I don’t know.

I’m feeling… numb.

I asked my parents out tonight; took them to see a movie. I haven’t done so in a while. My mother chose the film. She chose a horror movie. It was another cliché of every horror film they’ve produced for the past twenty years. A group of teenagers, a psycho killer. What the film makers do is they get you to like the characters the first half of the film. You dwell on the suspense that something horrifying is going to happen with the fast editing, the sudden moves, the closet doors shutting, and O the sound effects. The second half revolves around all the people you’ve fallen in love with falling… one… by… one.
The main character always lives… who’s usually the second hottest chick in the film. The hottest one dies first… usually during a make-up session or sex.

I was fine the first fifteen minutes of the film. Then I saw it coming. A couple… reminded me of what could have been. O how I wish I was built differently. I wish I never cared about many things… but I do. I stared in awe at that couple and thought to myself this could have been us.
But there’s no us anymore, is there?

There is no first time I ask her for a dance, no first bouquet, no first kiss, no P room… no more I’m smilings. I wanted to tell her to forget about all our differences, to forget about what they have been telling her… to remember the good times we had and to… take a chance, to jump…
But I didn’t… because right there, I realized that it’s pointless, because there was nothing there anymore. I have become a stranger again.
Nevertheless, I’m fine. I know how to move on. I have my ways.
I’ve made changes, obviously. I’ve even started a new blog page. For those of you who stuck with me in 2006 when I moved to this place, please forgive me. It’s time.
The bells are tolling again.

Right now, however, I’m too afraid of uncovering it. Will the day come for me to unleash that page like the unmasking of the elephant man buried behind the curtains? I’d say yes. I need courage.

I know the day will come when I say Behold… the freak show is on. Enjoy. Entertain yourselves with my words. Judge me. Hate me. Feel sorry for me. Love my pain. Laugh at my batteekh. Touch my chains and breathe my smoke.
For people to gasp in amazement as I unveil my wrinkling, hideous being as they Oooh and Aaaah all over my body;
As I silently beg them to look away.

Am I ready?
No.
I am not ready.
What do I do to stop feeling this way?
What do I do to stop feeling?

Nevertheless, I’m fine. I am fine because I have tasted the sweet and now… I can hate the sour even more. I am fine because I am strong in nature. Because right here… I can fall. I can get down on my knees and cry. I can fucking melt. Right here… where my words never once let me down, I can express fully how I feel.

Right here… I can let go.

I feel like moving out of home… every inch of this page I built with my bare hands. The red shade that covered my words, the links, the subscription link, the wall paint, the floor tiles I picked, the dark corner, the party hall, my purple rose. I’ll miss you. I had it all… but it no longer feels like home. I’m being kicked out. I don’t suit this place anymore. They don’t want me here… for I am no longer this.

Arrivederci, dear stangers. Stick around…

the frrrrreak show’s yet to begin.

It’s like driving a car in the middle of a storm, and even though you can’t see it, you know you’re gonna hit something. You know for sure that you should probably stop the car and hide from the pouring skies and the blinding light.

I’ve never been here before. I feel like I’m at the bottom of a high mountain. Two years ago, I wrote about a headache that struck me around September. It stayed with me for over six months. It begins with my left ear then it slides on to cover my neck, the back of my head, my nape. It’s back now to haunt me… Like I needed it. Not now please… do not raise my blood pressure. I need to be calm for whatever I’m about to endure. I need my physical strength.

I’m sliding downhill. On the professional level, I’m fucked… but that I can rectify; that I can change. On the personal level… I’m scared. I’ve never felt this weak before. I always assumed that I was unbreakable. I hardly ever get sick. I’ve never been in a serious relationship before. Come to think of it, I’ve never been in a relationship before. The truth is… I’ve always had a standard dream for the woman whom I want to spend the rest of my life with… but then…

Standard and Stranded… hmm!

You know when it hits you? You know when you realize that it ain’t exactly like shopping. Don’t we all wish that we could input whatever characteristics we want in a person into a simulating software that would produce that person instantly?

But then again, we’re all foolish. That doesn’t happen. As Homo Sapiens, we’ve grown apart so much. One can only hope for a person for whom you’d straight away realize that, I know I can compromise no matter what. Because at the end of the day, nobody’s perfect. I know I’m far away from being perfect even though my dark prince keeps telling me otherwise. Because eventually, it’s not just about love. It’s about life. It’s about wanting to merge with that person’s soul. It’s about wanting them to be happy, to be the cause of their happiness. You say that you’re a cause of my disappointment? Ask my readers, ask my friends. Have I ever been this happy? All my readers think that I’m suicidal. I believe some reader once offered to help me therapeutically. If anything… you, being you… Oh sweetheart, I’ve never been happier… and I’ve never ever appeared to the rest of the world to be all fruitcaky and mushy… but I don’t care.

Would they understand if I did this or if I said that? Would they tolerate it?
I know I have a lot to learn. I am brand new at this.

