You may or may not know that I have a TinyLetter in which I send out short stories I've written to the hapless few who (now likely regret having) signed up for this newsletter. It started out being a biweekly thing but then I got bored, like I do with most things, and now it's a whenever-the-hell-I-feel-like-it deal.Read More
Today marks a full decade since my father died. I was 19 and had had a premonition of disaster the entire day, which I naively attributed to something that now seems so mundane and unimportant. My kid brother—who was 16 at the time—found my dad, and he was the one who called 911 and performed CPR while my mother and I stood stunned. My mother insisted on an Islamic funeral, even though my father was a lapsed Muslim, and for up to three days after, our apartment was filled with neighbours, friends and family—some of whom we hadn’t seen or talked to in years, but who had heard through the grapevine of my father’s passing and dropped everything to lend their support. I didn’t cry at all.Read More
Never am I going to become a prolific writer. Never am I going to grow thicker skin. Never am I going to stop being hurt. Never am I going to change the world with my words. If all these nevers are what make up my literary career, then the question arises of why I continue to do it.Read More
How can you stop yourself from feeling too deeply? I’ve wondered and tried and found that it’s impossible for me. Even when I decide not to feel anything at all, it only numbs the emotions and stores them up deep within, weighing me down and making me foggy and unintelligible to myself. It’s not possible to just stop feeling and, more importantly, it shouldn’t be allowedRead More
I’m sitting here in bed feeling low, low, low with no reason to justify it. This weekend marks approximately one month since the last time I indulged in self harm and, instead of celebrating my streak, I am fighting every fibre of my being not to restart that nasty habit.Read More
In thinking about my dad these past few years I came to the unhappy and disappointing conclusion that I didn’t know him at all. We visited London once when I was about eight and he excitedly showed us his old haunts and babbled on with stories about his time there. I was bored and didn’t listen to a thing he said because I took for granted the fact that he’d be around to re-tell those stories if ever I was interested.