It was a homicide.

1st June, 2013.

Hit herself in the head over 100 times

34 cuts on her thighs

A rope around her neck

More than 200 cancelled-out phone calls

One song

A million memories

Too many tears shed

Too much blood

Too much pain

This, is reminiscence. 

These Stories.

Insecurities. They are to me, my oldest acquaintance.

Long have I let them hold my hand, as I reluctantly held theirs back. And although it has been forever since we've known each other - and though they know me, flaws and all, inside and out - these insecurities are not my friends.

I have tried endlessly to rid myself of the lingering of their remains. How tired I have become - weary, and drained, in fact - from washing and rinsing away at my now bleaching skin, in often failed attempts at removing the stains of their rivalry.

Though you have been so loyal, and for all those years, have been my only companion: dear Demon, I want you no longer.

I want to be happy without you - to forget you, and all those things you have severed me with. I want to be able to look at my own reflection and be proud of who I see.

I do not want my shoulders to be burdened by you anymore.

Please, leave me, for there is a glimmer of sanctuary awaiting me at the end of this road. But you are heavy, and you are holding me back.

Let me go so I may be.

Let me go so I may be free.

Skinned.

We all have secrets.

For in fact, I have many.

Some of which, are secret to just my friends, others, to also my family, and some too, secret to me. These are truths that are kept, and untold. But keeping silent stories to yourself for too long becomes more than dreadful.

The weight of words behind the knots of sealed lips blister the insides of my mouth. My tongue and cheeks are ripped, and stained with blood. These words so sharp must be let free - released - so that I may heal.

But how shall I begin?

The locks that tie me shut in silence are numb now: It is so difficult to speak those things I promised myself I wouldn't. Though I believe the time has come that I should. It is time, for the least, that I try.

.. (deep breath)

With a heavy sigh, and a bead of sweat across my brow, today I speak these words: My name is Hajer Nasir, and I am a victim of self-harm.

It wasn't something of recent beginning. I have been cutting since the age of 9, as of what I remember.

I was never one to fit in to crowds - always pushed aside, discriminated, and judged. I didn't speak much either; only ever kept my opinions to myself. No one listened to me, and when they did, they wouldn't have liked what they heard.

I am caved, and traumatized by life itself - by the people that walk it, and the things they do that they call living. Everything, and everyone makes me feel worthless.

To understand that you are a smaller being of a larger reality is humble - but to believe you are simply less than the ash in the wind, is simply depressing.

No one should ever stoop so low to my level. No one should ever believe that they mean nothing, and that their mere living is a waste of space, and time - to believe that God made you an error for jokes and laughs or to fill up the empty gaps of an already crowded world.

But all those thoughts of terror were mine.

And if you were to roll up my sleeves, and flip my arm outwards to the paler part of my skin, you would see the scars of my secrets told through the blade of my lonely nights.

They seem faded now, with the growth of my experience to coat over them like paint, but to touch its surface, I can still feel the shudder of the cold knife, grazing softly, deeply into the flesh.

And cutting wasn't the only thing I did.

But the details of that are unimportant.

What matters now is that the truth is no longer a secret. I have opened up my veins, reaped of my dark side, into words that are gestured to the public.

Judge me now, as you always do; sympathize, as you pass me in the hallway.

It matters not to me now, for I have thrown away the fear of people knowing, as I bare myself, stripped and naked to the truth.

Though I am not proud of the things I have done - I am proud that I am still standing, breathing, alive and well, here today, to tell you of the things I have done.

So here you have it. No fancy words, no poetry, no metaphors: just a sad story, of a sad girl, who took 10 years to finally brave her chest to the bullets of an open fire.

(exhale)

My name is Hajer Nasir, and I am a fighter.

When?

Glossy eyes, pale face, swollen cheeks, and dried lips.

Then suddenly, a hand on your shoulder, an assuring smile across their face but still with weariness in their eyes. Their body lowers, to rest themselves beside you - to sit next to you, in the shadow you walled up, that made you feel so alone.

The breeze of the night's cool air; dark ocean waters crash against the dim seashore.

Silence.

This is a moment I remember.

Though broken as I was, it was I that was the giving hand and the words that lent advice. I was sincerity, and I was empathy.

Because it was not my eyes that were bleeding that night.

But most nights when they do - I wish someone would come for me, and just care too.

Rewritten.

"When I saw you, I fell in love. And you smiled because you knew."

I still remember the moment I first crossed paths with you: you were walking down the steps of a crowded hall room, majestic as you were, as I sat bashfully among the jitters of the room's society.

Here, you did not know me, and though your focus was elsewhere, mine was on you, transfixed on the oddity of the silver streak you boasted against the raven of your hair.

It was not soon after, when we met officially. It wasn't in the most romantic of places - it wasn't at a line in a coffee shop, or in an elevator - and you definitely did not ask me about the Smiths.

Although the mood steered far from that of a Nicholas Sparks novel, meeting you was evident. The room was cold, and silent. I can still recall the smell of old cigarettes.