Why am I writing this? Why is this one of those blah nights? With the hardening headache, the fear, the anger at myself, the I can’t stand to look at myself, the fear… the crumbling sensation of fear, the longing for her… I can’t help but stare aimlessly at the screen and type my heart out.

I should have kissed her hand. I should have cherished those moments, all of them. I never realized the illusion of abundance of time until she left me at the airport. I pushed my luggage cart back outside the gates, wishing that she’d be there, but she wasn’t. I am new at this… all I know is how I feel. I know how to say it.

Baby, I told you… with you, I am learning how to express my feelings. I am a shy and frequent self-judger.
I also told you to bear with me… You said you would. Have you borne too much? Have you experienced too much of my flaws? Were my soul and my mind that ugly in person?

I feel shattered. The truth is, sweetheart, in the midst of us talking about disappointment, I was only disappointed of myself…

I hated to see that gentleman picture you had of me get crumbled down the walls of my fort.

And it saddens me that… khalas… Strike Three. I’m Out.

More than ever, I wish I had a time machine. I don’t have enough . I joined commerce, majored in accounting (the most boring of all)… should have joined Science. Kan zamany khlest. :P

I have learned more about myself being with you than I have in a lifetime. I never regretted anything in my life el 7amdulellah; maybe a thing or two in the past, but never wished to change them cos it’s only in the tragedies and disappointments that we get shaped into who we are right now.

I fear…

It scares me that now that I know that it could be over, that I don’t mind not having children for seven years, that I don’t mind karaoke, that I don’t mind many things… and I’m fine with all of that. Because, sweetheart… I miss your smile. Ya Allah… I so do. The thought of me not seeing it again is killing me.

I am also new with owning a lap top. Blogging in the living room, surrounded by family members… is risky… especially when your sight gets tainted with wet drops of fear…

Fear that I won’t be able to duet with you on a karaoke song; that I won’t sing to you on our wedding night, that I won’t ask you to dance with everybody watching. Fuck the flowers… the wedding full blown kiss was my surprise…

But then again we both hate surprises don’t we love?

I feel confident when I’m with you. I feel unbreakable.

I hate you seeing me this weak.

Let me be your reason like you are mine.

I feel the climax of fragility climbing under my skin now.

I feel the skies falling, pouring cats and dogs… raining on my mind… and I feel the lightening shaking my soul. This storm is scary… I know, sweetheart. I’ll protect you.

What if… what if you keep driving through the storm, then you realize that the sky’s clearing out, that the storm’s over… that you’ve reached your destination safe and sound?

What if all it takes is a little faith, a little strength… the willingness to strive for something stunning?

Ya 7abebty…

Ya Rab..

I once came across a quote by someone that went around the lines of there will always be reasons to wait; but at the end of the day, there are only two things in life, reasons and results… and reasons don’t count.
I do not fully agree with that saying, but waiting can sometimes hold a calm pain.

Sitting there, in front of Gate 15, waiting, reflecting… One week that went in a blink. Like I had my eyes shut and dreamt. I, the dreamer of them all, I enjoy the moment right before I fall asleep. My sleeps are often dreamless. I have a bad memory. I block out all the details and I don’t know why. I enjoy waking up on an off day, knowing that I still have so much to do.
I have plans of my own. I have dreams. I am working on fulfilling them, but the days lack baraka and so I’ve learned to prioritize. I learned how to give ranks to things that matter into a list of ten items or less. Anything else doesn’t matter.
But you know that by now, don’t you.
I do not add to my screenplays anymore ever since I met her. I am taking driving lessons, so that should count for something. I did travel when I had a reason to.
I need a reason… I long for a result.

So I’m sitting there, wondering, begging… if this is indeed a dream, could you not wake me up? Could I stay here, asleep, away from all the tension, from all the politics? Do you think I smother the joyful kid inside? Do you think I over analyze? Well, here’s the kicker. I only over analyze myself. I only judge myself. I’ve been like that ever since I was 14. I’ve judged myself too much that now I’ve set a very high throne for myself and now that I’m up there. I am lonely. I feel better than many. I am the lonely king of all. I do not judge people. I only judge myself. I judge my decisions. I keep throwing what ifs all around me until it suffocates me. I am my own critic. I hate myself… and that is why I try too hard.
I need a break.

Please don’t wake me up.
Let me have this week. Let me have it played back over and over like a broken record. Let me enjoy this sweetness. Allow me the honor of being in her presence, in her void. Allow me the life. Allow me the sentiency of acceptance, of becoming one with all, with life.
Why can’t my job wait for me? Why can’t my parents never age? Why can’t you allow me to cast a lock, one insignificant lock on everything, freeze everything around me so I can just be there?
Talk about a journey of self discovery. Talk about a long distance call that changed everything, that grabbed me out of my handmade 100% dry oblivion. Would I offend her if I labeled her a boat? Would I offend her if I stared at her for a few hundred years?
Oh well, I would probably freak out if I had someone stare at me… maybe even give them the finger, especially if they were a one year old baby.
Don’t ask.
I’m already there. I’m freaking out at how much you’ve pulled out of me. Who are you?

