Brownness, Myself, Writing

No Words

English: Man with a turban, Bhopal, India. Fra...
English: Man with a turban, Bhopal, India. Français : Homme avec un turban, Bhopal, Inde. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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The music fills the room and my soul. Silence is my best friend while I pray for the music to enter me. I wait for inspiration. Nothing. Silence. I keep waiting.

No words come to mind.  I am blank.  The heart is too full of hurt and regret to allow anything out to anyone.  Time passes. The coffee cools.  Outside, I see a few old couples power walking.  Usually one is ahead of the other.  What is it about doing things as a race?  But that’s not true either. I know that’s my perception. My need to compete with anything. Always me. The “I” never lets go.  Me. Me. Me.

I notice the old man.  I have been seeing him for years. He is an old turbaned Indian, clean shaven, riding a bicycle.  Slowly. Methodically. Sometimes he is a carrying a child but mostly he is alone, chugging along. I often wonder who he is,  but really the main question I have for him is: Why the turban?  I want to ask “Are you from a village” or “Are you a Sikh who does not believe in keeping the hair?”  Where are you going, my friend?  Do you realize you have become a staple in my life?  A quiet one.  Someone who seems to ride by me whenever I am struggling with who I am.  You are a sign, but I just don’t know about what.  I watch you slowly go by me, and I am tempted to run out and stop you and ask “who are you, my friend?”  Yet, I know how crazy that is. s

So I sit here, watching you go by while the coffee has gone cold, and the words still seem to be eluding me.  Silence. The music keeps playing…

 

#30trust

One Strong Belief: A Blog Post

Have I Offended Someone?
Image via Wikipedia

Wow, ended up almost missing the deadline for posting today and the minutes wind down,  I can only pat myself that for once I am through.  The one strong belief that I have that is not shared by my friends or my family is my willingness to write out my thoughts, desires, and commentary about how things affect me.  It has always been easiest for me to express how I truly feel about things, and it has gotten me the most amount of criticism and fascination for those who are offended or moral voyeurs.  I have struggled all my life on how to balance what I need to get out versus on revealing too much about others or worse conflicting with some who have no idea how I feel until they read my words.  The one thing I have actively pursued is my desire to write, and while it sometimes it is far from honest, my recent flirtation with The Artists Way has shown that my belief in my writing is a reflection of my life and even if it offends others, it is my belief that for me to deal with things is to write about them.  No matter the consequences.

Brownness, Myself, Preeti

Save Me

by Jemal Yarbrough

Surrounded by books like You are What You Eat to What to Eat Before, During and After Cancer Treatment, it hits me that Cancer has given me a life I thought impossible.  Scattered on the bed are various notes and business cards from the dozens we have consulted in the medical field but still we do not and cannot know enough.  We are still ignorant as to what is about to come, and in some ways you could say in denial. Shoved aside to the side are the many Christmas presents we bought for our families and friends, but they lay ignored and unwrapped in another room, waiting perhaps for one of my relatives to take pity and finally put then in beautiful wrapping paper. It would appear from all of this that emptiness resides in our lives, but you would be dead wrong.

 

Along with the horrible, Cancer also gave me the improbable:  a wonderful wife.  I hadn’t dared to dream that the beautiful person who affected my life and soul would now be my life partner.  Strange, how the proliferation of some body cells can melt away 4 years of “hell no’s” and resistance to the idea of us getting married.  Funny, how I can be accepted into a household where my name couldn’t even be mentioned, and break bread.  You would think I would be filled with resentment or, worse, anger, but neither has a place in my heart.  I will not and cannot allow the past to corrupt my present and future.  As if by magic, I have allowed the cancer of peace and acceptance to fill our families rather than use it to destroy what’s left.  There is only room for love and forgiveness.  In a matter of days, we are going to be tied to each other for life, officially that is.  I had accepted her in my life a long time ago, something I wish I had told her a while ago.  I cannot bear the thought that she thinks it’s because of Cancer but only because it’s is true on the surface.  But she needs to know what I mean: Cancer gave me the courage to talk to her family.  I finally did what I have not been able to put my foot down and rightfully claim what’s mine.

 

There are some who would not see this as any victory, and some may even opine that now that’s sick her family agreed just to save face.  I would counter that even if that’s true, the victory is still mine.  I have her, and in the end that’s all that matters.  They say people come into your life for a reason or a season perhaps even to teach a lesson.  Preeti is all of the above, she makes the person I want to be, the person I see myself to be. I know the road ahead is potted with long hours, and perhaps fights and definite exhaustion but Cancer needs to know it has fucked with the wrong people.  It obviously doesn’t know her anger or my strength.  Together, we are unbeatable.  You have been warned, Cancer.

