Windmills of my Mind

Of Time and Other Things

2009-11-09T11:10:00.002+02:00

"The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?"

Emily Dickenson

It's been a couple of years now, and I can think of nothing to write about in his memory. The daunting pain of loss and suffering now dwells deep inside the dark caves of my forgetting. And the resentment I once held towards my self-created image of an apathetic God has died slowly over the past two years. It's time to make amends with myself and with him… To write about Life, and contradict the thoughts of Death that poisoned my mind for far too long. But before I do that, I need to stop for a while and ponder the passage of Time, to write about those fleeting seconds that leave us behind helpless as we age. Of the Past, the Present and the Future, of Love, Life and Death, this is what They had to say.

-- 0 --

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

-- 1 --

After a hundred years
Nobody knows the Place
Agony that enacted there
Motionless as Peace

-- 2 --

‘In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

‘O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you’ve missed.

-- 3 --

O where are you going? Stay with me here!
Were the vows you swore deceiving, deceiving?
No, I promised to love you, dear,
But I must be leaving.

-- 4 --

But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.

What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

-- 5 --

Can't repeat the past? He cried incredulously "Why, of course you can!
He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand.

-- 6 --

You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh.
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by.

-- 7 --

So tell me now and I won't ask again
Will you still love me tomorrow?

-- 8 --

Please love me now for now is all the time there may be

-- 9 --

After all... tomorrow is another day

I have nothing to write but quotes; poems, songs, films… I have nothing inside me but echoes from the past! The sea carries them to my ears, like cannon balls from a ghost ship, like thunder from a faraway storm, like You moaning in my dreams. The flickering starlight is suddenly disturbed by a rising half-moon, its weak orange light, a bit shaky behind the clouds, is barely enough to guide the foamy waves to my shore. What words does this sugary coated darkness bring me from spirits that perished within? What words will come out of that longing for the unknown? What Words will endure this painful desire and survive the long journey!

...

2009-08-12T18:16:00.001+03:00

“He was always late on principle, his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time”
Oscar Wilde - The Picture of Dorian Gray

I’ve always failed to understand the amount of effort some people exert in their futile attempts to bring some order into their chaotic lives. That amazingly stubborn determination to organize, to schedule, to plan… To me, defying the pure randomness of existence always seemed nothing but sheer madness. Still, after all that I’ve seen, I can now state with some confidence: Maybe God doesn’t really play dice with our lives the way he plays with the Universe, but I can hear a devilish laughter escaping him every now and then, as he flips high the coin we so foolishly call destiny, without even bothering to break its fall.

I’ve been suffering from a weird illness lately; for months I haven’t been able to write anything. My mind has created barriers to stop the emancipation of my thoughts, to cut off what I once thought an endless stream of words pouring out of my head. Usually they call this a “Writer’s Block”. But since I still lack the courage to define myself as a writer, or as any other profession for that matter, let me just call it by what it truly is “Sobriety”.

Sobriety… That horrible state of mind where the darkest of thoughts simply linger in your head. They settle in, slowly, and gain territory over your sanity. You can feel them creeping up the lines of your veins, lurking in the unknown abysses of your mind or leaning heavily against the walls of your skull, that rotten heap of weed that needs to be flushed, and there’s nothing better than wine to do it.

