Message From a Grave.

What happens when you’re buried alive?

Oh! You wouldn’t know.

No, you wouldn’t understand.

Liar, betrayer, destroyer,

Tormenter, beast, manipulator,

And yes, Go ahead!

Smile to the crowd,

Tell them your worth.

Forget my corpse.

Allow me to rot under your golden feet.

And of course! Of course,

You may dance in your riches.

Go ahead! Dance in your filth.

Because even with my rotting skin,

I will glow, and we will rise.

Against the world who worked,

To save the saved; kill the dying. 

All Hail The Underdog

If you ever do have the audacity to wonder why I've lived the way I have, stab yourself with a thousand thorns and you'll understand. If you ever do have the wisdom, to march right up to my life and say: "You're all wrong." carry the weight of the world on your way back. And then, when you come back and you still don't understand, then darling, sweetie, honey, tape your lips together and turn around. 

Because, you built a kingdom of civil wars and terror. Because, you threw around boulders after boulders after boulders, at the one person who sought to actually do something with their life. You pointed at them, and you said they wouldn't win, you said this pauper was too weak, and we all yelled: ALL HAIL THE FREAKING UNDERDOG. 

We're tired of you, and you, and you. We're tired of being caught in your typhoon, so we made our own. We're tired of being pushed down, so now we're pushing back up. And we'll yell: All hail the Goddamn underdog.

Living with Satan

I’ve been living with Satan. You’ve been living with that shitty little voice inside your cranium, that’s in constant war with the nature of your entire being. You’ve been living with Satan, Satan who destroys the tiniest little spec that fabricates your very soul, because Satan just doesn’t like it. Satan means having a black hole. Satan is folding into yourself and self-destructing because you’re not good enough. Not for yourself, not for your relatives, not for your friends, not for your teachers, not even that stranger, or that fellow. Satan is who we allow ourselves to be, right after we fall apart and let ourselves completely perish, like it isn’t beyond the norms.

I’m living with Satan, too.

And, it’s sick. It’s so beyond sick to look at myself in the mirror, and despise the deepest depth of my interior, and the smallest detail of my exterior. It’s disturbing, disorienting, and disgusting to hate myself to the extent that I would detach myself from my body if I could, hope my inanimate be sold to a bunch of wild boars, and be reincarnated into sand. It’s upsetting, to feel so worthless that I’ve come to think that my death would only affect a quarter of a half, and I’m tired of myself. I’m exhausted.

And no, I’m not saying this for sympathy, or pity, or to vent. I’m saying this because I’m so bored of keeping the world from how I feel, because of some ghastly fear of judgment and ridicule, and worrying about whether people would care or not, or if it’s even important. Because, Goddammit, it doesn’t have to be important in order for it to be said. It doesn’t have to make sense. If I find freedom in my words, then hell yes, I am going to tell the whole damn world.

This reminds me of the teardrop and the autumn leaf case. I was writing the prologue to this story that I’ve come to realize I have no faith in. It goes like this:

Rainfall had always fascinated me. It wasn’t just the ecstasy of the shutter, and the beauty sourced in it; that sound when a hundred thousand raindrops meet gravel in an instant; it wasn’t just the sudden change of atmosphere; Not the enveloping thousand yards of rejuvenation that’ll always hold me captive. No, it was more than that. It was how, in one second, you look out your window and you see the sidewalk, the road, and a sum of impatient cars. But, in that next instant, a simple drop meets gravel, the universe releases its grip and bam! The wet curtain falls, and there it goes: The impatient cars, the road, and the sidewalk, all a million miles apart….

… And that was the magnificence of these darn drops: They soar, levitate, aim, and fire, landing at one direct position, all at once! As if they were even destined to fall right on my window, or the sidewalk, or the road, or the impatient cars. As if they knew exactly where they belonged.

And how I wish I were a raindrop. Because, you see, I am anything but the glory of it all. Unlike rainfall, I fall, then I tumble, then I scatter, and then I fall again: I am the darkest autumn leaf.

And the darkest autumn leaf, I certainly am.

