The following is a free writing assignment that took place between September 30th and October 3rd. I wrote without regard to what I was writing, grammer, or sentence structure. This is what I wrote:


When I tend to rethink my life in light of all I have done, I somewhat realize the meaning behind how someone like Stalin or Hitler could think they could change the world into their twisted utopia's that the world denied with a fiery passion. When I ponder life's majesty, and how the darkness in my soul sometimes is like a sheet, or as the night, where the sun and stars are nothing but rips and tears, pinpricks in the great scheme of things, revealing a glimpse of what some primitive man in some far off land million of years ago, thought was a all powerful God, I sigh with relief; I'm not the only one.

I love life, I really do, sometimes I fear I love it too much. If you really love something, you must set it free, isn't that what they always tell us? Death seems to be such a taboo, or “Dark” thing to think about, but why? If one is religious, isn't this in extension a good thing? Why do people who dwell on dying mentally ill or insane? I suppose I love death to some extent also, just as a beautiful inevitability. Love is sort of like Death, in a way. I really don't know what I mean by that. Perhaps nothing I say means anything.

I sometimes think that life would be much easier and fulfilling in a monastic way of life that having to deal with the world and it's decadence. Perhaps that is just the easy way out, I certainly think so sometimes. And perhaps if I was some sort of monk, I would begin to hate all the little things that I so love in everyday life. The look of a particular garment on me, or the taste of a scrumptious, yet chemically unsound, candy that I would have to refrain from eating. Do I even have a Will Power? Or am I just scared?

Am I sociopathic? Is it so strange to dream of killing and being killed, or huge orchestral apocalypses? Then why is it some people fear me, or love me but from afar? Why is it I have this strange vortex in my very soul, my mind, my body that tends to resurface from time to time, delving me into deep dark corners of the abysmal sea that is Chaos? I pray and feel God around me, everywhere, like the world is a sheet and I can feel the warmth of the sun bathe me as if I had never seen a Summer day. Quickly though am I wrought into Winter and cold again, never knowing if I truly knew that Summer day or not. I tell others, as if I am the man in the allegory of the cave. No one knows for certain.

Do I lie because I don't want the truth to be known? Do I even know any truth? What is truth? Would I know truth if I found it? I often lie about frivolous things, and most definitely things that really shouldn't need a lie to be told. Do I do it knowingly, or with any conscience? Am I an awful person because of these lies? I'm not hurting anyone, at least, I don't think so. I read once that every sin is theft, and lying is the theft to the right of the truth. Maybe we are all just as guilty.

I've began to want to overhaul everything that I have made for myself, and I really don't quite know what that means. I wish I could say it would be a good thing to do, but I really don't know where it will lead, or what I may do because of this overhaul. I wish to stop cursing, to call people by sir or ma'am, and even to the extent of doing anything I can to help the needy. Now obviously these things are good, and in good taste, but what of a monastic living, especially with me being a Muslim, where monasticism is looked upon as rejecting God's gifts rather than true devotion. I wish I could be a saint. Shahid, the Martyr.

I want to love, to be sincere, so much that sometimes It drives me to rage, and even tears. I want so much to care about the starving children, to want to help the homeless, and to sincerely care that there is suffering in the world. But I don't. I never have, and sometimes I wonder if I ever will. Am I so terrible? Am I so inhuman that these things don't bother me? I wish someone, somewhere could somehow make me love, make me care, make me want for others. I don't even want for myself anymore, I don't want for anything, for anyone. Do I care about anything? I think I do, but then again, all I truly know is what I truly think, and that doesn't really add up to much. I think I know I love Emily. I think I know God. I think I know that if I dropped a ball, it would fall. I think, therefore I am nothing.

I want people to love me, but do they have the same problem that I do? Do they lack the sincerity or the sheer compassion to care about me? Do they want to really try, like me, or could they care less? I want happiness, but at the same time, I don't think anyone deserves happiness. We are scum, we human beings. What have we done to deserve anything from God, from each other, from ourselves? I hate humans, and myself.

How can it be that I hate myself, when I have so much love for others? How can I have so many conflicting thoughts and ideals and beliefs about life and love? How can I be sure about anything when nothing stays the same, and everything is changing constantly? How I envy the simple minded and the ignorant. How I envy those with less wisdom and intelligence to ponder these maddening things and go through life so easy. I love them so much.

I want to be normal sometimes, whatever that means. I feel so inhuman, so unable to relate to people, that I can barely stand living in a world, alone. I feel like no one gets me at all sometimes, or that they understand me, I guess the same way we understand the mind of a savant. I just want to belong, I just want to be part of something that others are part of, Something good, something helpful. I just need an outlet, a meaning, a purpose, but I don't even know where to start with a purpose. Do I spread Islam to everyone I meet? Do I feed the hungry, and heal the sick? Could I possibly lead others into a community service, or even start an organization? Where do I begin? Obviously I should start with myself, but where within myself do I start? I suppose I should try and being sincere... full circle.

I watch way too much television. I eat too much food. I waste too much food. I lie too much. I just want change, I want difference, I want to want to change these things. I want to know how. I feel there is some sort of key to my happiness. Thats what I suppose it all comes down to. I want to be happy.

How do I become happy? Does Emily not make me happy? I think she does, but could I be wrong? Do I even know what happiness is? Doesn't Allah and Islam make me happy? What about Mom and my family, and friends? I guess I really don't know, and a lot of the time I wonder if I should be happy. It isn't like I have done anything to not deserve it. I don't go out and do drugs, or drink myself into comas, or have sex with strangers.

I want Emily to know that I love her, and she makes me happy, and I want to always be by her side, but when I say things like “I'm not happy” or “I feel inhuman”, I feel like she thinks its her fault, or that she can fix it, or should fix it. She can't fix it. I want her to be happy, I want to be what makes her happy, but how do I do that when I can not make myself happy. I must start with myself, and perhaps I will be like a sponge, sucking the sickness and unhappiness from others.

I feel like Max, needing to go to where the wild things are, and somehow learn a lesson. I feel like I need to leave this place, if only for a little while, to understand what I need to do. I pig can never be clean in always left in filth.

I often feel much better after talking to Emily for a time. She helps me forget a lot of things that bother me, but I know I probably say things that bother her. She worries so much, no one should contemplate worriedly like that for so long. I love Emily, I want to hopefully marry her one day and start a home, but how can I quench her worry, or my indifference?

There is a difference between peace and happiness. True, they sort of go hand in hand, but one can have one or the other. I believe I had, at one time, Peace, but I am not so sure about me ever having the sort of happiness I seek. I just want... to be content, nothing special, no ideals of true happiness, or a peace like nirvana, just... happy and peaceful. Too much?

I need to be doing something, something I need to do. And I don't mean “need” to do, like, I need to pass college algebra to get an associates degree. I mean a need like, there is a raging battle coming this way, and I need to know how to fight to survive it. That sort of need. But the battle continues to get closer, and yet, I still have no clue how to wield a sword.

I often wonder If I am a hypochondriac, or that I make my problems worse through “Self Fulfilling Prophecy”. I wonder if I'm sad because I am spoiled, or that I have had things too easy. I don't think I have. I think I have just as many troubles and bad situations and habits as anyone else, some worse, some better. I wish I had a story to tell. Or at the lease, be something people can learn from. Perhaps I just haven't lived long enough.