The Moon Don't Hang Quite as High as it Used to

I saw the moon last night. That I am sure. Why, I had the lyrics ''She swears the moon don't hang quite as high as it used to'' from Matchbox Twenty's 3 am on my mind the whole night yesterday and the whole day today. So I am sitting by the window to look at the moon only that I can't see it. As I sit here, I remember the book The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros. In explaining her name, Esperanza says that she was named after her great grandmother. She, like her great grandmother was born in the Chinese year of the horse. This is apparently bad luck if you are female, because the females born in the year of the horse are strong. And in both the Chinese and Mexican cultures, strong women are not encouraged. Esperanza, the great grandmother, was a wild horse woman who wouldn't marry until a sack was thrown over her head by the great grandfather and was carried away. She did not forgive him and for the rest of her life, she looked out the window. Esperanza compares her great grandmother's looking out the window to how many women sit their sadness on an elbow. Esperanza is fine with inheriting her great grandmother's name but she doesn't want to inherit her place by the window.

I shudder just by thinking about the book. Because I am looking out the window just like, I am assuming, Esperanza did. I guess looking out the window at this other side of midnight is a little sad and lonely. That thought is a little bit disquieting, so I ask myself, what really is it that I am looking for. I tell myself that the wanting to see the moon is just an excuse my conscious self wants to believe and my subconscious is hiding the real reason. So I stare. The wind is blowing softly. This, I deduce from the fact that I see the leaves moving slowly, back and forth, back and forth, then a little more violently, then back to its slow rhythm. It's fascinating. It is quiet. Deathly quiet. I like it.

Esperanza may have been looking out the window hating how her life turned out. But I am looking out the window finding peace in my aloneness thinking I should sit here daily instead of every other day and knowing that beyond the horizon, beyond this tiny spot on the globe, the sun is rising.

The title of this post is from the song 3 AM by Matchbox Twenty.

Get into my Ear: Just Another Girl by The Killers

The Killers - Just Another Girl: http://youtu.be/3BwzP1laWkQ

If you know me, at all, you'll know that matters of the heart are not my forte. I fundamentally believe that you can get through this life without being romantically involved with anyone. I mean, if you doubt me, ask the monks and the Catholic Sisters, Brothers and Fathers. If you happen to fall in love,  well and good. If you don't, it's not the end of the world. I have been, or thought I was at the time, in love. But with the benefit of hindsight right now, I think I never was.

Given my take, it is therefore unusual, absurd even, to have this song on repeat. I tell myself it's because I find every song by The Killers, and Brandon Flowers while we are at it, very entertaining. The Killers would most certainly have a place in my mix tape, if I ever make one. Or maybe it's because the video features Dianna Agron, who looks amazing by the way. Whatever the reason, I have this song on repeat. So why waste time psychoanalysing myself and the absurd reasons behind why I love it. Why not share with the world? I know it sounds pathetic to hold on to the past, but this song gives the past a whole new meaning.

Favourite Lyrics

I could be reeling them in left and right
Something's got a hold on me tonight
Well maybe all of my friends should confront
The fact that I don't want another girl

Then why can't I sleep at night
And why don't the moon look right
The sound's off but the TV's on
And it's a great big world

All of my friends say I should move on
She's just another girl
Don't let it stick to your heart so hard
All of my friends say it wasn't meant to be
And it's a great big world
She is just another girl

The Light Outside the Darkness

I am in the mood of sitting by my bedroom window and watch the stars, see if I can make out the different constellations. But the sky is overcast, making it appear gloomy, so I sit staring into the vast darkness. In the distance, I see light from a second floor window of an apartment, and for no apparent reason, my heart goes out to the occupant(s). Out of this darkness, the light stands out as if trying to get attention, which it does. It's past midnight on a weeknight, so I wonder what the occupant is doing, they should be asleep. I chuckle at the hypocrisy of that thought, because I am awake. Then I feel angry at the occupant, for having their light on and marring the beauty of the night. More surprisingly, am angry that they are awake, therefore, am not the only one who isn't asleep.

I wonder why I have this anger but then I realise that the nights are private. The silence, the solitude and the darkness are things that I enjoy most about the night and I suddenly feel that my privacy is being violated by this person whom I think is studying or working or maybe even sleeping with the lights on. I am irked by this light -however distant it is from me. So I leave my spot by the window and wonder why I am even thinking about these things in the first place!

