until the fairy tale is just about to end. Then there is one final chance to tear off the blinkers, a last chance to rub your eyes in amazement, a final opportunity to abandon yourself to the wonder you are bidding farewell to and leaving. 

The Orange Girl

Reading another Jostein Gaarder is like a chocolate bar after a year-long diet. I breezed through this in a day and it ended too quickly, leaving me with a strange tangy-sweet-bitter-melancholic-nostalgic taste. I think I have been gripped with Habitophobia again. The world has grown on me, and I needed this nudge to get fascinated again.

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Georg is reading the letter his dead father wrote him before he died that was only just discovered. His dad is telling him a story- of when he is three and in his arms, out in the backyard. They're looking up at a star-filled sky.

The last time I saw a sky like that was in Baghdad, eleven years ago. A vivid memory. I can see us four cousins on the rooftop of our home, feeling adventurous. We crouch low, peer outside, at a dark street lined with neat rectangular homes and incredibly tall palm trees, silent except for the occasional cricket chirp. From here we can see the front garden of our neighbours on the left, their big brown guard dog standing attentive. One of us throws a pebble, and the dog stands higher, his ears straight. Another pebble and he is barking now- loud barks that pierce the still air. We stuff our hands in our mouths, trying to stifle the giggles. And then the sound of a front door unlocking and the neighbour is out, and we are clambouring over each other to crouch down, unseen. It is then that I lay my back against the wall and look up. Innumerable stars shine back at me. I have never seen anything like this before. It's like somebody painted the entire sky pitch-black and glued tiny diamond bits all over.

Don't tell me the starry sky isn't a miracle.

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I'm making Spaghetti with Tuna Sauce for lunch. Cutting the onions half an hour earlier because I know what it does to me. I chew gum and try not to smell but none of that works. The knife slices through and I am weeping insanely, temporarily blinded. I take a breath, wipe the tears away and resume the cutting, trying to see through my stingy eyes. It's amazing what a little vegetable can do to you.

Don't tell me that's not a miracle.

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You and Your Beautiful Mind

Do you know how it feels like to love somebody more than yourself and the world with all its contents?

How it feels like to be in constant worry for them? A 24/7 lingering worry. One that not even sleep or intensive tasks can force in a corner, let alone drive away.

Do you know that you are permanently alive on my mind? That I'm thinking about you when I'm reading or daydreaming or listening to other people. That I'm worrying about you when I'm at school, on the road or in the next room.

Remember the year we had a very boring Eid? I took you for a walk while everyone was napping, and we ended up at the deserted beach. We just stood there, staring at the water. Then through some un-spoken agreement started collecting sea-shells. It felt so serene. You asked me questions about God and angels. Remember when I asked you to pose for a picture before we headed back home? You stood back to the water, eyes closed and arms held out wide. I could tell you felt free and happy to be, and it was the best moment of my life.

I wish I could make a deal with the One in charge. A deal that all life's ugly side bounces off you. Even if I'd have to take it. I would gather all the situations and life events and people and words and looks that make you unhappy. Stay watch dog over them and make sure they never dare cross your path.

Do you know that you are the opening sentence to my every prayer? That I don't care what's in store for me as long as you get to feel safe and loved for eternity.

Remember the day you told the big family gathering that you have a beautiful mind? I couldn't stop playing back those words in my head.

I can never be thankful enough for how lucky I am to have you and your beautiful mind in my life.

Beachy

Even from faraway I look at the blueness and taste salt in my mouth.
Swoosh, swish, whoosh.
Sun in my eyes, sand in my hair, and this sea blanket.

I am sitting alone facing the sea, observing its moves with respect. Let's make conversation, it says. Someone yells what sounds like my name in the distance.
It's simple, this life. We complicate. I don't think there's any other place I'd rather be.
Gentle swish. Foamy. Agreeing with me?
Two women lying down on yellow, way beyond the waves, wearing glum expressions. Really, what happened to manners, polite ways and making the right impressions?
A fresh heave. And then a wave covers me with a roar.
My apologies

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Marwa. Or preferably Ma-wa. A hill in Mecca, but also a girl's name. We squat down, staring at our toes. Letting wave after wave cloak us, talking about these and those.

