Author's Signature

    Яαgιи Яαvєи
    Cairo, Egypt
    Wanting people to listen, you can't just tap them on the shoulder anymore. You have to hit them with a sledgehammer, and then you'll notice you've got their strict attention.
View Profile

Enter your Email

Last posts


Tapping at my chamber door

In 2008, I'll Get Me A Shotgun

I will also:
2. Get closer to
Job hunt some more.
4. Get closer to my
5. Learn a new language.
Finish at least one screenplay.
Lose the extra weight.
8. Get a
driver's license. I will not buy a car.
9. I will
rule my world.
10. I will have my

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

O Endless stream, where do you take me?

Surreal thoughts of manic depressive nature made me think, forced me to seek change. My lifestyle's routined yet crapped out of a dog's digestive system. I always knew I was different, but I always thought it may be in a good way.

I don't know anymore. What is different? Define 'a good way'.

Change doesn't have to be grand. It doesn't mean that it'll get easier, but it sure will help you survive, I tell myself. After all, we'd do anything to survive, right?

I will leave to seek change, redemption, forgetfulness, heaven, and light. I'll be gone for 18 days; perhaps even more. Certainty is far from being neither a right nor a privilege, I reckon.

I am a vault filled with unanswered questions. I really should go work at a circus or fix up a tent at a carnival, wear a gypsy outfit and recite out the things that I keep to myself. If people pay 50 pounds to get a ten minute water massage, they'd definitely pay for my shit.

Literally probably… if I gave three for the price of two.

You know that feeling when you feel like you just saw something move with the corner of your eyes and when you actually turn and look… it's not there anymore? Well, I keep getting that from my cell phone. It keeps flickering some sort of signal like it's a fucking tower at the airport every two seconds and its driving me insane. It's as if it's trying to tell me something, a sign maybe… an earthquake coming? Well, I never looked into that matter. Maybe it's just me? But don't get the white strap jacket just yet. I have far more to tell that'd probably put me away for a very long time.

Maybe all my cell phone's trying to tell me is that its battery's running out. Yeah well… fuck it. Let it die. Someone's gotta pay!

I've never kept a long-term journal. Every year I'd buy me a new one, write a couple pages, then lose it. It's as if someone was watching me, stealing away my thoughts, my privacy. I just need to be more organized, I guess. I keep losing things… but then again losing things is a fact of life, a part of aging. The older you grow, the more things get taken away.

You can't lose a blog. You don't need to be organized. Maybe ten years from now they'd realize that fact and turn everything digital. Assign 1s and 0s to atoms and molecules; allow free space traveling of what was once physical. Spirituality at its best, I'd tell ya. Rejoice, O Buddhist slaves of fat men and illusive surroundings, your time will be then; free souls roaming around a WWW Fucking Dot.

We are just dots in space aren't we, each thinking they're different, that they'd make a change?

Like those three dots we throw at the end of a sentence, thinking they'd signify something, believing that they'd say more than just words.

Do they really?

What are words anyways? Just a bunch of letters combined together with a couple punctuation marks designed to add value to a stream of shapes. Didn't cavemen document their work and draw about how their days went? Didn't they blog too? What makes us any different? Why do we believe that we're more civilized? Could it be because we own a 300 television channel subscription, a polyphonic cell phone, and a nuclear bomb?

At the end of the day we are just trying to make the best out of what we have, aren't we? Find food and raise a family in the best possible way, protect them from a dinosaur and provide shelter.

What makes us any different?

I don't watch TV, I never use my cell phone… except maybe at work, and I for certain do not own any kinds of bombs.

Should I change my name to Mr. Caveman now?

Only the next few days will tell whether I'm worthy of this challenge, of this life… or not. I fear that I might not rise to the occasion, but then again how will I ever know if I crawl inside a ditch and stay hidden?

I know that I'm more focused now. I know what I want to do with the rest of my life. I know that I'll pick a baseball bat and stand my ground for what I think is right…

for what I pray is right.