The title of this post is from the song Kill the Light by Lacuna Coil

When you Find yourself a Villain in the Story you've Written

On this fine, cold and unusual insomniac night, I sit looking at my phone waiting for the battery to charge because tomorrow might be long and I don't want to lose the convenience that my cell affords me. Tonight is unusual because whenever am insomniac(read most nights) I enjoy the silence that comes with the night, in fact, I find that I crave it. Silence in the dead of the night creates an illusion  of aloneness that is hard to find during the day and that is very comforting for my introverted tendencies.  Okay, granted, most nights I am reading and therefore meeting new people as it is. Tonight, however, the silence is both deafening and suffocating. So I have put some music on so I can finally breath.

My thoughts wander haphazardly,  as if seeking for something but never pausing long enough to explore what it is they are searching. I tell myself that after the day I have had, I should be damn tired, near exhaustion, but my mind contradicts this idea. That's why, in an effort to quiet the cacophony that is my thoughts, I try to put to paper what it is that I think I am feeling. I try so hard to show you my favourite part of me, because that's what us humans do, but I feel like a villain in this story that I have written, and it is safe to say that no one ever wants to be the villain, we want to be good people, we endeavour to be nice but sometimes we fail horribly in our attempts. Truth is, sometimes I am a heartless villain who unknowingly (and sometimes knowingly) hurts the people around me.

Sometimes I am unforgiving and therefore let meaningful relationships die because of things that could easily be forgotten. I pride myself in being very observant, taking note of things my friends do and most importantly listening intently to them during conversations. But when my being observant is not reciprocated and I find myself talking about the same things that I am sure I had already talked about to the same person, I get angry and let the friendship wither all so naturally.

I don't have friends. But I have a myriad of acquaintances. This was rightly pointed out by an acquaintance whom I have known for quite some time now. I was studying for my Communication and Gender paper and I read to her the steps of building a friendship and one of the key steps is mutual sharing of vital information about each other. She said that I am a good listener, and people easily share personal information and not even realise that I have not shared anything personal. She then confessed that she wanted to buy me a present on my birthday, but she was conflicted, she didn't know if I would like whatever it is she bought. And she is not the only one, so many people, some of my siblings included don't know even my favourite food(!) But instead of thinking that maybe am too secretive or mysterious, I felt a surge of anger, because I thought that people don't outrightly tell you what they like, it's your job to find out, by being observant, and I do that job so well. But she sensed my anger and calmly said that I am picky, too picky for that matter.

So I am unforgiving, very picky and mysterious, all traits that don't nurture good friendships. In this story that is my life, I am responsible for these villain traits. I picked these traits for my protagonist, who is me, and for as long as this story has been in existence, these traits have served me well. They have put an electric barrier between myself and other people, thereby protecting my vulnerabilities and in so doing, creating a cocoon that is my safety net without which I wouldn't recognise myself.

The title of this post is from the song You are a Tourist by Death Cab for Cutie.

Even when I'm Wrong I Tend to Think I'm Right

I have always disliked the word empowerment. Disliking the word was not a conscious decision, but a subconscious one. Maybe it's because whenever I heard the term being used, it was associated with women. I have also written many essays with the phrase 'women empowerment,' but I cringed everytime I did. In retrospect, I realise that my hatred for this word was because:

1. my understanding of the meaning of the verb 'empower' was limited to only two meanings; (1) to give power to someone and (2) to give official authority or legal power to someone; and

2. A quote by Roseanne Barr, author of, among other books, My Life as a Woman;
    "The thing women have yet to learn is nobody gives you power. You just take it."

Maybe, I should have prefaced this post by saying that I am a feminist, but then, I think, that would be stating the obvious. Therefore, Roseanne telling me, in no uncertain terms, mind you, that if you want power, you don't need permission,  you just take it, I had good reason to hate the word empowerment. Until today!

During my yoga class, the instructor talked about empowerment and how it means different things to different people. The thing with yoga, you have to come to your practice undone and unglued from everything that you believe in and just be. Therefore,  I was more than ready to hear the instructor's view on this loaded term. And from a yoga perspective,  she talked about empowerment as being the freedom to be who you are, freedom to do what you think is right and freedom to get the most out of the practice. That right there was new for me. Having harboured strong feelings towards this empowering word, no pun intended,  I didn't instantly change my view. Later, I consulted the good ol' Webster,  and while I was right about the first two meanings, I didn't know about the third meaning which is 'to promote the self actualization or influence of.'

I love this third meaning, yet, I fail to understand why I don't want to let go of my hatred of the term. I know the opposite of hate is not necessarily love and it would be too soon for me to say that I love the word. Having a change of heart is rarely instantaneous, it takes time. I don't want to be indifferent towards it. So, why do I have this anomalous obsession to think am right even when I know am wrong? Part of my idiosyncrasies, I think?