And no, I’m not saying this for sympathy, or pity, or to vent. I’m saying this because I’m so bored of keeping the world from how I feel, because of some ghastly fear of judgment and ridicule, and worrying about whether people would care or not, or if it’s even important. Because, Goddammit, it doesn’t have to be important in order for it to be said. It doesn’t have to make sense. If I find freedom in my words, then hell yes, I am going to tell the whole damn world exactly how I feel.

Spec and The Universe

In a time where time was none. There lived a man named Spec. You see, Spec wished for what we all wish for: The universe to fold in on itself, and look at him. 

So, with all his will and might, he stood one day. He straightened his back, polished his shoes, and even fixed his hair. He looked up to the cloudless sky, full of wonder, unanswered questions, and prayers, and yelled 'UNIVERSE! UNIVERSE, I swear to you— I swear to you with all my humanly power, that I am here! For once, for once will you look at me?!' The universe said nothing. And Spec was baffled! How could it ignore him? Who is it to look down upon him? He was in the end a human! He had all the power this world possessed... Or so he thought.

You see, this is where the humor comes in. Spec is a dimwit. Spec believes this entire world is set for him, that nothing else— not the sun, or the sea— could simply look away from him. He believed the world belonged to the humans, and everything that the world carried— it's roses, and horses, and wind— served none but him. 

So, being the dimwit that he is, he stood again, with a straighter back and dirtier shoes, and yelled again. Breaking through the wind, and the course of the birds: 'UNIVERSE, YOU ARE TO ME. AND NONE BUT ME! YET, YOU HAVE THE AUDACITY TO IGNORE ME WHEN I SPEAK? AND WHO ARE YOU TO DO WHAT YOU DO? YOUR ANIMALS, AND YOUR ROSES ARE WORTHLESS TO ME! I STAND TALL, AND LARGE, AND I COME WITH WIT! BUT YOU DO THIS? WHEN I AM THE ONLY BEING WHO HAS THE MIND TO SPEAK, QUESTION, AND FUNCTION! WHEN I AM THE ONLY THAT IS EVEN OF MATTER! WHAT IS WRONG WITH

YOU?!' His back had arched with his reddened face, he yelled so much he had lost his breath to the wind. His hands were to his knees, as weakness tread down his limbs.

Then finally, finally! The Universe spoke, looked to its stars and smoke, and said '... Do you hear anything?' 

The Universe heard only faint whispers, and then let them be. The Universe did not know such a being as Spec existed, it didn't know what or who or where he was, really. The Universe had much more important things to do. The Universe had to move. And move it will! 

Dear reader,

Yes, Spec is ridiculous. He's probably one of the dumbest, most ridiculous characters I've ever come to project to the world (There are worse). I mean, the way he speaks is beyond our century, I understand. But, he's sort of a hyperbole, symbolizing who we are as people. 

We expect the world to fold in, and look at us, like we even matter, without actually realizing how incredibly small, and indigent we are. We fail to realize that we are not the only ones here, and the world does not actually revolve with us, for us, or around us. In fact, it moves right by us, and we're the ones who're supposed to move with it. Because, all we really do have is right now. This split of a second that rushes by in an instant is who we are. Everything else is in the hands of the universe, who won't ever regard us, because the universe just passed by, and instead of regretting and wishing and expecting, we might as well move with it.

Sincerely,

2AM writings.

So, They Said People Suck

This is me, Maryam, merely writing whatever’s slipping through my typically-melancholic-but-not-so-melancholic-at-this-given-moment- mind, if that made any sense. So yes, you will find grammatical errors of various forms, and yes, you will be reading the simplest range of vocabulary, because, this is nothing more than my sixteen-year-old self. And hopefully, my sixteen-year-old self shall, in some way, be in your most interest.(I am as awkward as a cat lady, who hasn’t had any sort of communication with any other living human being. So, ha! This is as interesting, as a sack of grain.)

What I really wanted to talk about was, us. People. Humans. Individuals, what we all share, and what makes us whole. It’s 12:30 AM, and I’m in bed, these thoughts are pretty normal in my case.  (Again, awkward cat lady figuration explains this.) Moving on.

I just wanted to say: We’re all pretty incredible (This is so cheesy. I will regret this tomorrow.). I mean, we might’ve practically destroyed our very own planet, and slaughtered millions of our own species. We also like to judge a lot, and we have this habit of destroying each other’s half-self-esteem. We’re basically, a bundle of flaws accumulated together, to form this imperfect structure that expects nothing but perfection. Funny, aren’t we?