A random empty potato chip packet makes its appearance. Out of the blue, quite literally. Poor sea, everybody assumes it's a litter-basket for free.

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Mothers, mothers, all around. Mothers here, there, everywhere: A mother is laughing uncontrollably with her little girl as they throw bits of sand at each other. Another mother is holding her floating son with enough concentration to make something explode; matching terrified faces. And...there's another mother! "MAMA!" yells a minuscule boy in black swimming shorts, pointing out his drifting floatie. "There, there, Bader", back in his arms.

When I'm your mother, we'll come together here, wearing matching colours. Build sandcastles together, if you like that. Or just sit down if you turn out boring like me. Whatever you want. I'll hold you tight to myself and tell you I love you as much as the drops of the sea.
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It doesn't matter how sandy I get because the waves clean.

Imagine if it was this simple getting rid of imperfections.
"Oh I sense some stubbornness, let me just wash it off here." I think I'd just build myself a little hut on the beach. Inconvenient.

Worth it if you get to stay lean.
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We both stare at the dug-up bunches of sand in our open hands. Broken-sea-shell-infested sand. All of this, subhanAllah, where do they think it comes from? she says. Then a smooth, salty, delicate wave- a sea nod.

10 things I know to be true

1. ...that nothing read ever goes wasted- whether it's a physics textbook, a fantasy novel, a biography of a politician, a silly fashion article, a gadget's manual, warning signs near construction sites or the ingredients on your toothpaste's box

2. ...that nobody ever felt better after criticism uncalled for. As much as it might itch me to see a job done not perfectly, learning to bite my tongue and leave my big nose out of it is something I will never regret.

3. ...that no matter how many theories may try to convince everyone otherwise, thinking positive is not enough for dreams to come true. You need to work hard and know what you're doing. And that still doesn't guarantee anything. Life isn't fair, and the quicker I surrender to that fact, the happier I will be.

4. ...that people with special "needs" are actually people with special abilities, who don't need sympathy from anyone but acceptance. Just because somebody is structured differently does not make them any less 'normal'

5. ....that some of the richest people in the most glamorous of houses are also the ones most miserable. And some of the people from the best of schools are also the most uneducated.

6. ...that while some problems in life need rooted solutions, others just need a piece of chocolate, a short walk or (in my case) a good scrubbing session in the kitchen to go away.

7. ...that ignoring differences is worse than not tolerating them.

8. ...that if you're not happy with the way you look, the least you could do is not complain about it. One small step on the surface, one giant leap towards self-acceptance (tried & tested)

9...that if you come from a Middle-Eastern family like mine, you'll never be able to memorize who's who. Just smile and love all of them unconditionally.

10. ...that there is a God, a Power beyond our understanding, who weaves our lives with the lives of everyone around us in a beautiful web, and it is for this Ultimate Power that we must aim to breathe for every minute.

Under all that glitter and glamour

Unlocked front doors and that safe, sheltered feeling. The insomnia of the city. Coming back home at 3 in the morning without a turn over your shoulder. Interminable, suffocating traffic. Global village in "Winter". The status quo. That Dubai-an mix of an accent. Gigantic shopping malls. Neat, spotless streets and bins decorated with flowers. Calling Rafeeg for anything you want, anytime, delivered right to your doorstep. Seeing mini-colonies of every country under the sun. Witty, friendly, green police. Etisalat and Du and their hate clubs. Pretty mosques at every corner. Ignored speed radars. The high-heels, and the Ray-bans that stay put in-doors. Street-side Chai karak. Pink taxis. People walking around town with their noses in their BBs. Streets that change everyday and out-dated GPSes. Gamboo3as. Having your petrol filled for you. All the restaurants you can think of. Cooled air, all around. Twenty-somethings and their independent cake and abaya businesses. Niqabs and skimpy clothes. The undercover universes of Karama and Bur Dubai. The other under-cover universes of public transport. The categorization of people. The locals and the almost locals and the expat Arabs and the Desis and the Filipinos. And the white house-wives with their gym and spa subscriptions. The uninterrupted weather rants. The Salik dodgeball. Everyday fireworks. 