The title of this post is from the song Coming of Age by Foster the People

All of my Memories Keep you Near

Today is the 7th of July and tomorrow will automatically be the 8th, on a Tuesday. Ever since we learnt how to read the calendar, we would look at the calendar and think it was amazing -close to magical, really- that if my birthday would fall on a Monday, yours would automatically fall on a Monday. And so in April we would start the countdown to our birthdays, separated by a mere month. The eve of our birthdays was more important than the birthday itself. We would be extremely giddy and excited because we thought the eve marked a gate pass to a new year, a different year. It was the youngest we would ever be, so as much as we would will it to be over already, we savoured every moment of it. Throughout the day we would constantly remind each other to be in our best behaviour.  I would -or you would, depending on whose birthday we were celebrating- casually tell you, 'Look at me and memorise me, because come tomorrow, I will be a different person.'

The next day would come, as it always does, and apart from being one year older, nothing would have changed. We didn't have birthday parties, but we were aware that it was a special day. And in a way it was special; this is the day we were born.

2005 was bound to be a special year, come the end of it, we would be through with primary school, and we were excited. We were growing up. And we knew there was a possibility that we would go our separate ways when we went to high school, so to eliminate this possibility, we applied to the same schools and hoped, by some miracle, we would go to the same school.

It was on a Friday, in March. You were not feeling well, you slept the whole lunch hour and when we were on our way home later that afternoon, you promised to see me on Monday. I did see you that Monday as promised, but not the way I had expected, I saw you lying lifeless in your coffin. Your cousin had come to tell me, and a few others, that you had passed on during the weekend and we went for the burial.

It's 9 years later, and I don't remember the exact date you passed on. I have tried so hard to remember but I can't. I have read psychological texts on how the human memory works, and maybe I have repressed the date you left me. But your birthday has stayed in my memory. Every 7th and 8th of July finds me going through all the times we shared. My birthday, however, has become just another day. I wonder if maybe you would frown at how indifferent I have become towards birthdays. I also wonder if you would approve of the young woman I have become. I wonder what type of woman you would have become.  I wonder if we would still be good friends, inseparable as it were. I wonder if I would be more open with you, because the people I call friends claim that I am very private, you knew my secrets though; the childhood secrets, but secrets all the same.

You taught me more about resilience than life has taught me. You went through so much at a young age; I don't think I ever was or ever will be half as strong as you were. Most importantly, you taught me that life is short, any day could be the last, and whatever age one is, that age is still a viable, die-able age.

The title of this post is from the song Memories by Within Temptation.

I've Learnt to Listen through Silence

I have always found silence disquieting. It makes me nervous and anxious. But I have never paused to explore that important aspect of my personality. Don't get it twisted, I am not a loud person. I hate noise. Any cacophony will quickly shift my equilibrium and throw me off balance. I am a firm believer that every moment of silence should be filled with music, with words. It is no surprise therefore that all my nocturnal engagements are always accompanied by music. I could never sit alone with my thoughts, so am always scrolling on my phone, internet meandering on my laptop and almost all the time, I find myself reading one thing or another. 

With all my talk of desiring to be  independent, it is now clear that I never even once factored in the question of silence which appears to be focal in getting to know myself. I was at my weekly yoga class last weekend and after a power yoga session, the instructor had us on the tree pose. While on this seemingly easy yet hard to maintain balance pose -which makes it one of my favourite poses- the instructor told us to just try and push a little more until we could feel that we've reached our limits, only then could we revel in the pain or discomfort, whichever, according to our perspectives. I was home alone that evening and I remembered that bit about pushing until I was out of my comfort zone. So I decided to turn off the music and stayed in the quiet silence that comes with the night.

It wasn't pretty. For the first few minutes I was tempted to check my phone for messages even though I knew no message had come. I looked at my bookshelf and was acutely aware of the books that I've bought but haven't yet read, then I looked at my laptop longingly. But the absence of the music that is always ever playing in the background was what threatened to kill me. Through all these, I tried to ask myself why is it that I find silence so eerily uncomfortable. Maybe it's because I am afraid of knowing myself on a deeper level. Maybe I am afraid that when I finally get to know myself I won't like what I am, or what I am not. But when all is said and done, this person that I am so afraid to meet is all I have.

Since that evening, I've noticed a shift in myself, the self that I know, that is. I won't say that am finally comfortable with silence, but am glad that I can push myself to stay with the discomfort. And somehow I have become more perceptive, more aware of what is around me, I listen more instead of always interrupting during a conversation, I notice the facial expressions of people, I am making eye contact with strangers, I have reduced my phone charges and most importantly am spending more time with myself, listening to myself through silence.

The title of this post is from the song Between the Lines by Sara Bareilles