But, even with all this crap, we’re still are beautiful species. Yes, we destroy more than we build, but look deeper. Right to the core of this brick wall we all separate each other with, like we’re all different or something. In this little core, you find this beautiful, fancy little thing that is the sole reason to who we truly are. It’s what really brings us all together, what makes me feel all mushy on the inside. It’s our stupid, retarded, sometimes misinterpreted emotions.  

So, let’s all put the politics, in addition to our failing economy aside, and remember the funniest video we’ve ever seen. That one special friend that practically joins in with your stupidity, rather than laugh at it. Or those weirdoes we all love, and tend have the strangest conversations with, or when our entire family bursts out laughing at the same time. Or, when a random stranger offers a hand, or when everything for once, is just okay, because someone somewhere cracked a joke. It could be from ourselves; maybe we sometimes unconsciously bring ourselves some hilarious thought, remark, or memory.  You see, it’s always the little things that make us happy; bring us closer to the world we outwardly despise. It’s these little connections, these little unforgettable-split-of-a-second moments of complete and utter tranquility.

There’s this other thing too, there’s the sacrifice. It’s stupid, if looked at exteriorly. But, quiet sane when you think about… Well, no. It just makes sense, when regarding strong emotions. I guess? It’s a pretty little thing, all in all. It’s sweet. There is no exact limit to sacrifice, no precise definition to it either. It’s a number of things. It’s a mother, giving her dying son her organ. It’s a woman, throwing away the rest of her world, for the love of the new world in her arms. It’s a man giving, and giving, and giving until all are almost content. It’s letting go, of everything that once kept you stable, for a one out of a billion. It’s, a friend of trust, you could say. It’s amazing, really, just think about it. Someone, somewhere has just thrown away his or her everything, for nothing but a mere human. Because that Some-Mere-Human, that random stranger, just happens to be that person’s new world, that person’s new basis for everything.

They just gave it all away! ALL OF IT! It’s incredible, to me at least.

At the end of the day though, it’s all love. With all the crap going on around us, we still don’t actually mind trusting each other with our all.  We still give, and share. We still have those who sit down, and listen to our pointless jibber. We still care, and love. It’s all still there. And maybe, just maybe, we’re not so bad. Maybe with our good people, maybe we could actually make it through this… Maybe we have hope. So, what I’m trying to say is, all these connections, these things we’d do for each other, these people that can mean so much to us, and the little things that make us so happy, but are so small. These, maybe, are things that are keeping us together. Maybe, we should pay more attention to them, I guess.

Ok. I’ll shut up now, before I regret anything mor

Writing Like a Mental Patient

These past couple of days, I’ve been writing bull crap. Complete, and utter bull crap. I didn’t understand why, though. I was never this bad. I mean, it was well written, I’d have all my principles and techniques in place, but it was just ugly.  At first, I thought I was getting worse. I thought I was growing up, and my love for writing had slowly been fading. Then, I thought I was just stressed and needed a break. So that’s what I did, I stopped writing for a while.

And in my writing break, I realized my stupidity. You see, it’s not all about how good your vocabulary is, it’s not about how well you apply your writing techniques, it’s not about your imagery, or how well you know all your principles. It’s only partly about that. The other bigger and the stronger part is the (Ready yourself. This is going to be cheesy.) heart, and the soul. I’m not the best, or the wittiest, but I can definitely say, your writings are absolutely terrible if you only write with your mind. Trust me, writing is more than accumulating a bunch of words together, in order to create a paragraph. Writing is picking certain words, allowing them to collide, and create a masterpiece of itself. It’s, seeing beauty inside your mind, it’s letting the reader see the fireworks so deeply applied in each, and every line. It’s your own beauty.

So, what I’m trying to say is, when I write, let I let my heart speak for itself, let it do most of the work, let my mind do the other half, and then let my fingers wander around the page. It’s, unlimited freedom on a piece of paper, pretty much. It’s letting your soul breathe; letting it live.