After you've lived somewhere for a while, the good and the ugly start to infuse and eventually become- the familiar. It's not that the pros and cons stop being what they are. It's just that they sink into you- or you sink into them. Like how the initial pleasure and shock of owning a fancy car and having to wear ugly uniform for school stop having that effect on you.

The Dubai-ans here are mostly not really Dubai-ans. They have their own homes to pine for somewhere else. Circumstance got them here, and Comfort kept them. Gripped them in not so reluctantly. I don't know about anyone else but I can speak for myself. The damage has been done- I have been enchanted by my temporary home. 

The Ramadan-y things we do

We're back to being a family now. Complete with the Mommy, Daddy and three girls. Gone is the echoing of footsteps in a house too large for us; gone is that unpolished silence. Our Skype button's been untouched for a while, left to itself feeling useless. And there couldn't have been a better time.

I love this month. Who doesn't? 

It's a feeling that I can't quite put my finger on- a weightlessness in the air. Like the burden of breathing to keep yourself alive has lifted, and now you're just be-ing without effort. Out pops the crescent and our worlds turn friendly overnight. Curvy smiles and serene hearts. Floating of people who usually drag their way along.

I love this month, and the little family rituals we preserve. A sulky meal at 3 a.m. where the joke of whoever dares falls flat. Prayer mats that stay unrolled in their places. The melody of my father's Quran reciting. Clinking of prayer beads and clicking of electronic ones. My mother's 'Menu of the day' in elegant writing on the kitchen's white-board. The items in the menu under construction. Us continuing to purposelessly stride in and out of there. The speedy evaporation of anger or annoyance. The sweetness of an empty tummy. A gentle reminder of another's hunger. The swelling of mind over matter.

It's hilarious what no food can do to you. The sun sets- we're in the kitchen. The first few moments of our meal are unusually silent. Everyone is too busy pacifying themselves. A mathematical equation we must follow: dates, then soup, then the main meal. And a cup of Vimto ofcourse. A scented candle lulling us. And once that's done and we've smirked at whoever's turn it is to wash the dishes, we huddle up and read Du'a al Iftitaah. Another family ritual. Drink tea and pick a television show to laugh at. Spend the whole show throwing comments at the story, actors, and each other. The occasional arrival of family or friends. More laughter. Late into the weightless night.

Our faithful sky

A smell of 'what now?' lingers in this room, and I don't know what to do with it. The heat doesn't help. I could go ahead and switch on the air condition, but lately I've been abit too dictatorial in imposing the air condition on the room that links to mine, so I'll pass tonight. Never mind that it's boiling in here. The temperature seems befitting to the strong transience floating about. Like all the relatives of discomfort agreed to arrive arm in arm.

My mind is being the annoying kid that wants to play when you're really not in the mood. It's giving me little snippets of thoughts. Giggling at my frustration. An unanswered email, an unpacked gift, an unplanned lesson. The flash of an acquaintance who needs to be given alittle more thought than she's getting. Three-quarters of a creamy chocolate cake sitting innocently on a refrigerator rack. Aliya in the air. Pictures of murdered children in Burma. The pimples on my cheeks.

What would really help at the moment is a thought-washing-machine. I'd unload all my mind's contents in there. Add in sweet-smelling conditioner. Watch through the tiny circle the cleansing of my thoughts. Wait. Then clear all out, and flop them one by one on a hanger to dry. Secure them with pegs. Just in case they try to slip away. And finally fold the dried refined scented thoughts neatly back into my mind.

Looking at the sky is comforting. It's 3 am and pitch-black outside, and I can hardly see it, but I know it's there. It somehow makes me feel better that the sky's seen more change than any beating heart. That he just stood there, being himself, while he looked down on eras changing. Dinosaurs and animals and humans taking turns in control. Through births and deaths of civilizations and world wars. Just stayed in his place, watching trends and fashions and mass crazes come and go. Observing strangers turning into friends, and friends turning into strangers. Staying the same old blue sky over all the changes, without even throwing a tantrum.

