Happiness is spontaneity. It’s not having everything planned down to the detail, but living in the moment and seeing where it takes you. It’s being adventurous and open-minded. Happiness is road trips. It’s feeling the wind tickle your face and the world pass by in nothing but a blurry haze. It’s the world being too slow to keep up with you, letting you leave it behind with the rest of your worries. Happiness is laughter. It’s the melodic sound that passes your lips when happiness is at its peak, showing no signs of sorrow. Happiness is photographs. It’s catching special moments on film to look at forever, reminiscing the joyful times long after they are over, bringing back memories that would live on forever. Happiness is reading. It’s getting lost in a book full of words that have created another reality, most of the time better than the one we live in, and getting utterly lost in the expanse of it. It’s relating to characters you dream of encountering, the world as you know it slipping away into nothingness as you nestle a home in a new kind of humanity. Happiness is music. It’s the beat of the drums matching the beat of your heart, feeling the bass right down to your core. It’s the words of an artist speaking volumes, and it’s having songs that can narrate almost any kind of situation you find yourself in. Happiness is rainy mornings. It’s the pitter-patter of droplets against the window, soothing the soul in the most comforting of ways that make you yearn for a warm cup of tea. Happiness is being with your friends. It’s creating new memories and reliving old ones, never a dull moment when the company present is full of life and laughter. Happiness is realizing that not everything is meant to be controlled, but meant to be lived fully and wholeheartedly. Happiness isn’t found; it is always present within.
Nyctophilia is the preference of night or darkness. As a kid, I used to be terrified of the dark; never wanting to sleep by myself as I was afraid the creatures of the night would take me away to a place where I would be virtually blind. But then I grew up and began seeing things for what they are in the light and I didn’t like it. True monsters lay in the light; easily spotted even under the faulty facade that is put up. For myself, there’s something intriguing about the darkness. Something about not completely knowing what’s going on around you; how everything surrounding you is hushed and unknown.
It can consume you, just like it has consumed me. It can be sinister, dreary, odious, but that is only when you look at it from a child’s frightful mind’s point of view. True darkness is when the stars litter the sky and stand out brilliantly, where the fire burns brighter, and where the beady eyes of those around you aren’t felt digging holes in your back. Lonely is another way to describe darkness, but just because you are alone, doesn’t mean you are lonely. On the contrary, it may be the only place where one is allowed to be themselves truly, without having to concern themselves about mindless whispered comments from those who cannot do anything but talk about others they are the ones that are lonely. How forlorn must one be to take up talking about the actions of others, just to make up for their own miserably alone life? Light is full of fake smiles and happiness and more fake smiles. Darkness?
That is where the truth is liberated and no matter how daunting or unwanted, it sets the soul free.
I am a novel.
I am written in Morse code, making it a challenge to read me for those who wish to know the story of my life. My mind produces thoughts like the number pi; ideas and beliefs running continuously and wildly although it never seems to exhaust me. They are points on a graph, all connected and forming something superior. But the thoughts developed in my brain have been formed from the spirit that’s locked inside me. It is a bright spirit friendly and inviting and warm that would melt into a downpour of rain wiping away my friends’ fears and strangers’ sins. I am expected to be polite, smart, friendly, and brave and I believe I can be all those things, however, I must be rude, dense, cold, and frightened to get to that state of mind. But my class has opened new senses within me.
In our world, I see the question what is the earth really like? Each house has its own world built into it; varying from diverse types of languages, music, food, and ways of life. It’s where you were born, took your first steps, and learned how to speak. Growing up, it’s where someone realizes who they are as a person, and what their value in the world is. In each dwelling, it’s your own world, where you can be who want and do what you love especially if you aren’t ready to go out through the front door and face reality.
In the ice of circles, I see a trilogy based on the mystery of life, where true ambition guides one to the end of a great journey, seeing as nothing seems to last forever. Written in Arabic, it is the language that seems so delicate and intricate, deeming it a worthy read. Each rim in the ice displays the unseen future; ten years, fifteen years, twenty years of upcoming events that will make or break our world. The circle itself is a portal, enabling one to jump into the future and glimpse at what our world has become. The structure resembles the pure innocence of a child; with the form itself being the new born brain ready to learn, the first two rims being the unbroken heart, and the rest of the carvings the pure, untouched soul.