letters of an apathetic man

Some time last year, in a foggy vision where the part of my brain that distinguishes an hour from a minute was dizzy. In times like that you forget; what is time but a man made illusion? Aren’t the thoughts floating in space of the mind more dominant than anything else, such as time? Some time in October, my awakenings happen in October, simultaneously with times I forget to shave my beard. I was dining home on my one-man table, few inches away from my wooden floor where candles flicker, oh how they seemed like the only thing able to lose control and sway amid the breeze, unlike my body of matter that seems to be too submissive to gravity.

I keep the window half open, somewhere in the corner of my mind I am afraid that the scent of flowers in my decayed garden would think I am welcoming, or would falsely believe I can be a home to anything. The river of love does not flow through those who deny it. And those who deny it, forget -most of the time- that they are half water. 

Some time in October, I knew it should have been her in front of me, not the ghost of her idea nor her silhouette dancing with the flickering candlelight. 

It should have been her, but I have the habit of destroying beautiful things, and I know that women fall for the idea that they are the ugly reflection they see in me when their hearts are open for my words and their eyes see a false potential of myself. If those women would close their eyes, try to see me in a different kind of eye, a third one or something as such, they wouldn’t like what they see; I’ve adapted to the idea of resembling the uncomfortable void. 

And those women, they usually end up walking away from me because flowers don’t blossom without water. 

It is not funny that you say you are “so OCD”

It is not funny that you say you are “so OCD” when you rush to adjust the tilted table cloth and your friends laugh about it. It is not funny because you don’t know what it’s like for a slight tilt to remind me of how ugly my crooked smile is. And nothing can change this truth.

It is not funny that you say you are “so OCD” when you rinse your cup twice, because when I do that, it’s far deeper than just the cup’s condition; I do that to be less harsh in judgment with myself because mistakes find a way to disturb my peace.

When you over-organize your room and think you might be OCD, it’s nothing like my reality; when I try to tidy up the maximum amount of things in my house to contrast the mess of emotions I feel inside. And I’d do that again and again until something inside feels right. I keep polishing my mirrors to silence the breaking of the glass inside. And what frustrates me the most is that it works sometimes for a while, right before the other rising of the screams inside.

It is not a joke because you don’t know what it’s like to pray countless times a day with the thought that God doesn’t love me because I feel that I am a bad person, and nothing can fix that. It is not funny when you joke about you having a sharp eye for the flaws of everything and your friends say that you might be OCD, and they laugh.

You don’t know what it’s like to see the needy eyes of my baby boy yet, and I’d avoid touching him because I can’t shake the thought of how filthy he might be. You don’t know what it’s like to keep such a secret, to try to contain my urges so that my husband wouldn’t think I’m crazy. It is not a joke.

It hurts to see that everything around me reminds me of how ugly I feel, how imperfect I am.

© 2015 ALIA SULTAN

*inspired from a very intimate conversation I had with a friend who told me to write about things from her perspective.

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Passionate People

I’m interested in
sunsets and road trips
and people who don’t
settle for the ordinary
and those who believe
in myths and magic
I’m interested in
the ocean
not the shore and
late-night phone calls
discussing life and death
and everything in between
I’m interested in
conversations that
discuss the characters
in books in such a manner
that makes them seem alive
and I’m also interested
in storytellers
I’m interested in taking risks
not playing by the rules

I’m interested in those

who write love letters
And in those
with a beating heart
that is constantly desiring
something, somewhere
because I do not
settle for less

© 2014 ALIA SULTAN

Countdown

He’s in his grave it’s
Peaceful and silent
It’s not as scary as they
Told him it would be

He’s 77 and he
Wonders if her
soul is what’s
making the stars
shine as he
sheds his tears

He’s 60 and he’s
Right there beside her
Gazing into her beautiful
Face which seems unmoved
By time to him, she wakes up
And smiles to him, embraces
Him and tells him she loves him

He’s 55 and this is
when he decides he
doesn’t want to
work anymore because
he wants to have more of those
minutes of admiring existence
with his wife so he bought her
a bracelet with the word “explore”
engraved on it and they ran
off to see the world

He’s 42 and he’s
perfectly happy with his
job because now he
understands that
money is important, yes
but it is not all valuable
possessions a man can have
and he is one of the
most successful men
in the region
so he wakes up every morning
with less pressure
because he is everything
he dreamed he would be

He’s 30 and he
can’t believe there
is someone as beautiful
As her face as he rests
Silent before the beauty
of her eyes and the
full moon in the sky
“I’m going to marry her”
He thinks to himself

He’s 26 and he’s
Surrounded with
The most beautiful people
But he’s wondering
if he will ever
find a stable and successful
job and if he’d
ever find a woman who’d
make his heart beat

He’s 12 and he’s
one of those kids who
are afraid of the future
and are puzzled with
life but were moved
with a tremendous
force that kept
pushing them around to
understand all that
will ever be

He’s 2 now and he
just saw his mom
shedding tears of
happiness for the
first time after his
first unclear words of
“I love you” and he’s
Grinning with his
Tiny teeth

He’s in his mother’s
womb now and it’s
peaceful and silent
it’s not as scary as they
told him it would be

 

© 2014 ALIA SULTAN