And then there's my grandmother who's been having the same day everyday for six years now. Waking up and going to bed at exactly the same time. Eating the exact same breakfast, lunch and dinner everyday at the exact same times. Asking the same questions at their prescribed times. I watched her today, seated at the dining table having her 13:30 meal. Everything in its set position. The two tissues placed neatly on the table, tissue box on the left, pills on the right, and date container in front. With its lid opened and tilted at at 45 degrees angle on its side. Just like it should always be. She starts with the dates, eating six of them and then placing the seeds on the two tissues. In neat pairs. She counts them, mouthing the numbers silently. 'Six' she declares. 'Yup, six dates'. My confirmation is acknowledged with a slow turn of the head and a blank stare. That's when the thought crossed my mind- that the sameness of her days to her is like the sameness of the sky to me. A comforting constant in an uncomforting world.

Nada

A word that means nothing. I heard it first from someone on youtube- a teenage boy wearing a sea-blue tee-shirt, his arms raised in the air in exaggerated exasperation. And now my brain's taken it as a cue to replay that random insignificant act.

Also a word that means many things.
Nada, a mother of four, somewhere distant on my family tree. Eight floors separate us. If the world had separate divisions for thinkers and feelers, she would definitely be leading the Feelers. Might even be holding a banner with a big heart on it. When we greet each other, it's not the customary hugs and kiss in the air. She holds me close to her, draws in the air around me. She says "How are you?" like it's the first time the question's been asked, and scans my eyes like they're mini television screens.

Nada, the owner of a tongue dripping honey. We're sitting in the university's coffee-shop, a thick form between us. She's interviewing me on casual american dining for a market research, and apologizing politely at regular intervals. It's long and I have things left to do, but somehow I'm not bothered at all, because those nowhere as sweet as her take time away from me by force, so why not give it to a deserving person voluntarily?

Nada, a word of comfort in an uncomfortable year. Her rough long hair tamed into a plait, her big brown eyes filling the bigger face that sits on her seven-year old tiny body, feeling like it doesn't belong. I've moved into a new school, its hallways as unfamiliar and confusing to me as the people that fill it. Everything is a confusing blur- the games in physical education with rules I have no clue of, the identical blocks, the infinite rules I need to learn. But Nada is the clear constant, chattering incessantly by my side and expecting no entertainment in return. Which is relieving because I have none to offer. All she wants is to be listened to. On henna-ed hands, her older brother's philosophies on discipline, the different things she has to do to manage her hair and the handwritten letters to her grandmother in Yemen.

Nada. Us three girls sitting on conveniently-placed sofas in a store's men section, bored and waiting for our dad to finish deciding on which shirts to buy. We create an additional sister in our imagination, twin to Huda, complete with appearance and personality. Nada and Huda. She'd have the same straight and silky brown hair, big brown lashed eyes; wear the same clothes in different colours. Huda is giggling uncontrollably at the thought with sparkling eyes. She shyly begins to contribute: Nada will be the athletic twin and the more talkative one. She wouldn't be as good as her at school. We go on brain-storming, giving more life to our new sister, until it's finally time to leave and we both exchange a knowing look that needs no words to express itself: another her would be too much for our hearts to handle.

Her Freedom

She wasn't like all the other flowers. Maybe from the surface, yes. But you wouldn't have singled her out if you were just an outsider looking in. You would simply take in the breath-taking carpet of yellow tulips spread as far as your eyes can reach, each no different from the other.

If you had a special plant-translation device with you though, you'd hear her bitter whispers. Pretty aggressive too, coming from a delicate tulip like that.

So stuck here.
This is pathetic.
Bound by a stalk to the ground. 
My right to freedom.
Let. me. go.

So you do let her go. Out of genuine conviction. Or pity. Or submission.
But did you remember to remind her that she dies when she breaks away from her roots?

The Open Door

He drummed his fingers on the floor of his prison cell, then sighed. That left him

exhausted. His fingerprints looked like deep excavations through the thick layer of dust he was on. The hot air he exhaled stood still by his lips, hesitating to mingle with the coldness of the room. How long had he been in here, with his head drooped down? He couldn't for the life of him remember. It didn't matter anyway. Time had ceased to be important: minutes and hours and days and years swirled around in his fuzzy head like misty silhouettes indistinct from each other. Desperation- This is what it did to him.