I’m writing again, horribly, like I used to do so long ago! Oh how long ago does it seem to me now… You’ve slipped away, like a dream, through my fingers. And now I have to write you again, from the very beginning, to own you again, completely, to feel you, Again, taking shape inside my head before I pick up my pen and turn that ugly sickness inside me into beauty, the same thing God tried to do with his bitter loneliness. But this time it will be different; I’ve run out of books to read, songs to hear and films to watch! I have to find you here, on this earth, in what they so ironically call a Real Life! I will travel everywhere to find your lost traces. I will search for you in every city that I visit; in the faces of strangers who pass me in the street with utter indifference, in the tired eyes of my travel companions after long sleepless nights inside train wagons as colorless as prison cells, in the laughter of that little child as her mother tickles her to take her mind off the strange surroundings and that buzzing sound that can drive anyone into madness. I’ll wait for you, on old bridges where young lovers exchange hurried kisses over ancient rivers passing through majestic cities, surrounded by ice capped gigantic mountains and endless forests with giant trees that extend as far as the horizon, hiding underneath their thick branches secrets of our childhood’s most precious fantasies about marvelous creatures and incredible fairy tales. I’ll pick up your scent, in roses and water lilies, in tulips and violets and edelweiss, in that French “parfum léger” a woman just throws over her bare shoulders like an exotic shawl that shatters my glass memory into pieces as I brush by her side on my out of that sad violin concerto. I’ll follow your shadow at night, through tiled narrow passages between gloomy houses and churches, where the sound of your tapping feet accompanied by the melodies of that old guitarist in a distant café calls the moon down for a short dance that will stretch on till the early hours of dawn, when the cold morning breeze sneaks in carrying the smell of bread fresh out of bakeries to remind you of the passage of time, that the night is being swept away to other distant corners of the universe and you should give the moon some time to rest.

I’ll write again, differently, without titles or quotes, without those long hours I used to spend to shape my words into phrases that aligned so perfectly to draw your image. Because Life comes at you all of a sudden, and all at once; a chaotic revolution that should never be slowed, should never be put in order, should never be analyzed, should never be understood. I’ll write real cities this time, with real walls and real streets and real houses, where real people make silly mundane love at night, and wake up lazily in the morning to go to their silly mundane jobs where they can waste their time pondering their silly mundane Lives. I’m back again! I’m writing again! And this is just the beginning…

Three Lines... Ok, maybe a little bit more!

2009-06-14T13:27:00.002+03:00

I feel a little bit like Zorba! I want to eat cherries, a whole bunch of them. I'll keep swallowing them, a hundred at a time, until my stomach explodes and I vomit out my Addiction. But after that, I have to eat some more; just to get rid of my Fear of Addiction...

Struggling once again with my thoughts, wandering the mists of the in-between... I'm so sick of compromises and half solutions... The fight must be settled and my role must be set; A God Poet or a Preying Wolf, it makes no difference whatsoever; what mystical shape my fictitious Life will take.

The hell with Freud and his damn insecurities...

Change

2009-01-31T14:56:00.003+02:00

It’s 4 a.m. and my eyes are still wide open. I’ve been falling asleep and waking up at very odd hours lately, odd enough that my sister started calling me a “Vampire”… Actually, come to think of it, perhaps it was something else in my weird behaviour of late that earned me that nickname. Anyway, I just finished watching “Good Morning Vietnam”, an amazing movie with a pure genius dramatic performance by a young “Robin Williams”. Still, I can’t truly say I enjoyed the past hour or so of my life more than the meaningless ones that already passed in a long eventless day.

A trailer for a movie or a new series passes on the T.V. screen in front of me, accompanied by a song: “Stuck in Reverse”! I love the perfect timing of Divine Irony; that’s just what I needed to hear at this hour. Oh God!!! Have I really become sensitive to the point where some stupid lyrics can disturb me so easily? Or is it just that I’m getting sick of his ill sense of humour? The same humour that changed the words of one of my favourite songs! I know it might sound a bit crazy but I heard it a thousand times before and I’m a 100 percent sure it was: “… And if I told you that I love you”, and then it changed. The same day I saw your words; love suddenly became something of the past.

Now I can say it with certainty: I’ve finally come full circle, and I’m right back where I started almost a year ago. I’m back to staring blankly at my friends in our little gatherings, totally indifferent to anything they have to say. I’m back to avoiding everyone, turning down invitations, not answering phone calls, and running away quickly when I hesitantly pay some social duty to a friend or a relative. Yes, I’m back to the point where the shortcomings of my fellow mortals are driving me insane, specially now as I find traces of the same maladies inside me. I can’t stand them any longer; lies, hypocrisy, shallow thoughts. I’m drowning in a swamp of ugly imperfections and my hands are paralyzed by a lingering depression from the past. More than a year has passed, a million moments with a million faces, images and people, spread over that narrow space of 12 months or so, and the only one I felt truly connected to was none other than my dead father. I’m back! Once again I’m phrasing your thoughts with my words, sacrificing meaning to make the images more colourful. That timeless trade-off between clarity and beauty, the one I’m doomed to make for the rest of my days.