Should I miss my flight, pretend that I was late, pretend that I have a bomb on board?
Should I forget about seeing my old place, my old school, the street that raised me, my best friend, my lady and love?
Should I assume that it all didn’t happen, that I never met her?
That is was all one big dream?
Should I go on pretending?

Dear God, I am speechless… and I fear the things that I may say.
Dear God, I fear my thoughts. I fear my gravitating emptiness. I fear the winds of fury and the waves of rage that I feel are coming my way.
Dear God, protect me from all that is dark within me. Grant me the wisdom. Bring me the serenity.
Dear God, guide me, guide her.
Dear God, inject me with faith and patience. Imbibe me with courage and love for all no matter what.
Dear God, save me. I need faith.
I need faith.
I… need… faith.

Dear God… don’t let me let you down.

Now I’m on board. It’s already been forever. I can tell that it’s going to be a long day… a very long day; a long ride. I can’t sleep. I couldn’t sleep. I’m hungry. I got my zen, my laptop, my book, a 40 channel TV sticking out of some dude’s back on a four hour flight. I don’t want any of it.
I just want to feel like… tranquility.
I love that word.
They picked the aisle seat for me. I hate aisle seats. It always happens that I’m the first one there and hence I have to get up at least twice for people to get in to their seats. You don’t get to see the view out the window and all you’re left with is a personal screen that shows a downward view of the landscape down there so you’ll see the pilot if he chutes him out.
I can’t read. Music doesn’t feed me right now. My phone is off. I need to hear her voice. I need to smoke.
I need to burn something dear.

Long flight.
Shit!!
Can I just ask them to fly me back?
Oh well…

Some dude with a beard calls the flight attendant, asks her about what he thinks is a crack in his window. He tells her that if it breaks then we’re all going to die. He freaks everybody out. It’s -45 degrees out there it’s only frost, she says; but alas, he does not listen. Stereotypically, he’s the hijacker of the day. He’s the reason why everybody’s hissing and whispering and wondering if this is it. That’s when the turbulence hit the fan literally. That’s when the plane starts throwing us right and left.
That was the moment I felt closest. Was that the end of the pattern I’ve been following, the end of the million signs I’ve been gathering; like my very own stamp collection that in five hundred years are still gonna be worthless to the keen collectors. Me? Signs make me. I believe.

Airline food sucks. I ask the flight attendant for chocolate. I’m not a big fan, but I needed it.

Why am I writing this?
Why am I posting this?

I fail to grasp the fact that I’m back here.
This can’t be home.

No, darling. I will not share it. Not yet. Not ever.
The list is mine to bear, to adore, to hold, to keep, to cherish.
I adore you.

I miss this page, my untarnished companion; but I have drifted away from it. I no longer need to hide behind my careless string of letters. I wear them like my name and give them all to you. The many nights I walked the streets of Cairo, roaming around, floating amidst them ghosts… those cold, cold ghosts; only to come back home and rant in my head with my imaginary friends. The white rabbit, the dark prince, the nonexistent female… all of them beings of my own insane creation… I don’t need them anymore. Adios dear friends. I have found the reason why I’ve been writing for the past two years.
I have you to rant to, to bore with my silly stories, to calm me down, to straighten my head, to fill my joy bar, to strengthen my faith in God, to make me smile pointlessly, to jumpstart my heart.

Dear God… Thank you.

Patience and faith. I believe.

I love the way you lift my guilt off my shoulders. I love the way you make me know that it’s OK not to be perfect. I love the way you’ve tamed my impenetrable ego. I can not wait to ask you to dance with me in public. The way you move me effortlessly, like a puppet master whose puppet obeys stringlessly. Baby, I would create my own strings for you; hook ‘em up to my limbs and ask you to move me.
I love you that much.

Ouch… a bit freakish, huh.

Patience is hard when you’ve found what you’re looking for. I can not wait for us to share the same dream, to stare through the same windshield. I can not wait to share the same bed with you.

I love the way you tenkosheeny with your cruel jokes. :P
Darling my list is too strange; I don’t think you would understand. It’s written in a language that I can not comprehend. I love you for reasons beyond my understanding. You’ve touched the right spots in me. You know me. I know you. Like we were two branches sticking out of the same tree, entangled around one another in a past life.
I can read you better than I do my soul… ya roo7y.

Surprisingly, sometimes I miss my dark side. I always believed that my dark side has a lot of potential, that I would have excelled doing dark magic curses, in crime, in writing a new religion that would deceive the common masses into the delusion of the millennium.
There’s a crazy side to me that has always been waiting to be expressed to the world.

I love the way that you’ve managed to go beyond my bullshit, my words, my evil, my good… and read and love me for who I am, for who I want to be.

الحمدلله

They say that fear is only the emotional response to tangible and realistic nature. But then again, why do we fear the future? Why do we fear the unseen? Why do we need everything to be around us, in our scope of vision, to be careful? Tangibility is wrongly defined, wrongly expressed, I think.
The way we perceive time… We are in fact always late, aren’t we? And it’s only when we’ve missed out on things that we realize that we’re aging. Everything has a price to pay, even wisdom.
Perception, on the other hand… now that’s something else. The eyes see the things they want to see. You can’t control them. You can’t tame them; no matter how powerful your sight is and no matter how expensive your Armani glasses are. At the end, sight is the result of the reflection of light off objects that convert to brain waves; and like the waves of the sea that you adore, you’ve short fused my brain completely.