I'm getting butterflies all over. I'm excited about the journey I'm going to drift into… however I do and even if I fail, at least I'll know that I've tried. This failure won't hurt as much I reckon.

All my life, I've always wished to have multiple lives, each to take a different course of action… but then again maybe we can't have that for the reason that life must be unfair. But how can I demand fairness if I'm not willing to try to take one shot at something and see what happens for myself?

We live in a world of monkey say, monkey do… We do only what others think is right.

What if it ain't? The risk factor is just too fucking high.

I'll blow my birthday candles and make the same wish every year. Hope is priceless; the reason behind birthday cakes. I'll find joy and take risks. I'll bungee jump and travel the world. I'll blow every eye lash into the wind and break every rabbit's foot. In the middle of the road, I know that I'll fall again… but I've learned.

I'll mend my heart and move on.

I'll live it to the fullest.

Define fullest.

Doesn't it evolve from greed?

I want M-O-R-E.

Des-ti-ny is often referred to as the inevitable; but how can a man know his destiny unless he goes through it first. The fact of the matter is destiny is only clear right before you die.

At least that's what I think.

All else must be accepted. Believing in God's will and accepting it is the point behind it all. To do things His way. Freedom ain't in defying laws and disobedience. It ain't in shooting up just for the heck of it. We're not 15 anymore, unfortunately.

Freedom is in choosing what to follow, even if what you follow is a flash light casted by a certain Someone at the end of a dark tunnel.

I'm all yours. Emancipate me…

For I am but a dot.

Egyptian Batteekh : Volume 1

If you live in Cairo, don't miss driving through El 2asr el 3eeny street. Over there you'll find a big ass poster of Egypt's newest play نساء السعاده (Women of happiness… pleasure sounds more fitting I'd say). The play is starring Wafa2 3amer, one of the porn stars of Arab cinema if you ask me, and a bunch of unknowns. Bottom line, it looked like a porn DVD billboard… at least that's how it felt.

But that's not the point really.

The poster's hanging on a building… and that building is وزارة التعليم العالي

La2 fe3lan 3aly.

I was around that area on my way to visit a manager at Petroleum Cooperative whom we called to arrange a deal on behalf of the bank where I work and add to the country's GDP. He said that he needed a calculator and that his manager needed a new desk set.

We bought them both.

ابتسم انت في مصر

Monday, December 18, 2006


It stands before the pilgrim with its long, sharp sword.

You can't shield it out for it is not made of flesh and blood. It's not made of glass or wood, neither is it made of gold nor dirt. Invisible it ain't. It's right there, only it's not made of anything. Immaterial as it is, you can't see it but you know it's there. When a person believes in something that they can't see they call it faith;

The ideology of religion,

The belief in something,

The origin of God.

Without faith we're lost. You can starve and die. You can kill in its name. You can slay yourself in public so long as your faith is protected and unharmed. That thing you've created out of thin air owns you. It tells your heart not to melt when it wants to. You can not shield it out for it is already in there, in your system, your mind, and in your heart. It makes you feel beautiful, powerful, above all. Its surrounding, engulfing aura makes you feel passionate about something; and that passion leads up to your willing to give up anything, everything, even light itself. Suddenly the world is dark and all that stays is a stench of something sugary, like warm molecules of glucose discovered by forensics in a corpse of a guy who got creamed by a bus; that scent… that stench, is the real addiction. It's not cocaine or alcohol, it's not caffeine or masturbation… it's its presence that gets you hooked, drives you wild, protects you from evil doers and people who just might not understand how you need it to survive. That's the rub after all, isn't it; to survive. Right and wrong fade into each other; two words that share the first letter, phonetically.

We all want to survive, hold on to our addictions and pray to God they won't hurt us eventually; but in the end when nothing matters you'll ask yourself if everything you ever traded off for its might and glorification weren't that much as you expected.

The question of what matters is the reason behind our very existence after all. Survival is way overrated.