Still, it was the eve of a historic inauguration. A few hours later, a man who ran an entire campaign on the simple idea of Change, was about to take the stage and ask millions of people who voted for that possibility to draw courage from their Past! To go back to the original creed of their so called founding fathers in order to meet the challenges of the Future. Change; a 2 hour discussion at a popular restaurant/café in downtown Amman, where modern people have modern talks in an environment that was built to falsely reassure them of their origins. Change; something I never believed in. Not even when I declared on my birthday that nothing can cheer me up except for the good people in Texas voting for it. Not even when I was acting smart and told you confidently that “It” was always good, right before you disappeared. I still don’t know what strange thought my phrase unearthed in your mind, what distant memory grabbed you like a hawk grabs a little bird and left you alone in a place unreachable to my pleading words. That optimistic possibility was something I couldn’t see in the painful look in your eyes, so I gazed away and gave the chance for silence to take dominion.

Yet Change and nothing else was on my mind as I left you behind and started walking, ascending slowly that yellowish pedestrian bridge that leads to the other side. Stretched before me was Tomorrow in the making, a grotesque image of modernization. Building cranes as far as the eye can see, crowned with their tiny red warning lights that scarred the beautiful night sky of Amman and added a sinister feel to its peaceful texture. Here, a distorted image of the Past meets a distorted image of the Future. Here, a local millionaire had to succumb, like us, to the basic laws of capitalism; losing an unfair battle to an international billionaire and bearing witness to the fulfillment of Marx’s prophecy about Capital’s ability to drive beyond all barriers. Here, globalized workers from all over the world, hard working and underpaid, joined efforts everyday to build the modern heart of our city; a soulless model of the western world. A western university, surrounded by western cafes and pubs where westernized students can meet after their westernized lectures come to an end. Western companies, where westernized employees spend their tasteless western 8-5, taking short westernized lunch breaks at western fast food restaurants, and leaving to spend their nights at western bars and night clubs where they can meet westernized strangers with hollow looks in their eyes as they fantasize about short westernized affairs before going back alone to their empty westernized apartments. Here the true victory of a sublimely empty Civilization will be final, as old cultures converge and give way to a new age, wiping out eternally-old values and traditions whose sole error was their failure in competing with Hollywood and MTV.

How fascinated I’ve become lately with this stupid city that I absolutely hate. Something has definitely changed during my aimless wandering in the old streets of Weibdeh and Jabal-Amman. I suddenly discovered real lives lurking inside those old houses with broken windows and cracked walls. And I was surprised to realize that certain parts of certain neighbourhoods could certainly pass as authentic. Foreigners and west-Ammanis don’t fall in this picture. Like me, they are mere trespassers who prey on the remnants of what someday could’ve became a true city. We are the ugly additions that cover a truly beautiful background. A middle aged man in his pajamas is walking with his 12 year old daughter to that small bakery whose windows have disappeared under years of dust. A young couple are walking home with their child; he decides to run ahead of them and a soft voice from behind chases after him and gently commands him to stop. A tired veteran selling lottery tickets is sitting on a half broken chair feeding a lonely cat. An old friend stops to chat for a few minutes before he continues on his way home, carrying bags from that tiny grocery store where every apple and every orange taste the way real apples and real oranges should taste. And then I pass along, with an IPod plugged to my ears, just another clone who enjoys the scenery, and loves to imagine the real lives behind those faces that pass him in the street, the same people he despised and had nothing in common with except the stupid chance that put them face to face on a cold winter night.

