Whenever I find that a picture of myself is a good one, I’ll try to remember exactly where I was and what I was thinking at the time the photo was taken. The best ones are usually when I’m completely content with life.
So, yes, I’m content with life.
(Source: samstars)
I felt like I had come a long ways in the Winter. I felt like I was finally grateful for everything I was lucky enough to receive in my life.
I was wrong. That’s the problem with privilege. It’s so difficult to acknowledge that you are privileged even though you know you should. I wonder if one can acknowledge their privileged and still be of want?
I feel as if you reach that zen-esque state where you understand how lucky you are, you would want nothing? Even though, quite obviously, this goes against everything I know about human nature.
I’m always in want of things. And then more things after that. It never ends, does it?
I keep telling myself that I should be happ(ier) about my weight loss but now I wonder if it’s actually weight loss that I wanted in the first place. Why did I lose the weight? To be attractive? To fit into nice clothes? To be healthier? To gain social acceptance? To be like everybody else?
I mean, are those things that are either very important or associated with the actual loss of body fat? Not really. Why did I lose weight? I know it has been thought to be a good thing. Everyone thinks it’s a great thing. Hell, I think it’s a great thing.
I know I’ve questioned myself about it before and I know that I never come to a good conclusion but I can’t help but ask it. Why is it that I’ve accomplished so much in the past two years (even besides the weight loss) but I can’t be satisfied? Even the guilt, the idea of so many who have nothing, won’t end this constant yearning for more. It’s almost narcissistic. How can I believe myself to deserve so much- do deserve even anything? How can anyone?
I know I’m in a good place. I think of myself as content… my mind is anything but.
I always want more. And I don’t know how to stop.
(Source: samstars)
“Why would I trade a perfect ideal for an imperfect male?”
(Source: samstars)
Where do you come up with these things, he asks me often. And I wonder if he realizes how banal he sounds. I know my talks make him more uncomfortable than he makes me sometimes.
We talked again today and now that everything has settled down, it’s less weird. That night, he asked me if I believed in god. I didn’t reply. Right after that, he told me to feel his biceps. He does that often. It’s funny how I can see a connection in both requests. The were both questions seeking validation and expecting none.
That’s the fun thing about him. He is not serious about himself or anyone or anything. And I’m jealous because it must be so easy to be him, to see things so clearly. Everything is so uncomplicated. He’s a toy. And when I told him this, he wasn’t offended. He just laughed.
If he said that to me, I definitely would have been offended.
Isn’t that what draws people to each other? The curiosity in the difference between us. I do it with everyone. I try to place myself in their shoes. I wish I could live a day, any day, being someone else. Just to know what it would be feel like to be someone who isn’t me.
A friend posted a picture on facebook. It was a picture of a cat on a cliff and it read: Frank looked out over the majestic rocky coast bathed in the grandeur of the setting sun… and he thought of nothing, because he is a cat. And I was insanely curious, did Frank realize what he was seeing? Did he understand the beauty of the ocean and the magnificence of his place on earth? Okay maybe not the latter, but quite obviously, Frank did realize that he was looking at something amazing- otherwise he probably would have faced inland? Really, he probably wouldn’t have planted himself on a treacherous cliff. No, Frank does understand. But to what extent, I’ll never know. I might be crazy for overanalyzing a meme but this is what I struggly with: being Frank.
There is this thought experiment I read of. It’s about qualia. The essence of being or awareness, basically. The experiment consists of a girl who sits in a black and white room with a black and white TV and her life is devoid of any colour whatsoever. However, she can read and learn about anything she wants. This girl learns about the colour red, she knows everything about it… things that are red, the chemicals that make up red, the senses that red evokes in human beings… in fact, she knows more about red than the regular person. However, she has not experienced the qualia of red. She has not experienced red as you and I have. This only happens when she steps outside the room and sees red.
The idea of qualia fascinates me. I went to high school with a girl who was colourblind and I found her fascinating as well. I understand now that it’s for the same reason- it’s about qualia.
You know, we change all the time. But the changes are so miniscule, we barely feel them. So while I was a different person a year or two ago, I still feel the same. That’s the remarkable thing about human beings. This self-awareness. It’s a continuance, a sense of identity, that we’ll never be able to let go of. But then there’s also the curiosity, of being someone or something completely different.