Unfortunately, you'd do anything for it… even if anything ain't right.

Sunday, December 17, 2006

At ease, you insomniac freaks

I couldn't do it, the simplest of things.

It becomes a challenge, a battle. One final war before you're off this planet and on to your very own destination of peace land. Ten seconds is all it takes. It is that long!!

It's you against everything else. It's you against everything material. When you're beat, tired, and wrecked, when your eye lids are heavy as sin and your brain is empty like a void…

Nothing really matters.

All you seek is that break.

The fact of the matter is some people live their whole lives waiting for moments like these.


I lost the battle tonight. I lost it to a memory of my niece wearing an orange wool jacket bigger than her. I lost it to the thought of me not being here next week, wondering if I'd be up for it. I lost the battle to the sound of the clock ticking and the garbage truck doing it's very own beep, beep, fucking beep alien invasion sound. I lost the battle to an old Take That song that I haven't listened to in over five years.

'Back for good', still a fave of mine nonetheless. I just hate moments like these when your brain becomes fixated on the tunes and the lyrics and the song's video clip, when you can't help but feel the strange urge to jump out from underneath the double layered blanket and sing it out loud like a gospel, convincing yourself that the louder you get the closer you are to God.

What the hell…

Five years and it hits me now.

Suddenly your brain is up, rising and shining, despite what your body tells it, begs of it. Excited like an orgasm it flies off to the all material, all corporate, all bullshit world.

And it drives me down here to turn on a gigabyte computer, access my paid for ADSL internet subscription, double click a Mozilla Firefox icon,, new post, and voila…

Can it get more material than this?


I've ejaculated my thoughts for tonight, but it's too damn late for me to sleep, too damn early to go to work. I'll just have to wait for a couple more hours then sail my ship off to my workstation.

Insomniac freaks out there… I hear ya.

Things to do today:

1. Drink extra large coffee

2. Be a fucking liability

3. Hammer down my 10 year old Take That CD

4. Go to sleep endlessly at 6 pm

Have a nice day.

Friday, December 15, 2006

Moments and moments of clarity

That mirror.

That fragile piece of glass that is designed to reflect the fragile creature that stands before it. The question whether fragility is a characteristic of its own or whether it is another reflection of the man that stands there, staring at what he thinks is how he looks like.

The drunken refer to this as ‘a moment of clarity’.

It's when you stand real close to a mirror and look at yourself; and by yourself it's not the nose and ears, not the eyes and lips. It's barely even yourself. The ability of sight magnifies to a newly discovered understanding. Superman can fly and Spiderman can cast webs. I, all graciously humble, can now see.

I believe. I fucking believe.

I believe in God. I believe in my country. I believe that men are weak. I believe that nobody really grows, expect in size sometimes. Aren’t we all divided into the gang of bullies and the geek squad, where the geek aspires to be a bully, whereas the bully pretends to be something that he’s not?

The grass is always greener, huh?

It’s always been like that… and it’ll stay that way.

Words don’t mean shit anymore. If I said that I’m John Doe you’ll need proof. If I said that I’m an excellent banker, you’ll need proof. If I told you that I loved you, you’ll need proof. Well, I don’t have any except my word. I never thought I’d need one, but hey… guess what? I should have had evidence. I should have had proof. My false assumption that my decency would be the only evidence that I’d need did not serve me well at all.

They were right when they said that 'assumption is the mother of all fuck ups'.

An ex-friend taught me that it's not what you say if you don't have evidence. It is a certified world where paper matter, contracts matter. What you are is how much you've got in a big fat wallet at the bank. What you say is what you must not share.

Nobody gives a fuck.

It’s sadly true.
You can’t touch or see or feel or smell a name.
You can’t touch or see or feel or smell a profession.
Same with love I guess.

Too much love might be considered a charity case.
Too little love is one sadistic motherfucker.
I never found the pivot that balances it all. I am, sadly, inexperienced.

