Are you an only child? Write about your siblings or lack thereof.

When I was growing up my father always told me I was destined to be a real man. A great man. My brother never heard the same type of praise. I am not an only child but there were many times my father would say otherwise. My older brother Omer...he was always given such a hard time when we were growing up. That is the curse of being the eldest son.

One instance I can recall occurred when I was eight years old and Omer was twelve. My father was upset with Omer again for having a reserved nature: children with that demeanor did not survive. They were supposed to become men and yet Omer constantly resisted. He dragged my brother outside to a coop out back full of chickens and ordered Omer to kill one. My father left. To this day I don't know if he expected Omer to quit or if he went to keep himself busy expecting a long wait before any progress was made. Omer could not kill the chicken under such pretenses...this I was aware of. He seemed so awkward standing there with that butcher knife handing down by his legs like a heavy weight of burden.

I killed the chicken for my brother. I snapped its neck with my bare hands without an ounce of shame. It was merely an animal. I had no sympathy for a creature that serves as a meal. What I cared for was my brother. I gave the bird to him and told him to present it to our father. There was no desire for credit on my part for I wanted nothing to prove. Instead of accepting the honor when out father reappeared Omer told the truth. That was always the nature of him I like to remember. It always frustrated me, but I believe I can begin to understand now his resistance. He was a much stronger boy than I in the sense he never became jaded for so long. Forever he is etched in my mind as the awkward-looking boy with the butcher knife dangling by his knees without a wish of ill or murder in his heart.

I think of him often these days.

I wish I could be more like him.

This journal is going on an indefinite and perhaps flexible hiatus. At this point I’m not sure how gung ho I am with the whole RP-scene right now. I don’t possess the same amount of enthusiasm that I had before. I used to look forward to prompts and writing but lately I’ve been uncomfortable with my writing abilities and have felt miserable that I have not been able to create the rich images crafted with such care that a character deserves. In the most literal sense I have accomplished nothing. No personal rewards have been reaped as of late therefore I feel I need to reassess my position on this journal entirely. However, I don’t give up that easily.

This doesn’t mean I love Sayid any less. It has nothing to do with the current standing of LOST nor the direction his character has taken (in fact I like the general direction it has taken and stand by my character wholeheartedly). I am currently working on a prompt to keep his standing in [Unknown LJ tag]. I can only hope that fares well knowing I’ve acknowledged this confliction for myself.

Happy LOSTing, everyone, and enjoy.

--Rachel

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? [Who watches the watchmen?]

The moment Jack Shephard and John Locke stepped out the door to the armory Sayid Jarrah knew this Henry Gale's life was in his hands. His heart quickened in pace despite his cool exterior. All the twitches and fidgets of anxiety had been worn out of him so only his vitals racing under his skin. Not for one minute did he believe this man, but he would question him none-the-less.

----
( FLASHBACK: the heat of the Iraqi desert was sweltering. )

“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun.

He cannot escape from what has been done. Essentially he wouldn’t be the same person if he could. Every order tossed at him, every victim and every loved one who lost their life and their physical in this world existed for a reason.

There are some days he realizes this. These are the days he withdraws himself from whatever society he may haunt. He reflects on how far he has come, what he has not accomplished but still cannot find the answer to the significant and ultimate question: Why? Why did people leave his life as quickly as they returned? Why couldn’t his trigger finger ignore the pleading of his heart? Why had he been on Oceanic Flight 815? Why was he still bound to it? From living in a country ravaged by the heat of the desert and conflict to a promised land that turned out to be as hungry for blood as any man. Now, he was back to the civilized world and felt robbed by the constant need for blood. For that liquid to be feeling his veins, he feels he has seen and sees far too much of it. It belongs to the heart.

Other days he does not know or he pretends as if things are different. He looks at the faces of those surrounding him in the café and wonders what makes them smile. That, somehow, they have cheated or avoided a terrible fate. Then he feels the heavy weight on his shoulders and wonders who put it there: himself or a terrible God. That’s when his fingers become truly powerful and can flick the tiny metallic trigger that is the deciding factor of life and death. Still, it is only some time before he returns to the previous state of mind.

Either way he feels as if he is truly an island. Perhaps he is surrounded, but still existing alone in the ocean. The past has caused a drift in the land, and yet here he remains.

334

I'll be going on hiatus until around January 12th. Getting moved into a dorm is a lot of hard work! Be well, play nice and I'll see you all soon :) You might even see a prompt or two go up here over the next few days.

<3 Rae

I don't understand…

He has always been older than his years, but he still doesn't understand many things. He does not understand how his life could be ruled by such passion. With the passing periods it still exists. People come and people go throughout his lifetime and yet he still manages to get attached.