But I had to leave the city that morning. Every damn corner was haunted with your memories; your shadow was resting under every tree and your smile was mocking me behind every window. I had to stop myself several times a day from running behind perfect strangers who were wearing your scarf, or your coat or your hairstyle. But worst of all, your scent kept following me around wherever I went, intoxicating, reminding me how rotten everything else in this city was becoming. So I rode the bus that morning to run away from you, but, ironically as always, it followed the same path you once offered me as a gift, the most amazing of all gifts. Gazing through the windows, I could see misery manifesting itself along the road. Those large pine trees seemed pale and exhausted as they stood guard at the borders of the desert. Their figures slightly bent, imitating those of their neighbouring humans, almost apologetic for their sad existence. Not fully built houses, that were never meant to be completed, were scattered sparsely on both sides, like tiny spots of rash on the hills. At first there were hardly any people in that vicinity, and living there seemed to provide the perfect Isolation every one of us seeks at some point or another in his life; a place where your shouts are unheard and your spasms of madness pass unnoticed. But later on, people and houses and markets appeared out of nowhere, they suddenly emerged from the ground and barely had time to shake off the dirt that still covered them from head to toe. Entrenched they were in their misery, so certain it will endure every passing flood or hurricane, the same way it survived every single governmental plan and UN project. Only the Roman Olive trees were different, they stood there proudly with their thick stems, mutated from years and years of suffering, older than Time itself. They gazed back at you, daring and challenging, telling you that you don’t belong in here, telling you to go back to the realm of imagination whose gates you just crossed, warning you that you’ve entered another world, and that you might get really hurt in this land of reality. But It was a wonderful day after all; I planted new olive trees with my own bare hands that were going numb after endless hours of meaningless typing on the keyboard, and they bled with joy in the process. Then I sat down to rest under a great oak tree that was relentlessly shedding off its own sons and daughters, generously covering its surroundings with its shade and its acorns. A beautiful voice descended from a mosque in a nearby mountain, calling people to the noon prayer: “Allaho Akbar”, a reassuring message that everything is possible. Here, faith is a very simple matter, when the seeds are planted there’s nothing left to do but to pray to the unseen powers of the universe. God will always exist outside the fake world of finance, HR and marketing, outside our casual discussions, our casual drinks and our casual beliefs, and his presence is not just a comforting luxury or a social decoration, it’s a true necessity.

A Final Chapter.

For days I’ve been struggling with these thoughts, unable to finish them. There was something missing as usual, something essential; that invisible link between Today and Tomorrow, a path to follow and a destination to reach: The cure for my eternal apathy. I slept that night, a very long and troubled sleep, with your voice ringing in my ears: “You need to move on”, and me still wondering: “Where to, Love?” and “What for?” Then the answer formulated itself in a dream: I saw myself at my old school, rebuilt into a huge house that I was living in. At first I was at a stupid business meeting in the living room, with some colleagues from work, then someone happened to mention the death of my father and I started crying uncontrollably. They tried to calm me down but I decided to run away, the same thing I did 19 years ago on my second day of school when I ran away and walked the entire distance home, except this time I was already there, so I just hid in the toilets outside. But my plan failed, the toilets had doors on all sides, and I couldn’t close any of them. A short while later, my brother and a close friend found me there and took me back in. I slept again that night, inside my old school, and woke up to the sound of dripping water. I started walking around the unfamiliar rooms in the house, discovering leaking water faucets hanging everywhere, out of every wall and ceiling, with their water drops perfectly synchronized. Then I heard sounds coming from the kitchen, an unmistakable metallic jingle of tableware. I found my way in the darkness, and I tried to open the kitchen door but someone was standing behind it, blocking my path and causing all the noise,

“Who’s there?” I asked,
“It’s your father” the voice behind the door replied. “What are you doing up at this hour, Go back to sleep!” he ordered.
“But father, you’re a ghost, you can’t be here!” I answered confidently.

At that point, the voice behind the door disappeared. I opened the door and walked into the kitchen, no one was inside. Through the window I could see the lawn outside, my old school’s playground, then the earth opened up and started swallowing the grass and everything else it could swallow before I woke up.