Like spite, waiting is timeless.
I keep needing to click a magic button or fall into a yoga trance that transfers me a couple of weeks ahead, a couple of months ahead… a year ahead exactly. I don’t wanna see how it’ll be. I just want to be there. I keep telling myself that there’s the sweet waiting, the missing… but it’s not doing it for me anymore. I-DON’T-WANT-IT.
I would rather throw my watch and calendar from the window and sleep for a year. Wake me up on our wedding day, my darling. Wake me up when I’m allowed to hold you and to want you.
I hate waiting up in the morning and checking an inbox for an email. I hate seeing you as a number and no being able to see your smile when I ring you up. I hate missing your face. I hate not being able to make that date happen. I hate being that far… I hate not being rich enough to fly over to you every day to take you out.

I hate how unshrinkable you are.

I hate how I can’t just promise your folks that I will take care of you w khalas. Done deal!
I hate how shy I am in public; how I can’t just jump on stage at a play, grab the mic, and tell the audience that I love you.
You know me… I’m shy at sea, a bad swimmer. Leave me in the middle of the open water and I would probably panic and drown. My mind refuses to float, to relax my muscles and let loose. I want it to be over.
How dare you all ask me to wait?
How fucking dare you?!

I don’t want to wait. I don’t wanna get to know you better. I don’t wanna go through all the formalities. If it was up to me, I would marry you today… This is the ME that you’ve created.
But it’s not up to me

I am indeed… impatient.
Why can’t I just shrink you? Why am I not allowed to be that selfish?

Why are you doing this to me?

1. Crying while reading Quran cleanses the soul. الحمدلله Reading Quran when I’m happy is spectacular.
2. I hardly ever dream, but one of my recurring ones always, always ends with me losing a canine tooth. I happen to be very conscious about my “fangs”.
3. I often wish that I could get me a shotgun and shoot everybody at work.
4. I love the mixed smell of perfume and cigarette smoke.
5. Every time I have a dream, I keep telling myself that it ain’t true, that reality can not be that pretty.
6. I was once caught stealing a Ninja Turtles Badge when I was 8. The store clerk let it slide. I also stole money from my dad and from my brother growing up. I could never tell them that I did so now that I’m a man. I am too proud to admit my teenage insanity. I’ve always been good at stealing… the chilly rush sparked the evil maniac who grew within… But I’ve always, always been a bad liar. My voice changes and my eyes black out. My giveaways stopped me from becoming a mass murderer probably.

7. I truly believe that if I focus on evil, I could be rich in no time… and probably conquer the world.
8. I have a weird bump on my head that I only discovered in January 2007 after I shaved my head off during 7ajj.
9. I fear the future.
10. I still consider Mortal Kombat fatalities to be the most genius innovations ever introduced to the video game world.
11. I was very shy as a kid. I still am I think; but I think that I’ve developed a sick sense of humor over the years that not a lot of people get just to get myself out of awkward situations.
12. I once mailed an audition tape to a record label in Canada back in 1998. They said that they liked my material and that I should drop in whenever. I never replied.
13. I played the role of Sebastian in a school play of The Twelfth Night when I was 13.
14. I never listen to others when it comes to fashion, colors, girls, and words. Let it free me or kill me, but at least I’ll be original.
15. I am a very proud human being, proudly!
16. Growing up, I never imagined that I would ever write for fun.
17. I once attended a Christian Opera at the Cairo Opera House. I did not enjoy it, but alas it was a fun experience.
18. I took up smoking for spite.
19. I have been on the ledge… never actually did it, obviously.
20. Contrary to what most of my very few readers, my beloved strangers, believe, I am not a suicidal person. I just love the fucking mood; the haunting, the stench of a bittering soul, the mesmerizing sensation of guilt and self involvement… they rock my fingers and shake me back to reality.
21. I tend to be misread and I do not make an effort to change people’s belief in me. I am learning however that one can not cruise through life alone.
22. I adore the taste of blood. If I was to be possessed with a supernatural curse, I would go for vampirism all the way.
23. I am very, very aware of rights and wrongs and I never create excuses. I do tend to bend their definitions every once in a while.
24. If life was a fantasy, I’d probably be an evil wizard who sits alone in his ivory tower creating potions and casting evil spells and curses over the common civilians to keep them at my command.
25. Most of the time, I hate my integrity.

March 22^nd… another day to remember. It was the day he surgically attached his soul to hers, the day he had his life wrapped and added it to her gift registry, the day he had his vows tattooed on his heart and had it kept away from the rest of the world to see… only for him to know the promises he’s made.

He loved how he could read her, feel her for the…… he could not find a word that deserves to describe her. She was too much of a lady to be described. All he could do is feel her and pray to God that he could keep her enchanting smile going forever.