He searched for Nadia, ambling through life on the daily belief that she was truly alive out there. Intercepted by some unseen force, he had found Shannon. He needed her just as much as she needed him, but she too was torn away. He buried her and felt a piece of his heart die alongside her. Upon return to civilization and Nadia it was as if that chapter of his life had been erased. She came with so much mystique and wonder. Laying with her (usually when she slept) he found himself wondering how she could manage to meet his eyes. After all they had been through... He would then wrap his arms around her, his palms guarding her burns, and he would fall asleep. As long as she was there to hold there was no need to wonder.

After she died there was only vengeance. There was no Shannon. There was no Nadia. No love in his heart. The only survivors were work and rectification. Elsa happened merely by surprise. The long-suppressed desire to reach out and be intimate with someone consumed him.

He killed her himself.

He hasn't slept since then.

And here he is today, emotionally gray on his better days.

"Why are you crying? Because it hurts, or because you were stupid enough to care for her?" The voice was harsh and accusing. If it were anything otherwise he would know he was not employed by the same man.

The word stung worse than the alcohol, more than the needle and more than the burning sensation underneath his skin. He had to draw in his lips in order to keep himself from shattering in front of the man. His cold, eerie eyes magnified in those glasses...

"These people don't deserve out sympathies." He could look back at Ben now. Was he offering an explanation? Anything was better than being left out in the cold. "Need I remind you what they did the last time you thought with your heart instead of your gun?"

Feeling that certainly crossed the line, he snapped back. "You used that to recruit me into killing for you." The coldness in his voice surprised himself. What had he become?

"Do you want to protect your friends or do you not, Sayid?"

He did. The conflict that brewed within him would have to wait. He had another name, after all. Another opportunity...another addition to the things that drove him on that he could not grasp.

What words would you like to see added to/removed from common use?

I think there are enough words in any language. It's silly to add or subtract from something when it functions. Still, there are words and phrases that can become lost in translation. Putting words in place of other words from a different dialect is hardly a fair translation. The momentum of the words is lost. If there was a way to make this possible I would very much like to see it happen.

One phrase that I find myself thinking of is أعمل الخير وأرميه فى البحر (A3mal al khair warmiha filbahr). In English, this translates roughly to "Do good and then throw it into the sea". You would have to understand (different from able to speak) Arabic in order to realize the shortcomings of this translation. The saying itself isn't common in Iraq. I first heard it when I was attending school in Giza. It is a common thing for mothers and fathers to tell their children. Performing a good deed does not necessarily mean you will be rewarded. They can become overlooked or even lost. When releasing good into the world the effects may not be seen in your lifetime, but it is free. People should be content with it and harbor no ill.

Its meanings isn't lost only to English speakers. The proverb is often forgotten by adults. Life becomes complicated. "Good" becomes a blurred term.

Certainly there are more phrases like this in countless cultures. I don't think about such things often, but one thought leads to another. If there were means of understanding phrases without such barriers I would like to see that put into effect. I strive to understand more than I do to eliminate or add anything to a language.

Perhaps I am too ambitious.

Post a CONFESSION Meme

BOO! How would you go about scaring someone?

It felts like centuries that he had struck fear into the hearts of the accused. Those days, however, were left behind. She had made the nights so much easier. The faces had started to dissipate. All there was was her. Nadia.

( ------ )

[536]

The weather outside was dismal much like the mixed feelings within himself. The early afternoon was gray with clouds but the air was thick with smog and the city life. Once Sayid stepped into the coffee shop he could feel a slight sense of relief underneath the lighting and the welcoming smell of the brewing beans.

He was here to meet an old friend...it had been a long time since he had spoken with anyone from Oceanic flight 815. Seeing Jack could bring up both good memories and the doubt he harbored since the Island. Still, he did want to see his friend. Well aware he was slightly early he took his coffee and sat a table that already had a newspaper on it. All he had to do now was wait.

The Giant fangirl post of DOOM

Pain is just nature’s way of saying “HEY! You’re alive!” –Ares

Physical pain...explaining the emotional aspects is time wasted on the intangible. One of the prices we must pay for life is the endurance of pain. It can be as brief as a paper cut or it could last a lifetime. Whatever we endure and survive we are told only makes us stronger. But we never ask for this pain: it is a trial that is sprung upon us by immeasurable force. When we take it upon ourselves to make another human being suffer...that is when the true purpose of pain becomes clouded.

I have seen many people reach their breaking points. In my heart I understood many of them had done horrible things to harm innocent people, but their faces still haunt me. They are those of familiar faces, women among them...acting out of passion. This in no way justifies what they have done, but I am no better than them. Their names are now synonymous with hot oil, reeds slipped under their fingernails, electricity coursing through their bodies and the word pain itself.

Myself...I have taken more bullets than anyone I know. That physical pain does not begin to compare to the memories of the pain on their faces. Pain that I inflicted. This is not Nature's doing, but its reaction is still present. It was a way to make a living- to stay alive. I wouldn't be here without that time in my life. Much has been taken from me. Though I have left my occupation behind the habit seems to linger. Pain- it is a firm reminder: we must fight to survive or give up.

I continue with a heavy heart.