 

Journal, Myself, Preeti

Quiet Cancer:

Hear and Now
Image via Wikipedia

It is quiet in here.  Wait, that;s not exactly true, let me rephrase.  It’s quiet enough that I hear the satisfying click of words being typed on this page.  So  different type of quiet.  If I strain enough, I can hear the dog gently snoring in the next room, moving occasionally to get more comfortable.  There’s not enough light in my room or life now to brighten my writing area so I have resorted to turning on all the lights in the house yet 500 watts still seems dim.  I may never brighten.

Sat and struggled with the final piece for my writing class, and realized the fight was not based on what to write, or how to write but if I should.  Bulb went off in my head, and the words materialized below

The room was quiet except for the noise of cancer in our lives. I opened my eyes, and felt strange and unfamiliar until I realized I was staring at the ceiling. I had been sleeping for over 5 hours. My mind had lied to me.  My heart pounded for something selfish and non-existent.  I had dreamt not of my love but of myself. The smug clock said 7:16 am.  Nothing chirped but it felt like it.  The bathroom dripped some watery noises as if digesting a bad meal.  Darkness was losing its daily battle to the sun, yet still had strong footholds in the distance. I looked upon her not five feet away, surrounded by confident machines on a bed not meant for resting.

 

Cancer is the body lying to itself.  It is perhaps one of the few illnesses where the body will destroy itself by creating so much of itself that the body cannot contain it. Physically, the cancer had grown in her body, but it had infected our lives.  I was no longer disoriented, but disillusionment filled our room. I hoped the room would spin again, and perhaps I could enter the darkness and pretend that it was I lying on the bed and not her but dreaming did not make reality.

 

I gazed at her, willing her to breathe.  Breathe away the anger, the past, the arguments, and the many wasted moments regretting what was not to be.  Breathe in the love surrounding her.  Breathe in thoughts that would remove the enemy in her.  I wanted to take control of her body so it could get angry at the unwanted stranger and calmly ask the perversion to leave. I lasered my thoughts on to her, but the quietness of the cancer had already enveloped our lives.   Breath.

 

 

Journal, Myself, Preeti

Life Failed: Love/Family Did Not

By Jemal Yarbrough

I am not Sanjay Sabarwal, co-owner of Ziba Beauty.  I am not a lawyer.  I am not a promoter.  I am not a double major from UCLA.  I am not a columnist.  I am not a former volunteer at the Lexington Juvenile detention center in Kentucky.  I am not a past political intern.  NCTE) I am not a stroke victim.  I am not familiar with cancer.

I am not,  I am not, I am not any of these facts.  All my life, even at this moment, I have believed I was destined to be something greater; more significant, a personality. Focusing only on my desires and wants, I forgot how to be.  Spending energy (and credit cards) to showcase a life imagined by many but afforded by few, I drowned my soul painfully.  Surrounded by many gadgets and the must of my dog (her dog), I became empty, a negative, a compilations of could be’s, would be’s, should-be’s, would’ve’s.

So who am I?  Perhaps that’s not as an interesting a question as what I am.  I am part of a love that I did not think possible, that I had heard of and seen in fiction.  After 4 years, her face is still the first image projected onto my thoughts.  Her eyes an amazing greenish-yellow, rivaling those of cats (domestic and otherwise), her temper and stubbornness exasperating but befitting the queen she has the potential to be.

Then there is my family, my energy trough where I go to replenish myself.  I draw my strength from them like a greedy gambler who can’t get enough. I steal their inspiration and good wishes so I can face the cannot’s and will not’s in my life.  I use their love and faith in me to see myself.  It is then I become Sanjay Sabarwal.

Journal, Myself

Perhaps

Jemal Y

Perhaps the window to my soul closed a long time ago.  perhaps, I have been dreaming a long time, and now I am awake.  Perhaps what I thought to be my world, my life was nothing more than a string of moments and memories put together so I can say I lived.  Perhaps I am the homeless man on the right, fantasizing I am the writer on this post.  Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

 
Those 7 letters have become ingrained in me, telling me nothing, give me no direction just a vague vision of what is to come, but perhaps that’s all an illusion.
 
I sit like that man, looking down half asleep, hoping, wishing, prayer for perhaps a better day, life or illusion  or perhaps not.
 
I do not know where I want to be.  I do know where I shall be.  I just know that perhaps it will all work out
 
Perhaps