Thankful

This Thanksgiving what I am most thankful for is this moment right here. Moments like this nothing compares to; not my dear mother, my tumultuous life trying to convince my father I am worthy of his love, not my wonderful cousins whom I love more than life itself, not my one and only grandmother whose spirit is lying without worry in the clouds, not my childhood memories that I cherish with each and every breath I take, and not my knight in shining armor; my humble fiance. This, the way words make my body feel potent, warm, frigid, sad, in love and obsessed with having to endure cataclysmic events that leave me torn and forlorn for the rest of my days here on earth. This; the way poetry makes me yearn to crawl back inside my mother's womb for the chance to be birthed into someone with talent that could never be touched. This; the way poetry and music remind me that no matter the pain, the hardship, the smiles, the years of lost happiness and the years my heart will continue to spend trembling over the loss of my past, I am still here. This; the way everything I am not, everything I wish I was, everything I am, and everything I have yet to become becomes the amalgamation which wholeheartedly mirrors the exact person I am, but without a name, without a definition, without an image, without any identification except for a speechless face in awe of the world of art and writing that resides before me, and the hairs on my arm that stand up and speak for me as the chills run down the small of my back trying to explain how much I wish - I wish they could understand that it; that poetry; that each time a line is written I realize that I am alive and each time it is read, I refuse to feel anything more or less than life in its one most pure form.

I live to endure the exquisite feeling of paralysis by the truths that others fear; The truth in ways only poets have the fearless tenacity and power to express.

http://www.upworthy.com/watch-this-guy-misspell-father-at-a-spelling-bee-for-a-beautiful-reason-5

"For all the times you said I got your back..."

I can never forget how empowered this song made me feel; How I'd play it over and over again while sitting alone in my room; A 16 year old who was going to prove everyone wrong someday. Though I haven't fully reached the point of success I had envisioned for myself, I've undeniably come pretty damn close.
How heartbreaking the days of adolescent worries were. How resilient my worn skin has become.

Kina was such an inspiration to me. She gave me the confidence to push through all the difficulties in my life back then. And I'm still pushing through because of her. I pray she realizes what a lasting impression she had on many of us.

http://www.youtube.com/v/iZocOj4FJ0k?autohide=1&version=3&showinfo=1&attribution_tag=nGpzjQVL06py6IJQttxaqg&autohide=1&autoplay=1&feature=share

Marina Keegan

http://www.yaledailynews.com/news/2012/may/27/keegan-opposite-loneliness/

What more can I say? Can anyone say?

The sentiment that this young & brilliant writer has left me, and those whose lives she has touched before and after her haunting exit, with is one of cataclysmic fear and tantalizing warmth.  I wish I wrote like her.

Frightened - July 23, 2013 - 1:47 am

I wish I wasn't so sucked into these social media sites. Especially Facebox or Soorat Ketob as Joel and my mother, respectively, like to call it. It's such bull, really. Instead of furthering my studies and having faith in my ability to reach the summit of my career endeavor, I find myself wanting the lives of those who show up on my newsfeed. I wonder how many people on this entire site are really genuine about their experiences. I wonder how many of you might feel the way I do at times, and I wonder how many would admit it.

It's weird to think of myself as an engaged 29-year-old who is still trying to find herself.
It's weird to think that besides the semester I took off in the autumn of 2005, and the year between undergrad and graduate school, I have been in school since I was 4-years-old.

I wonder if it will ever fully make sense to me; this life; the paths I have followed and the reasons behind doing so; the hurdles and the bullshit events that have transpired. I have spent forever crying. I have learned to keep my mouth shut though. I don't bitch about life anymore, at least not as frequently as I used to. I smile here and there. Laugh a lot. But still, feelings of inadequacy and loneliness remain all too real. I have Joel, my friends and my family, and yet I still can't help but feel alone, confused, and tired even though there is proof of my undeniable restlessness given my obvious love affair with insomnia at 1:30 in the morning.

I don't know why I am writing this note, and whether the point that I am trying to get across actually exists.

My paper was due 11 hours ago. There have been many "11 hours ago" in my life as an undergrad and grad student. It's weird to think that I actually miss the teenager that once resided within me; she always had every assignment done on time, and never felt the need to stay up all night thinking. Nowadays, my mind decides everything for my body and itself.

I'm worried about the future and uncomfortably scared, but I know that I acquire all the strength to overcome it.

My only hope is that my mind and body will embrace each other when the dire need for us; for me; for Neda to overcome life yet again hangs heavy in the balance. 

My Despair Has Begun to Exhaust Itself, But My Voice Has Not and Never Will

I thought she was beautiful and raw when I first heard her voice and watched "Criminal" on Mtv, but I couldn't articulate why her music meant what it meant to me at such a young age. Now when I think of beautiful and raw, I recall the way cutting released endorphins though my skin remained broken and exposed to the world's impurities.