Of all the people he’s ever met, he could feel her reading him the most, feeling him the most, knowing him the most. Nothing to hide anymore, he thought to himself; No need for effort to make a statement. Even his silence she could read. She made him feel stripped out of all the necessary fakeness of the world. She made him feel poured into her own glass to drink. She was the extension he’s always longed for; that extension that makes sense, that compliments his final shape, that completes his soul; like she’s dug into his dark cave, grabbed his soul, and held it with passionate warmth. She’s that extension that lengthens him, makes him taller than everybody else, taller than his own shadow… makes him feel real, unpuppeted, unmade, one with life… one with her, makes him feel strong and weak at the same time.

Helpless is how he felt as he was impatiently forced to wait for the two of them to meet again. Two hours and 1500 miles may separate their bodies, but their souls, he knew, were already there, holding hands, and walking down their own path.
The many things that he wanted to tell her, the vows he wanted to yell out gladly. He struggled to describe how much he wanted to hold her, protect her from the world, slide his fingers through her hair in the morning while she’s quiet and vulnerable as he tells her buon giorno principessa with mocha latte at the table, sharing their morning silence.

He wanted to be able to love her completely… but patience is a virtue that many don’t have. If only his can be broken. If only time zones were all the same. If only miles disappeared. If only the earth could shrink enough for countries to fade into each other, for his world to become her world… for them to share the same hour of the day, the same minute and second; for their maps to intersect…
For her fingers to fill the life lines on his palm.

Deep inside he knew… he shouldn’t have left her at the train station. He should have ran back to her. He should have got down on one knee and asked her to marry him right there… at the train station.
But he didn’t… the train arrived and… he was forced back into the real world, back to the world that asks him to wait a bit more.

Except that this wait is sweet and painful at the same time.

He knows he’ll bare it though… cos his soul is already there with hers...

There where there's no time zone difference... and no miles to keep them apart.

It was dark as I stepped out of the cab. The moon was full. I could see its face staring at me in “awe”. Everything shone under the white circle hanging in the middle of the sky, watching over us, reflecting the light that emerges out of yesterday and tomorrow, actualizing our ability to see.
I am so grateful.

الحمدلله

My building, my street, my home… they all seemed different; like a cold piece of rotting meat that I’ve been munching on for the past twenty something years… waiting for a miracle to happen, for the wait to be over.
I hate my old place… but then again it made me.

March 20, 2008; another date to remember.
I saw her. I felt her. I made an unsaid commitment that I so willingly bare.

I wanted to touch her hand, but I couldn’t. We didn’t even shake hands for greeting or for goodbye. It was a mixture of… I don’t need to and this can not be real.

It felt like being locked down inside a vortex of potential, of promises that I so wanted to make, things that I wanted to say but couldn’t. I just stared at her, all quiet, taking mental pictures for me to remember and cherish; to take home with me.

My wait is over.

I know that now. I believe that now.

Finally, my mind and my heart both speak the same language. They’re talking to me, cheering for me, applauding, rolling down my long awaited red carpet.

I felt closer to God. I felt his blessings.
Who said that the age of miracles has ended?

I believe.

And as the time flew, I hated the time continuum even more as I watched the seconds and wished to God for my watch to break, for my train to be missed, for us to disappear…
But I kept all my wishes silent and all I did was sit there and watch her smile endlessly.

If only I could take her with me.

I kept pushing until I met the floor of my room, the only friend that ever carried me with no strings attached. I kept pushing until I flattened enough to become a flat surface of land that completes the roundness of the earth. I kept pushing until I found the crumbs of a sandwich that I once ate.
Have I become my own crumbs, I wonder?

But then again… such is life, you gotta keep pushing, change, adapt; a five year plan, a 15 year plan, a life plan… until eventually, all plans get shoved into where they belong, into a history book that you’ve carved in your mind for no one else to read. ‘The things that could have been’, by your magnificently stunned, that’s what you named your book that was published in your own little fantasy world. Best seller, let me tell ya.

I tend to be a dreamer when I’m awake. It’s the things I see in my sleep that I fear the most, the visions, the awkwardly uninvited, the sweat and the burning eyelids begging me to wake up. Perhaps… it’s the other way around after all.
No one can deny that satisfaction is Earth’s most sought after, hardest ambition. Is it really? Don’t we all want the same things, money, prosperity, love, sex, connections, children, a quick death with no one to miss… a sweet beyond? Aren’t we all selfish, horny, greedy, annoying little fucks of nature?

Gratification with a smile!
If I was a clown, what jokes would I tell?

I stared real close at my hands today. I watched my finger prints change, stretch, adapt to my growing limbs. Call me crazy, but I love my prints. I wonder whose prints I would want to possess if I could switch them; a celebrity, a politician, a prophet, a lover, someone immortal, the devil’s… someone invisible perhaps?
If I had the power to go invisible, would I use it for good or for evil?
I can’t answer that one. I am not a hypocrite. The mind is a dangerous thing when powerful.
Hmm… immortality!
Reincarnation into something that you love.
If I was a fruit, what tree would hold me, carry me until I grow?
Would I be sweet? Would my tree, my home, be beautiful or would it be a weed that infects people’s backyards?