What I thought was my edge morphed into being an edge of a blade that stabbed me where it hurts most. I lacked proof.

If you succeed for yourself only you’re selfish.
If you succeed for the people you care for, you’re unambitious.

I’m confused. I don’t understand.

You got money, pay me.

What you see is what you get.

And I stand before that mirror and stare at something new, something improved, something bleeding.

I have made mistakes. I quote an ex-friend who asked me something along the lines of ‘What makes you think you’re any different? Why do you believe that you don’t make mistakes? You’re not a messenger of God, are you?

No, I’m not different. I’m trying to be.
No, I have a list of mistakes that could wrap me up as my inevitable death shroud.
No, I am not a messenger of God.

Now that I think of it, though… perhaps I did have a message from God to that ex-friend. I don’t know. Maybe to that friend, I wasn’t supposed to be a person; a sign maybe, but that would be giving myself too much credit, wouldn’t it?

Or would it?

I don’t know.

Bullshit falls in the middle of the scale of being too honest and being too dishonest. The more you do either, the less they believe you, I guess.

I wonder where total silence falls on that scale.

Oh the things that I’d give away just to be able to return to being inexperienced and innocent, to be that little boy who dreamed of becoming an astronaut, to float near a star and hop on another, to witness a scene of God’s creations and beyond.

It costs around two million dollars for a space trip… or so I heard. I never cared to remember the figure. At this point, I can’t even afford a world trip, and I wonder whether I'm still going to hold on to all the bullshit they made us fall for when I'm old and wrinkled.

The mirror reads the future now. A 40 year old man who still wants to be an astronaut, who's still not sure what he wants to do with the rest of his life. Perhaps it's because he's still naïve; but it might be that it's because he knows he's destined for more.

The question of 'more' strikes back as the eternal question on top of the hill of literature and articulacy. The question whether to be or not to be.

That is the question.

The mirror stares back now. It tells me things. It tells me that I shouldn’t trust my judgment anymore. It tells me that my common sense perhaps should be described as being unemployed. It tells me that it won’t get any better, but that I’ll make it through anyway.

It does get cold when you’re self-criticizing yourself, fucking yourself upstairs, asking yourself whens and whys, confessing what you thought was right. That ravishingly cold felony of free speech and pure silence is what I hate the most about moments like these. It’s when you’re waiting for your invisible other to speak, to guide you.

They never did. They probably never will.

It's too quiet in here a tuning fork wouldn't break the silence. It’s like I’m standing in a vacuum dimension, all shivering and disbarred.

Is this how space feels like? Is this my dream come true? Or perhaps it’s a nightmare unaccounted for?

I wonder whether this is caring I feel or is it hatred and rage that drive my shuttle engine.

I’ll just float around, bleeding, praying, hopeful, and confused; an astronaut that drifted away from his shuttle, off the space grid, into the dark and endless abyss.

Vacuum ain't fair;

If only it was,

If only sound could travel in space,

They could so hear my screams.

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Rage against the dying of the light

It's when you feel so angry that you can't even breathe. You don't want to open your mouth and speak because you know that no matter what you say or who you're talking to things would get ugly. You can't whisper. You can't drink. You don't want to eat. You're afraid that too much energy would give you enough power to move things with your mind, to break things with only your thoughts. Your eyes are blood red and your mind speaks to you, telling you to hit something or someone, make them hate you, kill them, but you ain't listening. The fact of the matter is you can't even hear them.

You're that angry!

What you need is a punching bag, even though you know you won't touch it. You know that you'll only hook it up to the ceiling and stare at it, picture it doing things that would only make you hate it even more.

That fuckin' punching bag!!

At this moment, all you need is rage to survive.

I would... I so would

A blackout… in never really a blackout; it's got more to it than just that. It's not suspended time. It's not a hallucination. It's not a tumor. It's not a self made excuse for a man to feel better about himself. A blackout can be used to briefly describe lost time. Time that no matter how hard a man can pray and how deep he hurts and how rich he is... he just can't get back.