Now I see and understand how similar we were and are, and I couldn't feel more blessed to have been fortunate enough to exist because my emotions and the power of music allowed me to BE MYSELF.

I am not a victim nor have I ever been; I have just been outspoken and real without any fear nor regret about exposing the things, whether my perception of their magnitiude is grand whereas others believe minute, that have manifested in my short life when society and high school cliques, today and ten years ago, would rather I keep them to myself. 

My sorrow is my sorrow. Your sorrow is your sorrow.

There is no degree of pity that my ability to be open has ever warranted, and there is no degree of my pain that has been worth anyone's discounting.  

The human condition is sometimes held captive, and on the other hand let loose, by its own vulnerability to all types of discontent and happiness. What the human condition deserves most is immunity from any rating system that serves to quantify emotions as anything but just. 

"Everybody sees me as this sullen and insecure little thing. Those are just the sides of me that I feel it's necessary to show because no one else seems to be showing them." --Fiona Apple

Without it, Life is Wasted Time

At six, Steve Winwood introduced me to the power of crying when I was deeply touched. At 22, I could no longer listen without allowing him to repeatedly break my elementary heart with that divine sound; without remembering how hard I tried to talk some sense into my father and without reliving in my mind, the irregular rhythm my pulse took while hearing him tell my stepsister how much he loved her while I stood beside them yearning for him to voice the same towards me. At 28, I began letting go; the wishes to cradle the poignant past with all the fibers left of my being, transient; finally fleeting. And now, James Vincent McMorrow revitalizes the power that crying holds upon you when you are profoundly saddened by the involuntary forfeiture of things once capable of love during the good-natured, infantile hours of your life. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try to resist and fight back, I guess certain things will always stop you dead in your tracks; you’ll always be looking for that same higher love you still haven’t found. I accept and now know that the past is a place worthy of visiting not permanently living, but the child in us all never dies and deserves to exist somewhere beside us: either clinging on to us while we go through the motions, or waiting in the wings to offer us comfort when the promises that we are after remain broken as we continue facing our uncertainties while standing out there independently in all of our yearning, and wondering if there must be someone who’s feeling for us.

Past-Life-Line

I know why those who love me continuously tell me to change, to be more upbeat and happy, but I wonder if they know that circumstances in one's life tend to introduce them to comfortably, uncomfortable sensations. Sensations that in their own right, stain the past, present and in some cases the future, too. It's like Shakespeare said, "To thine own self be true." I am true to all that is Neda. I can’t apologize for the presence of incomplete human emotions in others. I am for the tenth time in my short life, willing to be open while I seek the stability raped of me by others; others whom I don't know whether to love or hate and whom I love and hate. I find it one of life's greatest conundrums; a lot of people just wrap a Band-Aid around a cut and move forth, others are told not to cry about it and, if you will, man up, but I, I just keep cutting. When I bleed, that's when I feel. Pouring peroxide on a wound, for me, is an excruciatingly, uninviting sensation though it lasts but a meager instant. It's the dismembering and remembering of my father's spirit. It's remembering the past, documenting its wraithlike wind, rewriting it, revitalizing it and allowing it to tap into its own memory, while the scent of cigarettes cinched into my grandmother's silk nightgown remains on the tip of my nose which no longer reserves that place nestled into her deep clavicles while I sleep. It's a sense of comfort tied to the struggle of trying to duplicate these things, knowing that the past is the only feat that's impossible for anyone to ever conquer. I keep asking myself if there is a way to make others understand how necessary the magnificent, albeit at times unimpressive, minutes of my past are obligatory to my survival, and now I see that there may never be a way and frankly, I no longer care to question if one is even necessary.

I am this life.
I am here to shout it from the rooftops.
The past is the only lifeline that some of us have.
I want to secure my thoughts a valid presence, here at this moment in this particular life; attachments to the past MAKE US WHO WE ARE.
I don’t need to feel this intense desire that something needs to be removed, discounted, or let go of in order for me to move forth.
It was something not even the most privileged people will ever be given the chance to experience. It taught me sorrow and without sorrow, I would have never realized how badly I wanted peace. It taught me peace and without peace, I would have never become the empathetic, kind person I am.
I am independent.
I am my father’s daughter.
I am Margrit Khankhanian’s granddaughter.
I am worthy of happiness.
I am deeply in love with feeling anything.

I live, breathe and dream the past; and that, that is the kind of excruciating sensation I am faithful to no matter how many times it hits; every morning, day or night, when I realize it is time to wake up, live or sleep.