I need to break something expensive.

How much of a monster is there, inside, lurking, waiting for me to get to my knees and beg of him to eat his way out, to engage on my behalf, to fight my mental battles for me…
to decide my state of being?
Define me, O dark one.

If I was a sentence, what would I read?

Things change, I thought to myself as I noticed how the teabag brings about a lighter set of colors than the ones it made in the past. I wonder if it’s the changing corporate cost reducing ingredients or whether it’s the water that lost its natural diffusion into us all.
How deserving are we?

If I was a number, would I be a prime?
Would I be a fucking zero that if used as the base of a division equation with the whole world on top… all you get is a fucking error?

If I was a bitter and cold, how far would I reach? How cruel could I be?
Sometimes I feel like my body is a cocoon for a furious monster that demands to be born, introduced to the world as the last man standing, unflatten me back to my growing limbs.

If I was an ice cube, how fast would I melt?

It’s summering now, my least favorite season, when my high and noble figurine can liquefy with disgrace as I realize that through out my life… my dreams remain unfulfilled.
And I still… fear my sleeps. I fear my sweating skin.

If I was a figment of your imagination, would you dream of me?

I fear that that drooling monster hiding within would crush my heart between his fingers and add a smirk to the picture only to make me yearn for something meaningful behind the brush.
If I was a shade, what color would I be?

I am my very own, independent batteekh. Sometimes I fear losing that independence along the road. I fear losing myself.
I fear not finding my complete satisfaction after all.
I fear needing to throw in a downward curve on my face in order to go survive.

If I was a clown, I wonder, would my jokes make me laugh?

Sleep, by definition is the rest afforded by a suspension of voluntary bodily functions; the suspension of consciousness.
To cease being awake.

Lately, I’ve been mentally functioning a little over too much. Emotionally, psychologically, and physically, I’m fine. It’s the mental side of me that is… overloaded?
Stretched to test my potential.

I worry too much. I’m one of those people that worry too much about the future. I over analyze. I think of all possible solutions. I think of consequences. I plan ahead. I want to know what would happen if…
I plan… then I usually do whatever it is that my heart tells me is right. The world is too hard for the mind to bear without faith. Life is too short for bitterness to cover you.
I can not survive this lack of sleep. My eyes are bulged in with two dark shades underneath them that totally describe my empty, cold bed. My back aches. I can’t walk straight.
The wait is fucking killing me.

I so appreciate the blessing of sleep. الحمدلله Sleep is so underrated.
I miss my mental unavailability, where a piece of your mind splits off to some elsewhere, compass-lessly. Be it dreams or nightmares, at the end the body is resting.
I miss the wanting to spend all Friday night doing something that I love knowing that in a few hours I will do something else that I also love and that is sleep. I miss my pillow.

I miss being covered.

I don’t wanna think.
My mind keeps talking to me, asking me questions, sketching pictorials of my worst fears; schizophrenia at its prime.
But I don’t wanna listen.
I DON’T WANT TO LISTEN.

Sometimes… all I hear is chaos and clashing voices of my demons. I have unlearned their language.
I am lost in my persuasive insomnia and its persistence is dominating over my existence. Its grotesque nature eats at my flesh every single night.
My eyes hurt.
Sleep is also defined as being dormant.

It’s like living in two worlds…
Surviving two destinies. What’s real and what you aspire to.
My head hurts. The weights of two dimensions pulling me, using me as a fucking pivot for the rest of the world to feel balanced and feel fucking OK.

I wanna sleep. I wanna dream of her.
But I can’t. My mind is too fucking occupied like a bus filled with 40 passengers all wanting to go home.

Sleep is also defined as the state of mind where nothing really matters;
This part of my life is when so many things matter, when so many people matter, when the world is no longer your fucking oyster and you’re no longer the shiny pearl sitting in your gruesome bubble… your mind feels weak. You gotta get out of your cave and face them all… I… fucking… can’t.
I can’t even talk to her. My mind is filled with dots marking the blank spaces of things I so wanna tell her… but I can’t. My voice… sounds like someone else’s.

My mind can’t handle weak. I am failing at becoming myself.

I am tired of hoping. And the more sleep ignores me, the more I despise it, the more I don’t want it.

The more I fucking fear it…
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.

Most of all…I am tired of my inability at being myself around her.

It’ll get better around this weekend… I know it.

Don’t you dare wake me up!

Am Busy!!

Even though it was only a chat window, I refused to let go. I denied the existence of the button X and waited for more words to appear on a screen that, to me, resembled a crystal ball that induced magical things in to my world; a prism that makes light look a little different.

I couldn’t help but embrace the strings of whens and hows rushing through my brain. No answer to echo back to my unguarded self. Fear only happens when you love something, love yourself, or perhaps love someone. Fear… is basically the fear of losing yourself into the abyss of temporary divine injustice; the fear of not knowing, of the uncertain. I am too afraid. Nothing is controllable. Nothing is tangible. All I want is certainty; certainty that I can not see anywhere except in my own feelings.