The problem is that this is not just an ordinary blackout.

I have a feeling that things would get better, that I've earned my break; that I'm going to get it eventually; but that's it. It's always been just that, a feeling.

A haunting… is never really a haunting; not if it's self inflicted, self designed; a graphically enhanced set of codes programmed by oneself to help explain things a bit clearer, to visualize their fears and aims.

I'd say to the ghosts of the past and bullshit that I'm tired. Let me be.

Let go.

I deserve differently.

I'd say that, but my tongue is just too damn heavy.

I'd say that among a set of ugly things that I so want to say.

I'd fucking rip it out, my soul, and have it sold to the nearest devil, if only he'd promise me comfort.

I wouldn't even sell it. I'd give it away for free.

It's like reaching out of a deep well of piss, but the edges are too damn far and the walls are just too slippery and cunning for me to hold on to.

Shouldn't a man forget what happened when he was out? Why do I keep perfectly remembering everything? Why do I wish for the past few years to just vanish out of my system, to be ripped out of my head and buried along with the rest of my sins? How can a man seek comfort if he can't forget? How can a man make up for his mistakes if every second brings something new and unexpected?

Consequences, such an ugly word!

How can time heal all wounds if it won't stop for you to catch up?

Addiction is when the piss starts tasting sweet as time passes with you inside.

That’s probably the only thing that time is capable of.

When and where did I go wrong? How did I fall? Haven't I been always the cold and collected? Didn't I allow my ego to take the lead? When did I fall asleep? Is this all a bad dream? Am I hallucinating again? Is this actually happening? Am I ever going to forgive myself?

Will I ever forget?

Oh God…

Friday, December 08, 2006

Cruel letter B

You're cornered inside an oven, waiting for the 100 degrees to hit, the boiling point. You're sitting there waiting, anticipating a let go. You know it's coming. You know that when it hits, words will run down like a broken shower of sewage.

Sit there and quietly judge them. Wait for words that never formed. You flip the dictionary pages in search for words that might bring you comfort but alas… what makes you think that things would go easy on you now? What makes you think you've earned it?

Life. Such a tough teacher. I believe conniving bitch is an appropriate synonym for the word.

Dreams… linger every night when you're most ready to give in. I believe haunting can explain the process thoroughly, especially when thrown in to a sentence with the word delusion.

Life teaches the lesson no school can ever teach. It tells you all about loss, convincing you that it's only trying to turn you into a man. The truth is you know that you're a man if you're born with a prick and whatever comes later is just a useless appendix to a road you take chasing a shadow of something you've already become.

Be an asshole… yeah that's a tip alright. If only somebody would have taught me that earlier.

Silence… happens when you know that a lie is about to fill the air you breathe in hoping not to die. I have never minded the lies.

Dreams would hover over your brain at night, wrap up logic, and transform it into something shiny.

Like a brand new pair of shoes, I guess.

Tempting, taunting, teasing, deluding.

Taking over.

Addicting you beyond all recognition.

Injecting you with something sweet and acidic to melt your worries and release them into the dark sewers of the mind.

Your arms have more holes than the ozone now and your mind is fixated on your next shot.

In this case, however, rehab ain't the answer you're looking for.

And it just so happens that when you've got yourself labeled as a junkie, you become cheap and dispensable, a million dollars written in fancy calligraphy on a bounced cheque. Sure your penmanship may be attractive and unique, but still you're a worthless piece of paper, and if they really, really like the font, they can always frame you, hang you on their bathroom wall to stare at you when they've run out of boring articles in toilet magazines to read. You're worth that much then.

Ay. There's the rub.

Rub it hard, lad. Let it scar. Mark it across your face so you would always look at it every time you look at yourself in the mirror, the same mirror you stared through, the one that you've asked 'Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all' over and over, the same mirror that told you you're special.

And the more you listened, the more you fell into believing it.

And before you know it you start treating it contrarily.

Human nature I guess. Ego is the god of fulfillment for most of us.