My dad is sick and all I’ve been hearing is that god will spare him. That somehow god will take his hand and will walk him through this treacherous path. I’d like to know what physiotherapy school god went through and why he needs my prayer as payment (we have insurance, you know). I’m sick of the idea of this narcissistic god who continually needs us praying to him in order for our own lives to go the way we want them to go.
First of all, if you actually believed in god, don’t you think you should stop harassing him with these prayers? Quite evidently, he knows best. You just think you know best because you’re human and you’re weak (you constantly admit it). So shouldn’t you stop trying to mess with his work? If God knows all, why does he need you to change his mind?
Secondly, I can’t bring myself to believe in fate. As I’ve matured emotionally, I’ve started to see those who believe in fate as innately cowardly. It’s easier to chalk something up to fate than work for it. The promotion you didn’t receive has nothing to do with you, right? That is so easy. It’s too easy to be true.
When I first started realizing that my own free will determined my life, I was distraught. That’s the perfect term for it: totally distraught… because all of a sudden I was the sole person responsible for my own destiny. Well, that and luck of course (I don’t want to use the term luck when the correct word for it is chance). It makes you feel hopeless knowing that there won’t be a magical hand that will delve in and provide any karmic justice. Imagine a world without god or any sort of meaning other than what you create for yourself. That’s the world I live in. This world may be bleak at first but it’s also what makes sense. This world has also taught me to be brave. Braver than any god-fearing person I know. Because I’m the one who calls all the shots in my life. And I fail, it’s my fault. It is not because god wanted me to fail.
When my dad was sick, everyone prayed. Hell, I prayed too because I figured it couldn’t do much harm. Prayer comforts you. The constant chanting of a verse, the counting of beads, these things soothe you. But they don’t change anything. Consider this; For instance, if is a god who finds it convenient to spare my dad’s life, what would be his motivation to do it? Why would god care enough to change his mind in consequence of my prayers? He already knew I was going to pray right? His divine foresight must have seen that coming. So asking him to change his mind is already pointless because he has already decided the course of events that will follow. It doesn’t make sense.
I hate this half-assed logic about what god does or doesn’t mean to do.
Some of my other friends said they prayed to their own personal god too and I thanked them for it because it’s a nice gesture. Not because it’s done anything for him. My dad has progressed this far due to a great medical team and his own determination. It wasn’t tasbees or rosaries or tarot cards or astrological wheels that did that for him.
I feel sorry for the people who buy into this stuff. I feel like they are going to end up wasting their lives because they think they’re not in control. I mean, come on, just imagine your life if there were no fate. I know some people think of it and reject the concept right away because it’s too scary. And yes, it may be horribly depressing at first but it’s also extremely empowering. You can be anyone you want to be. God doesn’t decide if you’re going to be president, you do. Like, how fucking amazing is that?
(Source: samstars)
I’ve dropped to 120 lbs on account of my food poisoning so I’ve been preoccupied with drawing triangular shapes and stick men on my flat(ter) stomach. I still wander around my room in my underwear whenever I can which means that I’m quite often passing the mirror and being amused with the weird contorted characters on my lower abs. It’s apparent that I still have enough body fat to ruin the works of art that I’ve inflicted on my skin (I’m only implying that they’re inflicted because I’ve used nail polish). At least I can admire them whilst lying down (which is my default posture these days anyway).
There are many things that I could be doing. I could be working on my grad application (it seems so pointless now that I may not even go), I could be calling my father, I could be drawing said stick men in my art journal, I could be reading this gigantic International Law book that I found in an abandoned shelf on the landing of the staircase, I could be finishing the next level of Caesar III, I could be smoking sheesha… but instead I’m watching Washington Square and prodding my stomach. But I’m okay with that.
That’s really all I have to talk about right now.
(Source: samstars)
These days the depression is taking over. Maybe it’s because of my dad. Perhaps it’s because I’m so far away from home and everything that I know. It’s funny how ‘home’ is finally Vancouver. For so long, it was just a resting place for me. Home is where I am right now.
I wish everyone I loved were in the same place all the time. Life would be so much easier. But I don’t know whether I’d want them to be in Vancouver or here or somewhere else entirely. Our own private island. Somewhere in the Caribbean. Let’s get real though, we’d drive each other nuts.