Rising up right before dawn, I went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Outside, the wind was blowing through a pair of black pants that my neighbour left out to dry, and dark gray clouds were racing towards an unknown destination in the sky. A few minutes later, light started to sneak in slowly from the east, and the black pants surprisingly became a purple towel, clarity was adding colours this time! Then suddenly dawn erupted as pink tides that covered the entire morning sky to signal the beginning of a new day. There were many broken things around the house that had to be repaired, there was a whole new life ahead of me to be built and there was a world on the verge of sinking that needed to be saved. Maybe Change is possible after all.

Bella

2008-12-04T08:35:00.002+02:00

It’s that distant memory of heaven, still alive in your head. Shadows dancing to the angels’ harps, and tiny little birds flying down from their colorful nests to drink crystal pure water out of God’s own hands. It’s the childish image of perfection you thought you’ve outgrown, the peaceful hours of sleep you once thought were lost. It’s knowing that happiness is yours, not to be stolen or tampered with. And being watched over, not scrutinized, by divine eyes whose sole purpose is to guard your peace.

It’s the first time you ever tasted chocolate. That immense sensation of sinful pleasure rushes through your veins and clears your mind of all its stupid thoughts. It’s Adam, after the first bite, still unaware of the future that awaited him. It’s being and nothingness, all at once, and wishing you could stay there forever.

It’s the perfect flow of seasons, the one described in fairy tales. The youthful freshness of dawn in Spring, followed by the blossoming brightness of Summer days. The sound of violins during the long hours of Autumn’s twilight, and the cozy Winter nights of fire, wine and purifying snow.

It’s that dream that transcends the ages. It’s you, a 10 year old running barefoot in the garden, climbing trees and searching for hidden treasures underneath them. It’s you again, 10 years later, with your feet trembling as you take her hand in yours and step on the dance floor. It’s you, another 10 years in time, watching that beautiful child as she opens her eyes and smiles once she sees you beside her bed.

It’s your destiny, that beautiful woman in a revealing black dress. Your constant wish of flying. Countries grow smaller, and borders are no longer visible. She’s in your arms and the earth is so far behind with all its ugliness. And soon enough you’ll be one with the stars.

God, I still feel that my words are so limited…

Cities -- 2

2008-09-12T04:44:00.010+03:00

“Because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.”

– One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez –

Other times it’s simply different…

…So it all ends, and you’re packing your stuff to leave. It’s raining heavily outside as the invisible hands of God squeeze the remaining drops out of the tired old clouds. You’re standing in the middle of the room in utter idleness, with music pouring in from the old cassette player near your bed, accompanied by Fairouz’ ironic song:

“They loved each other…They left each other”

That angelic voice fills the room with sadness and floods through the windows to follow its destiny. It quickly breaks its ties with your mundane existence and ascends to meet angelic ears up in heaven, increasing the rain’s intensity, and adding that crystalline texture to its heavy, lonesome drops.

---

But it was, after all, an End without a beginning. An entire story focused within a point, defying your attempts at rationalizing it. A single point hanging outside the course of your lifeline; like a candle stranded in the darkness of the desert. And we were running blindly towards it, being hurriedly rushed into it by a desire to get rid of what we couldn’t explain. An end that offered no paths to follow, no promised futures, only that simple overwhelming Inevitability; “Es muss Sein!” That’s just the way it had to be.

---

You close your bag and take one final look at your room before you leave, seeing for the first time that thin film of dust that covered everything in it; from ceiling to floor. And you start wondering how these tiny particles managed to accumulate over time without you ever noticing. You lift up your bag and realize it weighs much more than you remember, despite the fact that you had exactly the same stuff you were carrying when you first stepped into that room. But you knew that would happen. The perfect transformation of the light dreams you brought along into the heavy memories you packed as you were leaving. As a writer you knew that too well, you’ve seen it too many times; the burden added by your dark words on the white innocence of blank pages. You switch off the tiny table lamp beside your bed, putting an end to the unsteady and blurred flow of light through the enclosing layers of dirt. You wipe your fingers on the dark green raincoat you’re wearing; hoping the rain outside would wash off the tiny stain you just created. You step outside with your luggage, closing the door quickly behind you, as if you were afraid that the darkness locked inside could creep out to follow you, and then, you turn your head and simply walk away.

