Eid, friends and books...

Purpose of this post: None

Went to a friend's house for Eid lunch yesterday.  I introduced her and her husband almost 8 or 9 years ago and the three of us are pretty close. (Will share the story of their romance sometime - it's so true that everyone has a story...)

Anyway, I wasn't feeling like going.  Had a bad day the day before and just wanted to avoid humans who know me. (Office is different - hardly anyone knows me there any more - it's like working with a bunch of people some of who I used to know, and the rest that I don't have the energy to get to know!)

But anyway, I realized they'd feel bad if I didn't show up so I made the effort and guess what - I was so glad I went.

No, it was not because of the food - which was very nice indeed... (Her husband apparently spent 12 hours cooking - he didn't sleep all night! Abnormal behaviour? Maybe not for a foodie - which he is.)

The best part of going over wasn't the lovely food - the best part was that I found that my friend has a bookcase with two shelves of books, most of which I haven't read before!

Fun!

Borrowed eight yesterday.  I'd have taken some more - but felt too embarrassed.

Guess I'll visit her more often now.  If anyone want's more of my time it's so easy - just dangle a book, or a discussion about a good book in front of my nose and you'll find me sitting near you purring happily (or barking enthusiastically, depending on which way you swing)!

Writing and me

Apparently all great writers were consumed by their passion to write. Hmm... what does that say about me?  I enjoy writing usually, but then there have been days and even weeks when I didn't really write anything - and I didn't fall down dead with the gap in my life.  Does that mean that I am not 'meant' to be a writer?

The thought makes me sad but not despondent.  Is this why I never finish any of the books I start?  Am I mere dabbler, playing at being a writer, living with delusions of grandeur?

Note to self - I need to research all my famous authors, specially those that got published for the first time late in life.  I need to see whether they were 'closet' writers writing everyday or whether their talent lay dormant underground, until one day, some day, it finally grew above ground (as hopefully some day I will).

More losses...

Sometimes I scare myself when I realise how much I care for someone or something. Specially when that person or thing is on it's way out of my life.

Life took away something valuable earlier this year, but I could bear up because I got something so precious in return.  Now life has taken that away too and given me nothing in return.  I'm lost for words.  Why on earth would this happen?  Why give me something and then yank it away. Cruel!

Waking in darkness

He woke, scared and confused in the darkness.  Lying still, trying to figure out what woke him up, he noticed the room was darker than usual.  He waited for his eyes to adjust, but nothing happened at first. Then he forgot about his eyes as his ears tuned in to a low rumbling noise.  A chill ran up his spine as he realized the noise was under him.  Under the bed, right where he lay..

He sat there petrified as the rumbling grew louder, changed to a growl... He couldn't move even when the bedsheet started moving as something started to come out from under the bed.  He tried to scream, to call out... his father lay asleep in the next room and would surely know how to deal with this...

He strained to make some noise, but all that came out was a whisper of sound, so soft he hardly heard it himself... "Dad..."

But even if he didn't hear it, the thing did. It ceased the growling sound and for a moment, a flash between breaths, he thought things would be okay.  But then the sheet started moving again - this time towards him. He fought his frozen limbs. Struggled to get them to move.

As the thing beneath the sheet reached within arms length he wrenched his head away, and finally leapt from the bed just as the thing leapt too...

Feeling so ashamed

Feeling so ashamed that I care so much,

Pride's out for the count, so out of touch,

Walking in the shoes of the fallen,

Feeling my cheeks burn,

Feeling so ashamed.

Forgiveness

A friend gave me a wonderful gift and then took it away. He didn't mean to hurt me but did.  He apologized, I forgave him. End of story. Or it should be....

The problem is I am still angry.  The anger sweeps over me unexpectedly and then I have to remind myself of how I'd feel if the tables were turned to force myself to cool down.  After all if I had hurt someone unthinkingly and then genuinely apologized, I'd want them to forgive me.  So why can't I get this out of my mind?!

Maybe there's a part of me that doesn't believe it was completely unthinking.  I think at some level, he must have known what would happen.  And maybe it's because a part of me also believes he doesn't have any idea how much he hurt me.  Maybe he doesn't think I am justified in feeling so bad.

I don't know. I may never know. It may not be important anyway.  Things come and go.  I just wish this anger would be one of those things.