And, when it comes to story writing, it isn’t exactly about me either. My stories aren’t exactly… mine. All of it, every single aspect of it, belongs to whoever’s doing the talking inside my head, if you know what I mean. When the main character’s an old man. The voice inside my head is an old man. When it’s a young girl, the voice inside my head is a little girl.  I just let the characters live, and hope I don’t end up with schizophrenia or DID, or something.

You see, when you unleash the crazies you actually come up with something pretty cool. Trust me.

Dear Emily,

August 3, 1990

Dearest Emily,

How are you? I miss you. I don’t want to bother you, and I’m sorry if I ever did, but, when you first got married, you said you’d write me everyday, since I don’t exactly know how to use those imails, or emails, or whatever you call them. I’m sorry your pap is an old-timer, sweetie. We haven’t heard from you, you’re mother and I. I know it’s only been a couple of days, but I can’t help but worry.

Oh, and how’s Ethan? I’d known he’d make a remarkable husband; I’d always known he’d be perfect for you. I hope he’s giving you all the love you deserve.

And if you’re wondering, we, your mother and I. We still make Lasagna every Tuesday.

Remember? When you were six; the moment you wake up, you run out your room, with hair un-brushed and clothes unchanged, yelling ‘Lasagnaday!’ even though we don’t make lasagna at eight in the morning, you still spent the entire day guessing how it would taste this time. Remember how, even when it’s always the same, we always had our remark: ‘Too salty.’ ‘Too much sauce.’ ‘Too much white stuff.’ And your mom would go crazy.

Tuesday is my favorite day.

I love you, darling. Please, write back to me. I miss you. If you’re too busy to write back, I’ll always be by the phone.  At least I know how to use that, right?

I’ll check the mailbox everyday.

Love,

Mitchell, your lasgnaday partner.

September 7, 1990

Dear Emily,

I still haven’t heard from you. Have you moved? Am I using the wrong address? Did I upset you? And how are you, again?

 I miss you more, and more everyday. I know you’ve grown up now, but I can’t help but miss carrying you on my shoulders when you were little, and you’d spread your arms, shoot your head to the sky, and challenge all the birds, as if you were already victorious. I miss playing King and Princess with you. I still have the getup. Remember when we used to build a castle out of the sofa, and end up sleeping in it. Remember what your mom would say? ‘You’re ruining the couch, it’s silk!’ But she didn’t understand our very important tea party, did she?

Anyway, where have you been? Have you travelled?

Oh, and remember when you were so upset we didn’t throw you a party when you turned sixteen, and then surprised you with tickets to Rome, for us, and all your friends? I still remember the look on your face. You were crying in your bedroom, with all that black stuff you so, religiously apply everyday, running down your face. As if it finally caught freedom. I must say, sweetie, you looked like a zombie.

But that tormented zombie transformed into a less haunting version of itself once we gave you the tickets.

But I do admit, you make a beautiful zombie.

You don’t need to write me back, you can send me an empty page, and I’ll be just as happy. I want to make sure your okay. I still miss my little girl.

I’ll always wait.

Love,

Mitchell, your loving king.

September 8, 1991

Emily,

It’s been a year, and I’m still writing, still waiting by the phone,  and still checking our mailbox. I’m even still having lasagnaday. I stopped knowing why though.

I waited everyday. Everyday, since the day I sent my first letter.

I sleep three hours everyday, I’ve lost my appetite, and I haven’t seen your mother in a while. I don’t blame her, though. Once she told me the news, I turned into a monster. We spent everyday arguing over things I forget in the morning, and I could tell your mother was getting sick of me. It all started when she first told me. It was like a part of my flesh was ripped apart and thrown away. I’m sorry, Emily.

You always meant the world to me, always will. I would turn sand into pearls for your happiness, I would kill a hundred bulls, and I would flip this entire city upside down, and heck, I’d learn how to use imails. Just to see you smile.

But I failed this time. I failed, miserably. And I don’t really know why I’m writing this, now that you can’t read it anymore.

 I wish I was in that in car, on August the third, nineteen ninety. I wish I sent that stupid letter earlier. I wish it was me. I wish I could protect you.

I’m sorry I let you slip away. The castle, lasagnaday, and Rome will never be the same without you.

Love,

Mitchell, the man who lost his princess, and his queen.