---

And it was those memories that first grabbed my attention, that “Sack of Bones” you dragged along; a mixture of guilt and nostalgia that contradicted with the alluring life force you radiated to draw in everyone else. Intrigued by the mystery, I wanted to relive your memories, to replicate every second and capture each moment, unaware that it was almost impossible for me to understand. But I had to try; I needed to make it happen. And as I compromised my shield of protective apathy, I discovered that my confused curiosity was slowly turning into something new and genuine, a feeling I never experienced before, and frankly: I was afraid.

---

You’re walking these streets one last time, on your way to the train station. Shocked by the way this city has come to resemble you over the past year, or perhaps it was the other way around. The continuous flow of rain magnifies the silence in the deserted streets, setting your thoughts free to roam beyond all boundaries. A fragment of an old song crosses your mind and you concentrate hard in order to remember the lyrics, but your memory is already shattered all over the place; and you have to settle for a few scattered words and a broken melody; “As sad as your days”. You close your eyes for a second and you’re overcome by the unmistakable smell of Jasmine, that fragile Eastern scent carries you away to a different time and a different place, and you have no choice but to give in to reminiscing.

---

It was Death I saw that day. That pure and paralyzing fear in your eyes showed me how stupid my fake detachment was. Life was real; I could see it behind your stupored gaze and hear it beyond your terror stricken voice. And for the first time, I felt real anger and hatred towards everything I couldn’t control; towards everything that kept you awake at night pondering choices you made, and wishing you were somewhere else. The merciless and vengeful eastern Gods became my true enemy, and I felt that I was another stupid knight tilting at windmills. But something in your trembling voice reassured me of victory, the hidden frailty of a defiant hope known only to a few, those lucky enough to have walked the abandoned streets of the East during cold winter nights, where the memory of Jasmine still fills the air with unspoken promises of a beautiful rebirth.

---

You stumbled upon it during one of your journeys; your visit there was unplanned and almost certainly unwanted. You still remember walking through its streets for the very first time, recognizing every corner with the drunken familiarity of a sleep walker. You were certain that you’ve never been there before, yet you knew by heart every step along your path. The colossal palaces were spreading their arms to welcome you, and the huge statues stared at you with friendly eyes. It took you some time to realize that you’ve seen it a million times before. It was that recurring dream you’ve had since birth, the one that always failed to leave a trace on your conscious memory. And as your initial bewilderment faded away, you knew that you've arrived at your city, you were finally home.

---

Lying in bed, so far away from you… Unable to sleep. I was suffering from the same Insomnia that kept Adam awake during his first lonely days in heaven, before God realized that his idea of perfection was simply flawed. The horrible aching in my muscles was just my body longing for yours, that prehistoric nocturnal yearning to hold you in my arms and feel your warmth beside me. I couldn’t close my eyes, because your image was alive and painful inside my head. My mind held nothing but visions of you: laughing, crying, dancing, sleeping… As if nothing else ever existed. You've occupied every single spot in my recollection, and I started to seriously question the details of my past Life, wondering over and over again; if I was alive before we met; how come you're haunting all my memories?. But the answer was simple: I must've been dead.

---

A couple of days after you settled in, you began to realize there were no adults to be found in this city; its inhabitants were all children. They were everywhere at their games, stopping only to watch as you passed by, still suspicious of your sudden arrival. It took them days to get used to your presence, and even longer for their curiosity to replace their fear as they got close enough to start a conversation. At first you were a bit surprised; the language they spoke was like nothing you’ve ever heard before. It was a beautiful mixture of lyrical notes that flowed visible out of their tiny little mouths, vanishing into thin air before you were able to capture them. Obviously, you couldn’t understand a word; but gradually and with unexpected patience the children taught you how to speak, how to draw colorful images with every syllable you uttered. And Satisfied with your progress, they decided to teach you some of their games, which you learned passionately but with limited success. Of course that didn't really matter, cause after a while you managed to convince yourself that you succeeded in becoming one of them.