You are his twin, not his mirror-image. Look into this mirror I'm holding up for you now. You see? Your cloned features are crammed with so much more. I can almost see vision overflowing from your eyes. If I could, it would be red. The color of energy. Look at the caterpillar on the window-sill and see the vibrant butterfly inside it, waiting patiently till the time comes when it can flaunt its beauty.

He settled over there pathetically. Perched on the prison floor that he had become a part of. If the room was capable of holding more gloominess, he would be feeding it some. But it had saturated. The accumulation of a billion dark thoughts. The thoughts were cranky teenagers, sulking at him for bringing them into a place they couldn't figure out.

Don't let that distract you though. Can you smell the stench of fertilizer outside the room?  You're not one to let that get to you, right? I can see how you're thinking about the substitution that will soon occur. When the manure will produce fragrant flowers, their delicate scent invading the world. Can you detect the subtle whiff now? If it had a color, it would be yellow. A bright, light, sunshine-y color.

He lost all feelings of being and belonging. Numbness shrouded him. His body parts cried out loud for a change in their position. His jugular vein throbbed in pain, his neck having forgotten its default position. Yet he felt none of this. If they could speak, they would complain to him of their anguish, plead him to put them to mercy. His lifeless eyes moved over his body, the separate entity, with an objective look that saw nothing.

Ignore that. Look at your intact self. You're a machine with a million friendly parts, working in harmony. Do you sense how the blood cells are thanking your heart for its pumping and your veins and arteries for the amazing ride? You see how they look behind at the lungs and wave? When meal-time arrives, you will smile at the little food, cold on your plate, thinking of all the fun activities going on inside you. Green is the color of the world in you- the color of well-being.

He lived on in his self-pity. Since he couldn't add more dismal thinking to the atmosphere, the thoughts got trapped inside, gradually filling him, entering his blood and oxygen, until Hopelessness became him. From the corner of his eyes, all he could see was murkiness. 'A waste of space', he told himself, another miserable thought to add to the darkness. The four walls of the room loomed over him, gray. They were approaching- shutting in on him, making him feel even more confined, until he was suffocated. He finally moved- to wrap his arms around his knees and rest his head on them. Gave up on life with only death to look forward to.

If I could see the aura around you, it would be purple. The color of nobility. Hear that steady dripping on the ceiling? The one that was designed to torture you? It could be anything you want it to be. I can practically hear the tune you're turning it into in your mind. A beautiful melodious song that can soothe the edgiest of people. Blue is your composition's color- the color of trust and tranquility.

Funny how a pair of twins in the same room can be living in parallel worlds. Don't mind the prison bars, you have butterflies, perfumed flowers, music and yourself to accompany you. Soon your beautiful thoughts will give rise to a new beginning. Do you see how the door opens before your eyes? I see that the fruits of your optimism have left you dumbfounded. Don't be. You underestimate the power of you. As you step out into your new world and celebrate yourself, don't look behind you. Too bad Hopelessness is too busy looking down to notice The Open Door before him.

Not that you'd be interested

10:30 am Leases is what we're studying this accounting class. How to classify leases. And how to account for them, but that's way easier than figuring out a lease's identity. Does the world know how much we're thinking into a simple lease? How we're analysing theories and using formulas and performing calculations to figure out what we can name the lease?   

Just how it is so much more difficult knowing yourself than knowing how to account for yourself. 

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6:00 am There are three reasons it's difficult getting out of bed this morning.

First, I didn't use my usual tactic last night of putting the cell phone in the other corner of the room to force myself to get up, walk to it and make it shut up. The alarm sounds so friendly on my bed-side now that I'm comfortable having it here, singing to me. I am watching it vibrate and light up, wide-eyed. It hits me how something that happens every morning seems so interesting now, and I feel guilty for having ignored all the previous performances. But I can make up for that by appreciating it right now.