An alternative definition of a leader is a person who fucks everybody else in a way that seems like he's actually doing them a favor. Similar to love where half the female populace fall for men who treat them like they're cheap property by falling into the challenge of winning their approval. Yes that's the beef of all relationships, the main course, the primary Olympic game of hide and seek. Those women… they seek promotion in the eyes of an else.

It would have been easier if I were created as sand to be used to create somebody's glass mirror.

Lying would have been easier then, I suppose.

The oven's broken and the gas is leaking. The 100 degrees are far from here.

The dictionary pages all show the letter B with words like bullshit, betrayal, bitch, bastards, blasphemy, bricks, bricks, and bricks piling up in every page. Comfort ain't listed.

Life is an analog clock hand you chase down a circle. It'll get to you.

I'd say be the bounced cheque, screw the ozone, lie and deceive, bullshit them all, be the egoistic manipulative monster that everybody should glorify, break the mirror, smile in triumph. B what you wanna B.

Such is life, my glorious king.

Fucking deal with it and stop whining.

Wednesday, December 06, 2006


It's like waiting for a miracle.

It's cold outside, so cold that oxygen is solid, grains of white sand floating in a vacuum of bullshit proportions.

He's encaged himself in a shell of his own creation waiting for the sun to melt it, to crack it open, to let his fluid being leak out into space forming a new meaningful becoming.

It's winter again; the end of an era and the birth of another.

He's not autistic but he just has nothing to add. He's speechless.

He's said enough.

He stings himself with a needle filled with oceans of anesthetic waves that'll help reduce the pain that he feels in his lungs. It's about time he feels dormant.

He wants to feel cold again.

He tells himself that once he transforms into an ice cube, nothing can shake him.

Ice can shatter however, but he's willing to take the risk.

Yeah well.

He'll just lay still inside until the flowers blossom again in his personal void.

It's like waiting for anything.

Inglorious ball of disco

Such is life indeed.

You reach a certain age when the only direction you can look at is behind. Behind is unambiguous. When you hit that age your future is no longer clear and every dream you ever had becomes just another 'Dad, when I grow up I wanna be an astronaut' line.

When we were younger I'd bet that we were much wiser. We had clear goals, didn't we? We had more things. Everything we ever wanted, we found at our feet. We painted a picture from Disney's Aladdin with our fathers taking turns to pose as the genie. Your wish is my command, they said. It must have been like one of those wooden boards that you find at parks with holes in which you can place your head and have your picture taken posing as a cowboy, an alien, or fucking Bambi.

Dad, I want a lollypop.

Dad, I want more money.

Dad, I don't want to join the army.

I look back at the things that I wanted to do or be and wonder what might have happened if…

If only strikes back again; the latest yet toughest comeback in history. It strikes when you're usually in need for comfort.

When you realize that everything that you own ain't really your cup of sunshine. It's a fact of life, aging. Year after another I learn that destiny ain't that lollypop and ain't that wooden genie board with the hole in it. I've learn that that lollypop that I've been sucking on ain't really a lollypop in the true sense; that the board with the hole in it, ain't really a board; that the money that I've been asking for can only be my retirement pension.

It's not what you do. It's who you blow.

And ain't that a fact?

Ambition ain't exactly what our daddies taught us. It's no longer the matter of looking at the bright side. You can't just ignore the dark side. It's right there, looking you in the eyes, waiting for you to look the other way. It strikes when you're at the peak on the graph of glorious endeavor… and the older we age, the darker it becomes. It ain't about how big your shotgun is or how indispensable you were when you were five. We grow up and demand more things, some of which we get. But then again, inevitably we reach the age when things start being taken away from us instead… and the fact of the matter is there ain't much that we can do about it at that point. We're weak then and helpless… and vulnerable. The keyword here is unorthodoxed.