---

Challenged by my silence and my ignorance, you decided to teach me everything. You wanted me to run and dance, to shout and sing all at the same time. And you were so insistent in your attempts that you finally broke my passive inclination for laziness. I became young again, regaining for a short period the amazing feeling of juvenile freshness that I lost among hours of useless thinking. You knocked down my Atlas’ burden of stupid worries about irrelevant wars in far off places. And with time, I had to give up the melancholic mask of a fake deity I was wearing; so I stopped blaming myself for the misery of the world, and finally: I was Free.

---

Something changed… You were sick for a while, and you decided to lock yourself up in your room for a few days so as not to infect them. But the children failed to understand that. Growing up, absorbed in the endless hours of their youthful games; they must’ve missed the ridiculous notion of illness. And when you came out, slightly changed by the gloomy air inside your dark room, they treated you as a complete stranger. They refused to talk to you and they wouldn’t let you in their games. Wherever you walked you could feel their accusing stares follow you around, penetrating your skull from every side, and shattering your brain like a storm of silent bullets.

By that time, dark clouds were gathering in the horizon. The children knew what that meant, they’ve seen it happen once before; another hurricane would strike their little town. They remembered with fresh agony their friends who drowned in the streams that flooded their city after days of continuous rain. But this time they were prepared, overnight, while you were asleep, they gathered their stuff and ran to the hills, abandoning their city.

You woke up to a shockingly perfect silence. The playful childish sounds you were used to no longer filled the streets. At first you panicked, you thought you were going deaf, but one look outside your window made you realize that the city was actually empty. You rushed outside to look for them, wishing they were just playing another one of their silly games, but you couldn’t find them anywhere. Frustrated and tired after long hours of futile search, you finally managed to find a trace of their footsteps near the eastern gates, and you knew by then that the worst had happened.

Oh, how long have you gazed upon that eastern road! Those unexplainable white snow flakes sprinkled across the hot brown tiles that paved the way to the haunted mansion uphill. For months you wondered about the secrets hidden behind its huge black walls, but every time you tried to ascend that path, you were dissuaded by a heavy sadness that slowed your steps and released dark thoughts inside your mind. Terrified by the hurricane, the children fled their city and took refuge in that mansion, unaware that they would soon grow old and weary of the darkness it held, and that nothing awaited them inside but a sure and imminent Death. And as you stood there watching, you saw the last one of them entering the mansion. Within seconds black veils covered the huge windows to block any glimpse of the abandoned city, and huge black gates were closed on their sweet childish laughter that was still ringing in the city streets, and that won’t be heard again for a long time to come.

---

How fragile this stupid thing called love can be! Its strength cannot stand in the face of Time and Distance, it’s too weak to handle the forgotten shadows of the past and surely it is no match for disillusionment. And I had to put you through all of them, rejecting happiness by consciously torturing myself and wanting to wake you up. It was my own misdeed, but we both suffered the consequences of my stupidity. Sadly, it took me a long time to realize that nothing really mattered, that it was all pointless except for the few seconds I spent with you and that nothing else in the world could ever make me feel alive again. But it was too late…

---

You’ve arrived at the train station. Here your journey finally ends; you’re leaving without return. You’re setting alone on that broken wooden bench waiting for your train to arrive when it suddenly hits you, no train has ever stopped in that station. You start thinking fast; something was missing in the illogical sequence of events that led you here, and finally you realize it: You were not going anywhere. And looking back at the city you lived in for so long, you see it clearly for the first time, it was the one leaving you… An entire city with its houses, its buildings and its streets was silently moving away, leaving you behind with that frozen look of amazement on your face, unable to breathe.