But somehow, to me, our hello's seemed different. Almost as if they were written in scripts, and we spoke them like skilled actors with lines, memorized for a french film.

To talk to you brought me no challenge, and to laugh with you was simpler than anything I'd known. Our conversations were liquid. It was as if I was swimming underwater: your voice was the wave, and I was a lost ripple, floating beneath the buoyancy of your currents.

It didn't take long at all for me to realize that you, though foreign as you may have been to my meeting eye - to me, you were no stranger.

Was it love at first sight?

Perhaps.

Because I believe we've met before - somewhere in a dream I can only faintly remember. It was a quiet dream: desolate and somber. I imagine there might have been a light drizzle, and a swarming fog in the cold. We were both waiting on something we weren't sure was even coming.

But whoever you were to me at the time, you wouldn't leave my mind. I was urged to write about you as I awoke.

The words of my anonymous letter is still stale on the back of my tongue. For you see, we writers do that, you know: write about the things we are truly passionate of - of the things we love.

And in the same way I wrote about you then, here, I am writing about you now.

Because I think I must love you.

Terengganu Day Deux

Second day. Hogged someone else's camera , because I sadly don't own one. Black and white shots are so dramatic; it does so well in masking the dryness of the hot air, the stank of fresh garbage, and the beading of sweat down our backs.

Project IV, await us.

Perceive not.

Sometimes I forget what blogs are for. I think too much of them as personal diaries, than I should of them as a platform for my freedom of speech, since obviously, there is lack of room for that in social media.

Sad.

The world is so full with a lot of spite, and bitter people, so I may observe. Such harsh words are often spat out from one person to another, with little to no consideration, or respect at all.

Is there no sense of shame to be so blatant with rage, and passion?

I don't mean for us to be hypocrites - please, do not misunderstand.

It is simply not right to be so vulgar: the world isn't built around only a certain belief, be it political, cultural, or religious. We are vast with variety: no one man is the same as the other.

My words are unbiased and simple: do not impose.

Because the truth is there is no winning or losing, though this is easily forgotten. Life is not a gamble, it is a game of choices. You are not rolling dice, nor shuffling any cards; God blessed us each with a mind, and that mind is brilliant with thought, and rationality.

You only lose, if you choose to believe you have lost.

I see friends shouting in tyrant rage, pointing fingers to men across the room - crude language is exchanged, their breaths reeking stale of opinion - rash decisions too often being made by a vigor heart, acting too soon without thinking too long.

Change is then pleaded for; fought for. But how many times does one ask themselves of where does this change begin?

It is not far to seek for. Change begins with the reflection in the mirror.

The man who stares back at you during your morning routines - he is who must change. We are the seeds to the rebirth of a century! We are the points of a beginning, drawing lines of anew!

Though it is true that our strangers may be of worse: one cannot fight fire with fire, and indefinitely cannot wage a war for peace. It is reckless, and far too ironic, it is almost a comedic line.

If change is what is demanded for, then by all means, do so - change. And if everyone were to wisen up and do the same, there would be no need for fights, and riots, and angry words, and relentless havoc.

Immaturity is not classy.

To be the better man, first things first: be the better man.

Insomniac.

A pity it is, when your days have turned to nights.

Sunlight, hidden beneath blankets of grey clouds, rain showering the rooftops and filling our gutters, like swollen tear ducts. Weary beneath the cool sway of the wind, the color of the grass grows faint, immersing itself into the puddles of rain water, turning shades from emerald to a mournful laurel green.

It is only 3pm, and the sky is as dim as midnight. How long has the hand taken to pass from one minute to another. How dreary the wait for the arrival of the next hour. 

It is in the broadest of daytime that my limbs are paralyzed.

I cannot move further than to stretch the length of my arm. Simply, to reach out to the telephone, or to tickle my fingers through the keyboard of my computer, are the best of my efforts. 

If it's not the trait of the sloth, then it is the trait of a mad man - a sad man.

How far deep can depression hold you back? 

Can you walk out your door and still put a smile on your face? Or does the mere call of your name spite you?

I am shriveled and bitter.

Only dost my pillow know the truth behind my secrets, for I have dreamed many dreams that stained their faces with the dying morsels of my soul.

Hello, Stranger!

The worst part about making new blogs are these introduction/opening sequence things. Since I'm all out of fancy words, and my poetic mind has lost half of its youth; I think I'll keep this simple, and generic.

10 things you don't really care to know about me, but I shall mention anyways because I am bored.

1. I am a cliche, hopeless romantic: roses are my favorite flower

2. I have a fear of small corners and tiles, holes, and clusters

3. My favorite Marvel character is Gambit

4. I am not a liar, just a skilled pretender *wink*

5. I am socially awkward and highly insecure

6. No, I am not a lesbian

7. I am, and will forever be, a loyal fan-girl of Blue

8. I am a super-spy. Don't give me reason to go snooping, because trust me, I will find things!

9. Blogging is not my passion per se, but I can't imagine having a life without one

10. I believe in Harvey Dent