Dad, I wanna travel the world…

…but you find yourself off the grid without even moving. The cannon blows you off and away into a dimension of proportions that you try but fail to understand. WTF just happened doesn't really begin to describe your melting state of mind. Your mind begins to question its own cover, its hard shell that just got shattered leaking out liquid into a frying pan. Your thoughts become an omelet that you can't even swallow. Near the end you wish for a disco ball to shine over every dark landscape that you sadly dwell on, even if the light it reflects is a palette of fake colors over a crystal clear void of insignificance.

Dad, I want to feel precious again.

That is the age where you settle for anything.

Dad, I want to breathe.

Beautiful wreckage

Negligence, despair, revenge for time killed in glorious vain, deafening drums or war, defiance, marathon, escapade, tall red brick wall, violence, inspiration, influence, morphine, morph period, static mind rupture, European border, mortar and more bricks, perseverance, infinity, betrayal, avenge me O holy one, backstabbing bitchin' bastard, penalty infliction, brain freezing banana slushy, cold blood leakage, broken fist, leaking hole, barbequed brain, pink cage for a bird named Tequila, humiliation and doubt, a jetlagged chase, red bricks, transparency, bluff, police station, rejection, white tablets, injections of something sweet and pointless, chick flick, humor, blackouts, giant disco ball, security, muted screams, explosion, the king of surf rock, cup holders, remuneration, blasphemy, prayer, closeness, loss, comparison, sacrifice, fall from mighty high grace, more bricks, tradition, cultural differences, homage, insulin, pain killers, big brass ball, gravity, eye doctor, red sand and another wall, focus, repulsive, one verse, stability, high expectations, blossoming tea leaves, decaf, frisked, miracle, wake up, discard.

Sunday, December 03, 2006

On price tags

I have cried.
Amongst the people who know me I keep giving the so wrong impression. A fellow blogger, one of the few sweet non-progressive ones, asked me if the reason I wanted to stop is because I was afraid of what I might say.

She's probably right. I'm too afraid.
I hate to seem desperate. I hate being fragile.
I lie to myself to be happy, to smile. I keep telling myself, I'm fine. I'll make it.
I keep telling myself that perhaps the more I lie, the further I'd get from the truth.
Outside the blogosphere, I'm the cold, unemotional guy who wouldn't get shaken by anything.
They don't know me. They don't know this.

When I was a teenager, like most of our generation, I have been suicidal. I even sat on a ledge once… but then I looked up and smiled.

There is still hope, I tell myself.
I lie to myself to be happy, to go on.
I ain't suicidal anymore. I've matured and grown.
I know what it takes to be a man.
I know what it takes to bury things.
I know what it takes to burn old pictures and smile.
But the more I smile, the faster I run back to where it lies. I find myself digging deep like I'm digging for gold.
Gold ain't what it is though.
I too dwell on the past.

I have been crushed several times.

I usually find myself recovering from it all and moving on.
Such is life, right?

I had dreams once.
When I was 12 I had a good voice. I wanted to be a singer/songwriter. My dad never got me the guitar I wanted. He got one for my sister though. She never played it.
I promised myself never to touch it.
So far I haven't.
I'm 25. It's been lying there for 12 years.
I wish I was that guitar.

I hold a successful job and my career is blossoming.
I work at a bank. I've been working there for over three years and I'm one step away from being promoted to a supervisor.
I hate my supervisor. I hope he gets hit by a meteor.
I hate my job. It lacks creativity and development.
It's basically killing me. I'm too good for it, but… well… Masr omm el donya.
I came tenth in college. It took me a year and a half to find a job, last among my colleagues.
I lacked WASTA.

I smoke.
I'm a heavy smoker.
I smoke almost two packs a day.
I'd quit if I had a reason to.
I smoke because I choose to be a smoker.
I smoke more than ever in private. A small idiot inside tells me that I do it intentionally for the reasons written in bold font on the cigarette pack.
I choose not to listen to that idiot.

The list is too long it hurts.

I lie to myself to be happy.

I'm fine.

Recently Judged

Links, links & links

Blog Directory & Search engine