I feared the return of the dark prince.
I fear him. I hate him.
Hate had a face to loath; to sketch on a dart board and shoot as I battle my own demons.

I feared… but then I aimed higher… and suddenly, I didn’t wanna shoot my darts anymore.
I became peaceful. This newly found peace that I have so longed for, that I gave a name. Peace also has a face now to cherish, to touch, to kiss… to watch as she sleeps and dreams.

I felt tranquility in my mind at last as my demons bowed to my graceful Queen. I thanked God for my fingers, for my voice, for her birth, for the gift of sound that made us connect.
Most of all, I thanked God for finally making me understand the question of ‘Why wait?’
I no longer needed the answer. She’s all the answers that I need.

I got up and looked through the same window that once resembled a ledge of salvation and prayed for the drought to be over. I felt the politics rushing in, politics that I never cared to mingle through. Society can be the enemy at some points no matter how much they think they know you. I can feel the urge to let go of my surviving ego. I know that khalaaas… it’s about time. It’s about time to try to gain their trust. Trust that I never cared to fight for. Love me or leave me. I don't fucking care. That has always been my motto… but it’s time to walk the distance now. It’s time to impress. It’s time to open up to the world and let the people know who I am, what I’m capable of, what I want out of life… to make them trust me.

It’s time to let the world know how much I love her.

I looked through the window again and whispered to the God watching over me, ‘What did I do that made me so deserving?’

الحمدلله

I love you, fair lady of my heart.
I always will.

You wake up feeling empty; like a toilet that’s just been flushed. You open your eyes to the new world; a world too low you can actually touch it. You wonder where your dream went; how your sleep betrayed you, lied to you, unconsciously; how it borrowed your heart for a while then returned it no strings attached... or so it thinks.
You wonder why the world you’ve known and adapted to seems different now. You wonder why the smoke has painted a new black to your walls, a black that you can’t survive alone.
You feel like shaking yourself up, but you’re already up.
This… is as up as it gets.

You wonder if your words mock you now; point at you and taunt you dry. How could faith and heart be so different?, you ask the enduring walls. If only you’d have listened to them from the start. If only you haven’t failed them, they’d have probably been patting you on the back, telling you that it’s gonna be alright.
But you’ve failed them.
You’ve failed everybody.
You look back hoping for a safe journey home, but you can’t see it anymore. You’ve already crossed the line. Home is where the heart lies. You know that now.
It’s hard to un-change. It’s impossible to unfeel. Not this time.
You still hear her voice telling you ‘I’m smiling’. You feel your shattered pieces on the floor cutting your feet. Torn into slices of what matters and what doesn’t, what’s real and what’s not, you bleed.

The walls keep closing in, suffocating you, but you don't care. At least they're holding you, your image, your unbreakable image that you've so managed to paint on the outside of your walls.
You wonder if the ghouls and demons and angels are ever going to leave your head and just let you be. You wonder if that smile on their faces is the smile of truth… or whether it’s a sneer of gloat. You hate them. You hate them badly it hurts.

You look up and pray for God to hold you, to freeze the world so you wouldn’t melt.
You pray to God that she’s doing fine.

You wonder if you’ve been dreaming all along, because no reality could ever be so cruel.

I think that I’ve already used that title before. Not sure. Don’t care.
I’m not a big fan of the French language, but the truth is, I do find it appealing at times… and of all the words in the language… I find comme ci, comme ça to be my favorite phrase.

Don’t ask me why. The word just expresses a haunting mood of mine in a very… sautéed manner.
It says so much about everything.

Yesterday… someone mailed me a present. Four packs of Lipton Caramel Vanilla tea attached to a lovely note, a funny little wink, and a captivating story to tell. I keep looking at the packs… and I’m all speechless.
How could I be such a ranter on my blog and yet… they manage to steal away my words, I wonder?
Thank you, love.

I have changed for a better me; that I know… short time… short notice. Am I ready for this? Am I prepared? Why did I use the word ‘fear’? Isn’t fear as a word supposed to be accompanied by the actual feeling of being afraid? Why am I confident about this even though we’re clashing?
Why does my mind feel at ease? How did I manage to finally ignite the flames?
This is all new to me. Do forgive my silliness.

I’m not a hypocrite, but I’m also not easy. I have my own little world developed in my head; my own little private party with ghouls and warlocks and angels and demons all floating around waiting for me to decide on what music to be played.
The truth is… I can’t decide. I’m a cross of them all.

I am not easy. Would you be willing to bear with me, with my doubts… with my assumptions…
With my tastes of music?

Would you be willing to dig into my dark mine?
The truth is… I don’t know what you’d find…
Would you open that door, to join me on my own ride? My head has got its own highway, its own music…
Its very own wind of change.

I can’t promise anything…

I am my very own comme ci, comme ça, tauntlessly.

