Dear Blogbabes.

Dear Blogbabes,

At the risk of sounding like another dimwitted teen drama queen, Macy still likes him.
She thought she didn't, she prayed and hoped she didn't, but the truth is she still does.
But he's so shallow. He's an ass, he's rude, a lady's man, an arrogant freak.
But maybe, just maybe, he likes her too.
Cuz all they exchange is glances.

But this is looking like a contest...of who can act like they care less.

And he's winning.

Open Mic Opens Eyes.

Dear Blogbabes,

Yesterday I attended an Open Mic Night at my university. All sorts of people--people you wouldn't have imagined to contain even an ounce of creativity in any part of them--performed pieces of poetry than deserved shades of standing ovations and encores (which they did recieve).

I posted about how talent is unrightfully stifled before, on this blog, but I want to tell you how after we left the event, my friends began to argue amongst themselves about how those performers were remarkable and us ourselves are so dull and supposedly "talentless".

I can't even begin to tell you how that made me feel.

Because yes, I <em>choose</em> to be this way.

I <em>choose</em> to be an anonymous writer, I <em>choose</em> to hide my passion. I <em>choose</em> not reveal to the world that there is much more to me than jokes and bitter sarcasm, but I don't think I've ever entertained the thought that others may percieve me as...well...<em>normal</em>.

Because I would rather be anything but normal.

I can't even stand thevthought of being oh-so-typical.

Eitherway, my friends told me to perform in the next open mic night when I so defiantly told them that I did hone a talent, thank you very much.

They would't let the matter rest. They begged to read some of my work - I provided the traditional shrug, mutter of indecipherable words before changing the subject.

Now I'm back to square one where I wish no one knew I wrote.

Because I really can't perform at an open mic.

Don't ask me why.

Sudan at War.

Blogger baybeeeh whats crackalackin??

Well if you're wondering about me, I'm enjoying a four-day vacation/boycott from school because my country is experiencing some economic crises and the prices are too much for the people to bear. It's sad really because I live in Wad Nubawi which is basically smack in the center of all this hullabaloo and I'm falling asleep to the hymn of gunshots and protest chants knowing that there are people out there dying in the struggle or incapable of feeding themselves because of these arrangements.

Oh may God help us all.

I love you, Sudan.

Nothing Special.

Ever had so much to say, words didnt suffice
Ever had so much bottled within, the cork wouldnt unscrew
Ever hoped that maybe your silence would imply it all
But instead pummeled with nothing to break your fall
Ever wished they were like the characters in your books and somehow they had a grasp of whats rippling beneath your surface
But realized they dont, they're just humans, nothing special.
You're just human, nothing special.
I'm just human, nothing special.

Colossal Dreams, Bigger Fears.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO: California King Bed by Rihanna. I just realized that I am always scared. I'm scared of rejection, of not being good enough, of being too good people will become jealous, of no one becoming jealous meaning I'm not good at all, of being not good at all, at being nothing at all. This has to stop. But how the hell do I stop it? I can't help but hope--with utter desperation--that this fear parallels that of driving, or school of Medicine, or even baking a cake, where being an outsider and peering through the window with your lack of experience and knowledge, the room looks shabbier, darker, much more desolate than it truly is, only because it's gotten a whiff of the rumor that you're about to tackle it down. But like driving and school of Med and baking a cake, it isn't as terrible as you'd anticipated one you've charged headfirst and receieved the conventional dose of failure that only stiffens your spine yet makes you more flexible for the upcoming journey. I cannot describe to you how much the fear of success has influenced my life. I once read that if your dreams don't terrify you than thery're not big enough. If that saying is correct, my dreams are colossal. EE. xx

Is it sad that I continue to write when no one's reading.

Devious Me.

The page in my pathology notebook where I fool everyone into thinking I'm taking notes on the lecture when I'm actually scribbling plot bunnies and mapping the lives of my characters.

Can someone say devious me?
Devious meeeee!

The struggle is real.

You guys this is all just piling up on me. Being a med student/undercover author hybrid hasn't been tested before for a reason.

Like I'm zoning out in class thinking about my books and brainstorms and all tgat shizzle and at home I'm not studying for shit.

Crap.

The Nile.

Guys, the Nile! With an ethereal shade of green that caresses its banks like an elderly stroking the spine of its favorite cat before it curls up into a tail.

Studying! Ahhhhh -.-

The passenger's seat.

Theres something I find so inviting about the passenger seat of a car (that is, of course, apart from the conventional proximity to the AC and freedom of one's own seat).
I can see everytihng from here and actually the savor the vision.
I never pay attention to the driver and where he's going--which can only be considered a blessing because legend has it my brother drives like a maniac/drunkard hybrid and my lack of focus is probably the main reason why I'm the only one who rides with him wllingly.
But no, I zone in on the views everyone else overlooks.
The hooves of horses stomping on the ground as dust rises to greet them with the grace of souffle in an oven, the disproportionate bush at the end of a long flowerbed where the gardener must've exhausted and decided his pay wasn't worth all this dedication, the creaking sign that hangs off the hinges of a dilapidated building, worn from its glory days.

