The Ambiguous Odyssey

Why did this happen? How did we grow so numb to all the damage happening? When did we become so passive? Yemen is on the brink of the world’s worst famine. We are isolated due to the Saudi led coalition’s decision to block our access to the world. Fuel has risen up to 60%. The dollar is escalating rapidly. People are out of jobs. Children are hungry. There is a cholera outbreak. What more is left? this is by all means genocide.   We’ve been under a constant shower of air raids for the past 962 days. We wake up every day and defy death, but now not only do we fear death by a missile n ow we fear death by starvation. Saudi has no right to isolate us from the world. And the world has no right to turn the other cheek to what’s happening in Yemen. You are all held accountable for every death happening here. Every soul. Every martyr. Every orphan. You are all taking part in this brutal, inhumane war.

In my tender, brutal days I’ve come to learn that connections can’t be enforced, some things are inherent, a natural reflex. We grow up believing that emotions are always two sided, that even the dark days aren’t that dark, to some extent that might be true, but as we evolve mentally we realize that life is far from fair. As we move forth we conclude that our connections may reach a certain depth then break off, and that is ok. It’s okay to end a link even if it’s a blood link. Nothing is worth than enforcing emotions, enforcing a connection. Blood links are the hardest to surpass but sometimes they are the most toxic ties we have. Letting go of that string is scary, but in time you’ll learn how to fly. Be brave and have faith in your strength; most importantly have faith in your self, even if you feel like your frail and weak. You have so much more to give back to this world as you stand solely at the top of your summit about to take off. You don’t need those chains to rise,

It is one thing to state you love yourself and a whole different thing to literally love yourself. At eighteen I’ve learned that loving yourself is such a hard battle, yes, a battle. A battle between the taste you’ve acquired and the tang you deserve. You can’t transcend into a higher level if you are held back by all the expectations. No, this can’t be blamed on society this is us. We chose to let our happiness constantly be a verdict made by whoever we have grown fond of. It is time we arise from the rubble we have created subconsciously. What we have become is our own doing. Playing the blame game takes us nowhere and I know this very well, I’ve been playing it for as long as I can remember. I know writing how strong I wish to be won’t actually make me strong, and I know actions speak louder than words, but I believe having my words visible to the world might pressure me to pressure me. We are stronger than we think we are and yes, maybe we’ve long lost who we truly are, but nothin

I have learned that a fresh start must start at your mind before any other place. Trust me the decisions that are made from the inside are so much harder than those externally edited yet much less visible. It takes 21 days for an action to become a habit, that's 21 days too long. It will take me 21 days to be me again but this void is so compelling to continue living in. I am trying to motivate myself, to create an illusion of a finish line but I know too fondly that there is nothing. I mean doing the bare minimum drains me, how will I push myself forward? I genuinely do not know, and from some perspective I pity myself for letting myself fall this low and even worse not pushing myself back up. So I am sorry me but the days are too long and we're together for 24 hours too long and I can't think of more escapes from me. I am sorry for all the years I pushed me past my limits to only land us here. I am sorry for selling myself out. I am sorry for the way this turned out. I am

I see you there. I see you there breathing. I see you there being. I see you with my eyes closed shut and my room all dark. I see you not through sight but through every other sense. I see you passing by untouched. I see you being unmoved. I see you seeing me yet not acknowledging me at all. That’s the thing about the past it grips on to us and refuses to let go. I’ve been running in a loop for too long and I am impatiently waiting for the end of this to come. I am waiting for the day I no longer stare blankly at the wall reliving those treacherous memories. I know that day will come eventually but I need eventually to be right now because I can’t bear one more nightmare, one more false hope. I hope that the choices I am making in the now won’t haunt me like my earlier choices that elevated to mistakes that bruised my mind. I hope I don’t let myself down again. I hope I can gain back my lost strength to carry myself to my desk to open my journal to write down my prolonged voyage w

This is where the problem lies; knowing the end. It is saddening to be aware of how the ending will be. It shatters us to the core knowing there is a finish line, knowing this is all merely the high. That's the problem when you've already died and revived yourself; you're never fully alive again. It isn't the same as the first time, that wound has left a scar and this scar is a reminder that the finish line is what you deem it. I feel like I've acquired the taste of disappointment and maybe that's why I can't adjust myself to this new flavor, a mixture of chance, hope, and love; a tang so heavenly. I attempted and I continue to attempt building a home in a land to which I don't belong. There is still that voice that asks, how can I mold it into an asylum when it is not mine? How can I stay, reside in a place that is overcrowded? How did I lead myself here? But I silence that voice because I am so overwhelmed by the thought of what might be. The

That’s the thing about grieving life it comes in droplets like a drizzle before rain then suddenly it showers you. One day you wake up feeling like you’ve surpassed the mountain of grief and the next you are back to ground zero barely feeding yourself. Nothing is harder than grief. Nothing is as consuming as it. Nothing is as blood sucking and ruthless as grief. It breaks you and crushes your frail bones then throws you out to face the wild as if your pain was worth nothing. Sometimes you wish the person you were grieving were actually dead rather than having to live with the reality of them actually still existing. Yes, I know death isn’t easy but neither is life. Neither is convincing your brain that: “No, brain they aren’t coming back. No, brain it is over.” It hurts to be weak and what is worse is that some days all you have is to be weak. Especially, if you are an emotional person, a wreckage of a human and all you do is build hopes and expectations that maybe tomorrow t

You’d all think that considering the fact I’ve been living with death for the past two years I would be scarred. Bruised. Broken. That is nowhere near the reality, with every passing day, with every bomb that hits, with every missile that drops I grow invincible. Death is a vengeful sea. A sea feared by all but Yemenis, we have adjusted our sails and claimed that sea ours. Ours eternally. This Saudi-American led coalition might have ended 2600 little children’s lives, but that will not be a barrier. Every 60 minutes 6 children die in Yemen from different diseases as a result of both the air, land, and sea blockade and the illegal weapons they are dropping on our country. That means that every 10 minutes a child at his or her springtime of life have their lives stolen for no reason. Yemeni children are paying the price for a sin they didn’t commit. The children that do make it past the ten minutes are mutated because of the bombs that are dropped. The children are scarred for life

Everyday that we wake up and open our sockets of life, we change the filter and adjust the lens. We choose whether it will be gray or vibrant. Sometimes it’s easier to live passively, but as much as we’d all rather live that way, we are in fact the masters of our fates. We lead the lives we live. The thing about spiritual awakenings is that as enlightening as they can be they are equally frightening. We reside within these bubbles of comfort that when awakened we are shaken to the core. Our bubbles burst, they explode, and disperse completely. This paralyzes us momentarily. Once it is settled we are reborn; we are given the chance to be or not to be. We are constantly in direct contact with change, we choose to pass by it or to grasp it. So here’s to grasping onto change with all fours and to second chances. Here’s to life and our choices; the sane and insane. 

Death is not black, it is every shade of pink. It starts with a feeling of being high. High on an idea. A misconception. Death is a burst of color, every hue of happy. It overtakes your every thought, every breath, every beat. Death is love in disguise. It is everything we thought we wanted or presumed we needed, but time heals everything. Time reveals the reality of everything. Death can only fool us for oh so long, but here I am facing death. My pink death, my rose form of grief. Nothing is harder than grieving someone who is alive, ending a life -even if only in your mind- is a burden. A heavy burden. I can proudly say that at 18 I surpassed this. I have grieved my pink and I have made it past every cherry blossom out there. I can stare death blankly without fidgeting. I have withdrawn the hue of pink I thought was its’. It is now black, just like every other minuscule death that is of no value.