Here’s another piece of the truth... I can’t speak French. I can only speak Arabic and English. I can say Je ne parle pas Français and Iuo non Capisco L’Italiano.
I am a fan of catchy phrases that sound enchanting to the ears though.

Care to join my private party?
Care to learn my own language… my language that I clearly don’t always understand myself?

He carefully listened to the ticking of time and prayed to God for life to freeze. He wished for life to be one of those pictures that brought him reason to wish more and more he was a digital camera so he could capture her in his heart. If only he could be the water rushing down her throat to feel the heart that so deserves… so deserves.

He willfully ignored his stubborn instincts and prayed for once that he would be right.
The question of ‘Could simplicity finally exist?’ ceased dwelling in his head as he said another prayer for that moment to stay. The bare need for something simple to happen has drained his soul dry.

Deep down, he knew that their connection wasn’t based on wires and a satellite signal. Deep down he knew there was a lot more to it, like two souls lingering in the dark searching for a hand that brings them hope and makes them feel found.
He held the burning stub between his fingers and watched the smoke vanish as there was nothing else left to burn. He knew it was time to let go, but he couldn’t.
He knew that by the time the smoke went down, that beauty would end as he’d shut his body away from the voice that changed his tone and played perfect tunes, tunes that he never knew existed. The truth is that he would set the world on fire if there was a slight chance that in doing so she’d stay, that in doing so the smoke would twist an eternal smile…
but he couldn’t.

He could only pray for the pictures to evanesce through his lens into a beam of light that makes it all real. He could only wait for a miracle to reverse her digital presence into his life and through his walls so he could see her… so he could tell her…

He wanted to tell her that nothing else matters… that he would gladly grab a sledgehammer and break down his high and mighty walls to let her in.
He wanted to touch her hand and tell her ‘I do exist, my love’.

‘Are you as real as my heart feels?’, he asked, fearing the answer that would forever change his life.

He held his sword up high to challenge the stars and kicked the gravel as he walked the earth. With a plan on his mind and a shadow to follow, he couldn’t help but stumble over the fear growing in his heart. Like weed, fear grew into his newly adopted garden that love has brought to his home. He wasn’t ready. He never was. He feared that at some point, it would shake his being and bring him to his knees. He had faith in many things… His sword brought peace at night to his empty heart.
Then like the tides of the blue seas, his stillness shattered as the big wave brought his heart unfamiliarity to his mighty sword.
Time shifting into a pseudo ice age of freeze, he prayed to the God he trusted to keep them both, that blessing and that curse. Labeling has never been so confusing.

Then the world stood still and the only thing that moved was his heart pumping red confusion into his cluttered brain. He couldn’t breathe as his lungs begged his nose to sniff some more and begged his mouth to stop preaching… and just survive. It was like the air was sucked out by something cruel. He couldn’t see anymore. The only light was that of the moon, reflecting over a sword on the floor casting many rays over the whites of his eyes.

He looked at his Fossil chronograph time machine only to realize that he was too early. With the hours hand missing, he could only count the minutes. He could only wait with his best friend, the curse of patience that was handed over by the gods upstairs; the gods who gave him the power to wait for a thousand years, but failed to give him one missing hand for his watch.

But as he grew he only became certain that he didn’t want to tell time anymore. He didn’t want to feel late. He knew that only like this, frozen, will he ever possess the wild and untamed nature of hope.

And so he waited for thousands of minutes staring at the face of his one armed watch, the face that he now knows better than his own…

waiting for something to change his life forever.

Brace yourselves, ladies and gents… following is a preview of a daily event in the life of a banker…

I am not a fan of routine, even if it comes with praise or money. I don’t see myself as a material person. I like… change… excitement. Sometimes I want excitement so bad that I would allow it to happen at my expense. Bad news is still news.
No… it’s not gossip.
It’s all about seeking the rush.
The rush that sneaks in through your spine right before you close a hard deal.
The rush that comes right after you’ve been audited clean.

One of the many banker secrets is the fact that at every branch of a bank, there has to be an employee who’s “talented”; and by talented… I am referring to forging signatures.
I don’t know if a person’s born with it or if it’s merely something acquired with the job. It only took me one year to adopt the “talent”. Most customers don’t even care if you do forge their signatures… just as long as you don’t say it out loud… just as long as you don’t ask them to drive all the way back to the bank to sign a piece of routine.

Today… I noticed that one could so tell a client’s character from their signature. Usually complex signatures state a clear warning as to NOT FUCK WITH that client. Cursive signatures I love; they usually belong to a female, usually down to earth. People who just write their names are simple, easy… they don’t ask too many questions.
People who just write their names but in English… are usually the easiest at being sold to.

I never forge my own applications though. My clients never leave the premises before I check that everything is in place. Perhaps that’s why I’ve become popular among my clients.
Too many happy clients can be a curse sometimes though. They keep coming back for more.

Nevertheless, today I realized that all signatures look alike.

At the end of the day, the client goes to sleep believing that he owns a piece of the bank, a piece of that banker he met today…

The banker goes to sleep knowing that the client’s money is inside his vault… that the client’s signature is at the palm of his hand.