Journal, Myself

Dreams

Free twitter bar
Image via Wikipedia/ twitter.com/zibasanjay

The images of talking to Preeti’s dad evoked my dread of the long-awaited conversation of what next?  Flash of Gurjit crying reminded me of Tejpal’s as well as the death of the normalcy of my life and of the challenges ahead.  Still I dived in these murky as my heartbeat slowed, well aware that the heat of the blankets told of an intense and long sleep.  The room become brighter as if to mark my awareness.  No longer did I want to ignore the idea that I was awake, instead I fished for more.

I marveled that I only had one drink yesterday yet told everyone I had two.  Why?  I wondered.  What was it about being in certain crowds that made you want to be an overachiever in an activity designed to kill brain cells? What was it about social discomfort that made me want to grasp to the one liquid that could return me back to feeling like everything was ok temporarily. How was it different from my dreams?

Then it hit me.  While I thought about last night, the dreams had made their escape.  It was as if I had been purposefully distracted so they could go to their secret hiding place. My breathing slowed, the blankets cooled, I reached for my phone to get my daily Twitter and Words with Friends fix  and the dreams went further away and suddenly the urge to write feels silly and trite.  I am left holding simplistic words and thoughts rather than the deep implications my dreams carried.  Conned, once again by my mind, I reluctantly came to my page and had nothing to offer except the memory of my dreams gone.

I closed my eyes, and nothing came save for the feeling of betrayal I caused myself.

 

Journal, Myself

Life Goals

A white Lamborghini Concept S in the Lamborghi...
Image via Wikipedia
The Lone Soldier by Jemal Y

There I stand stoically ready to face the  world,mute but  capable, deaf but open to the world.  Many of my dreams sacrificed to the dullness of meaningless days.   Future goals set aside for empty gratification, my life resembled nothing like I  imagined it would.  No longer.

Yesterday, I ran across an old document titled 101 Life Goals.  Curious, I opened it up and it was something I had written EXACTLY one year ago.  I wont bore you with all 101 but the top ten were:

1)     Publish a Memoir

2)     Get Married (for the last time!)

3)     Get an MBA

4)     Have Kids (2-3)

5)     Become an accomplished General Counsel

6)     Get a Lamborghini

7)     Publish Fiction

8)     Have a great library

9)     Become a Gourmet Chef

10) Travel the World

The 2 that stood out to me right away (besides the Lamborghini) were about publishing fiction and my memoir.  I am proud to say that I have started those 2 life goals, and for once I had written something that wouldn’t just be a mute witness to my aimless wandering.  No longer would my passion be a lone soldier in the battlefield of dreams.  I was finally on a mission that made sense and made me feel that for once I wasnt a slave to words that just burst out of me for no reason, but the master of my life. 

That wasnt the only thing to celebrate, I was also closer to other goals as well (including marriage, the library, and the kids) yet it was telling that I had done nothing to become a gourmet chef.  I love to cook but I hardly ever do it anymore, and the tons of dust-covered books in my kitchen are telling me that perhaps that’s a goal I will get to when I get to the ones I really want to achieve. 

I had also changed on life goal, from becoming a MBA to doing my MFA (Masters in Fine Arts) with an emphasis on creative writing.  Nothing like reading something from your past to know that for once your on track. 

No longer a lone soldier but a fighter for the things that matter most.

Myself, Writing

Dreaming

By Jemal Y

I tried to hold on, I really did.  Waking up, and running here to this page only showed me something I knew quite well.  The blank white space matching the insides of my brain.  The thoughts as empty as the dreams I had for my future.  I wanted what I saw to be real, to be put down and documented so I can say it existed but instead I sit here, attempting to grab sunlight with my hand and finding it fruitless.

I see flashes of smiles and one shot of me crying.  About what?  I dont know, except the tears came from deep within, feeding of the years of stored up sadness.

Just small flashes of tears and smiles.  Kind of like my past.  Nothing makes sense except that perhaps I have dreamt all my life.