I wonder if this has to do with Dan and how quickly things change. It’s how external appearances are so deceptive- or worse, how ideas are so deceptive. How people don’t know each other at all and how conversation over Lebanese food and glasses of wine can’t teach you anything about a person. It makes me wonder why I said yes in the first place when I’ve always vehemently said no. No, you’re not good enough. No, I’m not good enough. No, I don’t really know you and, no, it’s not worth my time to get to know you. No, I don’t have the time to get to know you.
I don’t know why I gave in. My cousin put it bluntly. She said disappointment is a part of living and learning. That’s what we’re told in books and old proverbs, isn’t it? The funny thing is, I’m disappointed in myself. Not the situation. Not him. Just myself. Some of my friends say I need to relax. I need to stop looking for needles in haystacks. And how do you know, if you don’t try? They say. Not very many are worth my time to try. And what am I trying for exactly? I don’t even know.
Everything here is so different. And I’m so sad. I don’t think I’d stop being sad even if I get back to Vancouver and immerse myself in the monotony that I’ve grown so accustomed to. This isn’t another existential crisis- or maybe it is. I’m too young to think the way I think. I’m too young to be this godless. But here, I was called not ‘progressive’ enough. What does that mean, exactly? I feel like I’m the most liberal person I know. When was being liberal associated with a lack of morality? I’m told that I can’t have morals if I don’t have religion. That is just stupid. I know myself better than that.
Today I made a list of reasons for why I should be happy. The list is impressive… and it’s endless. It made me happy for a second. Then I lost it.
I had a dream that I tried blow. I made little lines and snorted them. Sophia was with me. I wasn’t high- I was just worried about making a mess on the bed. I was worried that I had lost my integrity. Is that why I’m depressed?
It could always be the food poisoning and the Metronidazole. It hasn’t let me eat properly for days now. And a person could be sad due to a lack of nutrition. I definitely could. It could also be the loss of my iPhone and how it helped me connect to everyone. Now I feel lost. I feel lonely and morose. I guess I need that level of human connection. Hey, at least I have tumblr. And my journal. It’s keeping me sane.
Number six on my list says ‘my friends in Pakistan care about me a lot.’ And they really do. Sometimes I get the notion that they care about me more than my friends back home. I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt. They all care about me but the friends here are definitely ready to do anything for me. It could just be culture. Yet, Numi called me this morning and asked me to go for lunch with him. I refused. I was sick. I begged. I couldn’t go at any rate. The nausea has permeated my soul. It’s all I can feel and think about.
The dream about the drugs really disturbed me.
I think too much. I wish I was dumb. I wish I was really really dumb and all I cared about was shoes and clothes and Vampire Diaries. I wish I could be happy with what I have. I wish I didn’t ask so many questions or wonder about so many things and that I could accept what people say to me and absorb it without searching for proof. I wish I didn’t care so much either. I am such a fool. And not in the way I want to be either.
I’m reading Sophie’s World. I was hoping it would give me insight into life when, really, it’s just giving me a history lesson on things I already know. Things I already know not to care about.
I should just take another Gravol and go to bed.
(Source: samstars)
I’m attending a webinar organized by Medecins Sans Frontieres.
I first heard about the organization when Robin Williams decided to give them his share of prize money from a game show. I read up on it and I loved the idea. Doctors without borders, teachers without borders, engineers without borders… the concept is laudable. Here we have a bunch of privileged professionals taking time out of their lives to help others and maybe derive some sort of meaning out of the whole process for themselves. Yay.
Anyway, doctors are interesting. M.D.s. I have a handful in family- one is a family doctor, one is a cardiologist, one works for the Pakistani Ministry of Health. Doctors are uniformly in posession of one quality though. I’ll get to that later.
I’m reading a book about a doctor. It’s helping a little.
But really, we’re all fascinated with doctors. Check out E.R., Grey’s Anatomy, House… like most people, I’ve always been in awe of them too. But it’s not really because they heal people. I find them a little scary but not I’m afraid of what they’ll say or do to me (hell, I actually like shots).
What gets me is how objectively they can look at a human body. My doctor can look at my body without seeing me.
I’m not really a person. I’m a body.
I’m a puzzle to be solved. I’m a machine that may or may not need to be fixed.
Doctors can look at people without seeing their humanity. They can look at them like they are shells. It’s the craziest thing.
(Source: samstars)