Second, my feet are too cold. Getting up would mean they'd have to touch the cold white floor before they find my slippers, and that's too much to ask from them so early in the day, even if it would just be for a few seconds.

And third, I am admiring my purple night-gown and then remember that my sister in London requested cotton ones from the Chinese pavilion in Global Village. I'm wondering whether she'll find it cute or lame if I get her the same one. The thought of not being able to predict the reaction of the closest person in the world to me is disturbing. 

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5:00 pm It's that favourite part of the day when I can temporarily experience someone else's life. This time it's Jack Gladney's life from White Noise. One of those heart-stopping plunges has just woken up in the middle of the night, and it makes him think of death.

Is this what it's like, abrupt, peremptory? Shouldn't death, I thought, be a swan dive, graceful, white-winged and smooth, leaving the surface undisturbed?

I like the thought of that.

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6:30 am I am standing in front of the mirror, drowning my contact lenses in solution while I read the bottle label just for the heck of it. Slide in the right one, wishing I could see invisible foreign particles -to be safe, and then quickly taking my wish back. The left one is refusing to get in properly, and I pop it back into the solution angrily. It floats happy, cackling victoriously. Then I smile at my absurdity and put it smoothly back to my eye, wondering how normal it is to imagine inanimate objects capable of feeling.

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9:45 am I am standing outside with a close friend and a not-so-close one and we're making small talk. Starts with how pleasant the weather is. Ends up covering noisy neighbours, protective dads, and buildings in flames. I am trying to figure out how interested we all really are in what we're saying when I find myself talking animatedly too, and that's when I ask myself if that's how everything in life is. 

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8:30 am It's easy arguing for something you don't believe in. You just have to leave your own body and watch yourself. I look at myself standing in front of the room, trying to convince my sleepy Business Communications class that communication can't be taught. It's funny. I notice how much I'm using my hands to help me explain. And I notice other things about myself that nobody can see unless they really want to, like how white the tips of my fingers have become from holding the flash cards too tightly, and how I'm looking at everyone around me just because I don't want to hold eye contact with anyone for too long. When I'm done, I slide back into myself and marvel at how well I hid my nervousness. 

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12:30 pm We're not done with leases yet. But we've had a break and now that we're settling down again, the guy sitting in front of me turns around with a precious Lindt chocolate bar in his hand. "Chocolate?" he offers kindly, and I stare at the picture of mint on the cover, my heart pleading and pleading me, knowing deep inside I am going to let it down but trying anyway. And I do let it down. "No, thanks."

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8:00 am My team member asks me who judges the winning team. Cigarette smell attach themselves to the words coming out of his mouth and stay there hesitating in the air. The smell makes me think of rotting lungs, black teeth and swearing. I can't help it. I bite back a cough and clear my throat instead. It takes me two minutes to reply and remind him it's not a contest. 

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10:00 am I have an appointment with one of the warmest people in the world. Noorhayati is her name. Light of my life it means. Doctor Noorhayati. She welcomes me with a beaming smile in her office. I go towards her, meaning to hug her and then remember half way that it might not be the most appropriate way to greet a teacher. We end up awkwardly patting each others' arms. She wants me to speak on her behalf in a conference while she's away. And she wants me to co-author a chapter in a textbook. I feel like laughing out loud all of a sudden. I'm not sure why I get the feeling that I'm an actress on stage, faithfully keeping to my script. But then I look at the hope in her eyes, the big smile on her face and the memory book we surprised her with in our last lecture, sitting on her desk, and I want to cry instead. How selfish of me to not take on their trust. 

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3:00 pm Us three sitting on the kitchen table, eating delicious fattening burgers and chips and drowning them down with Coke. My mom's thinking out loud: deep contagious thoughts. She is talking and I'm wondering if she knows how much I love her. She takes her calcium and back-pain-relieiving pills as she shares her thoughts on how cunning the pharmacuetical industry is, and how much more profitable they would be if they ran straight. I think of my accounting professor's words that same day, "It's not about knowing how to number crunch- it's about learning how to manipulate the numbers. Get to know these scams because one day you'll be a part of them." He's joking, of course, we think, as the class giggles nervously. 

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