Theres just something about sitting in the passenger's seat, I'm tellin' ya.

Random thought

I'm no longer the person I used to be, nor will I ever be that naive and innocent ever again.

I can only be grateful for that.

Procrastination

That moment when you've had the Atherosclerosis book open in front of you for ages but you've just been blogging all day long

Friendly greeting

Hello lovers, hope your day is going beautifully. X

Finding the Time to Write

So I’m back to school. And it seems like I’m in an arena, grappling with the human form of time and health, in an attempt to squeeze writing into my new hectic schedule. I wake up 6:30am and come back around 4:00pm, a trainwreck of a corpse which has to feel its way to its bed because it doesn’t trust the blurred images and dark edges that is its vision. After my routine nap—that I swear does no sort of regeneration whatsoever—I wake up and either try to complete the avalanching assignments I’d received that day alone or get dressed and visit some relatives because it’s wedding season and it seems as though people are popping the question out of mere boredom. I can’t say no to these outings because these people are like elephants…or were they camels?—I don’t know, which animal was it that never forgets and holds a grudge against everything? I think elephants. Anyway, and if I dare steal a few hours to scribble after the wedding—think 2:00am in the morning—the outcome is utter bullshit and I misspell words like ‘and’ and ‘then’ which Autocorrect is an eager beaver to repair but I mean that’s like literary slang for ‘GO TO BED—YOU SUCK’. The paper is talking to you, and when your inner Charles Dickens instructs—because Dickens never requests, how dare that thought cross your mind—you listen. Don’t worry, I will still write. If it’s between classes—or even during class like that other time (the teacher almost caught me if you were wondering, but the cat/ninja hybrid that I am managed to evade the worst of it)—or even like today, the only day off I have. I will. Hell, you can even expect something later on! EE.xx

THE HORIZON

Her bony finger pointed at the horizon beyond the window, the corners of which were caked with grime and the ruins of cobwebs, the carcasses of their inhabitants strewn across the pane like gravel leading up to a wooden door. She then brought her lips close to his ears. “That’s where the sky meets the ground.” She told him “The amazing thing about the horizon is everyone’s seen it, but no one’s actually been there.” To Benjamin, those words pretty much conveyed his life. He’d seen it all; wonders splattered across the pages of his favorite novels, tales of faraway kingdoms encrusted within the folds of the dog-eared paper, the magnitude of the journey almost bursting out of the parchment in the small elevations that were prints of letters on a page. But he’d never actually been anywhere. No, he’d been contained within the walls of that asylum like a fish in a tank ever since authorities feared he would wound up a schizophrenic mess like his mother and embark on his own attempts to steal his life. But to him, life had been stolen long before he was cleared of the diagnosis. And for that exact same interval of time, he’d been witnessing his own life ensue from behind one grimy window at a time. Benjamin’s head lolled to the side as he took in the scenery with eyes as lifeless as an elderly told he had a few hours to live. He could imagine himself walking along the thin strip of existence that was the interface between sky and earth, arms aloft to maintain his balance. The sole connection between the two infinities. One day, he thought in the deepest crevices of his mind, the folds where ambitions are incarnated, I’m going to go there. I will be the first person to walk on the horizon.

Get me outta here.

Guess where I am right now? The gayest place possible. I'm at the first lecture of a three-day long HOME NURSING COURSE. No, you did not read wrong, a HOME NURSING COURSE. WHILE ON VACAY. Good God why me. I was dragged into this by my sister who might say she didn't force me into it but finding out about it and pitching the idea to my father (who would ship me to Peru if I'd learn something out of it) is pretty much synonymous with 'forcing me into it'. Now I have to sit here and listen to the senseless jabber of a whole lot of baralma (Sudanese freshmen) while cringing whenever the lecturer even glances my direction because technically I'm a fourth year Med student--the only fourth year, hell only none-barloma person for miles right now--and contrary to most beliefs, I don't know more than these people do. I'm not a fucking nurse.

Anywho, goosfraba chick, goosfraba.

So I'm writing a book about a girl in a wheelchair. I'm fucked because I've never actually met one. What is life?

Welcoming Myself

Hello blogger!

I'm new here and trying to improve my writing for when I take the world by storm in the near future isA. Sadly, I'm the only person here to welcome myself. But, that's okay, I prefer being anonymous until that big day when I'm everyewhere.

#DreamitWishitDoit. Also does blogger have hashtags?