---

And there I was once again, setting there all alone, staring blankly as you left. For a moment I couldn’t believe what just happened, but it was the only logical end; for I’ve lived through my hundred years of solitude, and it was stupid to think that I earned another opportunity on this earth.

Numbness

2008-08-08T17:05:00.002+03:00

If you wake up at a different time, in a different place, could you wake up as a different person?

– Fight Club 1999 –

The alarm from my cell phone goes off, resonating in my chaotic little room in that small youth hostel in La Recoleta and ending yet another night of weird dreams. I’ve been having vivid dreams of my father lately, so real and intense that I woke up each time looking for him and it took me a few minutes to realize that my Life has taken me far beyond his existence, both in space and in time.

Thursday morning, 7 am in BA, that means it’s already 1 pm back home. Time for a lunch break, and three more hours to waste at work before another lazy unplanned weekend. A weekend that could still dazzle you with the small variations introduced by chance on that endlessly repetitive theme of places and faces that add up to draw the outline for what you reluctantly call a Life.

Here in Argentina it meant I had two more hours before class. 6 hours of Latin American history and political science theories before my roommates and I start planning our weekend trip to the Cataratas Del Iguazú (That miraculous natural wonder on the borders with Brazil and Paraguay). A 27 year old Swiss-Italian (Studying music at Columbia), a 21 year old from Michigan (I still have no idea what she was studying) and I, were planning to rent a car and drive all the way from gloomy Buenos Aires to the sunny Northern tip.

But, there was something wrong, something missing as usual. That feeling of absolute numbness didn’t leave me for a second. A once in a lifetime trip to an exotic place thousands of miles away was to me as interesting as an eventless boring day at work. There was “Not an ounce of excitement” in me as I agreed to the plan, and acted thrilled about the car we rented, the wine we packed along, and the incredibly cheap hostel room we reserved.

Again, I was lying to myself with that myth of perfection I created to explain millions of dissatisfying moments and experiences. Acting as if I expected more out of this Life, when in fact I asked it for nothing. I’ve heard them all, every single label that comes to your mind: Unsocial, definitely; I held nothing but contempt for those tiny little clones that infested my world with their stupidity. An Alien, sure, why not; it only meant I was more advanced than the rest. Weird, hell, yes; I was simply unique. Detached, totally; it gave me a much better understanding of my surroundings. Emotionless, maybe; still, that contradicted with the uncertainty and the confusion I felt so often. Indifferent, sometimes; other times I was surprised by how much I truly cared. Judgmental, Racist, Sexist, Condescending, Immoral, Disrespectful, Arrogant; you can call me whatever you like, just fuck off and let me be, or not, I don’t really care.

A different person? Not really, it’s always the same old me…

Another Toast

2008-06-27T16:27:00.002+03:00

George: May the wind always be at your back and the sun upon your face.
Fred Jung: And may the wings of destiny carry you aloft to dance with the stars.
Fred Jung: Cheers, Georgie.
George: Cheers, pop.

– Blow (2001) –

And then you wake up, and your mind starts wondering once again…Wasted, Wasted, Wasted, like the rotten breaths you try so desperately to hide in the morning. You look at yourself in the mirror, and you see the devil staring back at you. That mocking gaze penetrates your skull and ignites the nightmares of your troubled sleep. You take a cold shower, trying hard to wash away her memory, to clean off her smell that your skin is soaked with, to hush down her voice that you can hear so clearly under water, to silence her laughter that still rings like church bells in your head, to erase the image of her face that comes to life every time you close your eyes. But you fail miserably, as you always do, as you always will. And when you step out of the shower, you pick up the phone, call her up and ask her how she’s doing.

Let us go then, let us drive away and try to hide from this cruel sun. What do Irish sailors know about reaching the stars anyway! They were never tortured by the flaming sun of the desert. Strong and relentless, its ugly rays pour down from every corner of the sky, like the burning truths we were trying so desperately to ignore. And even if we stopped, even if we slowed down, even if we decided to halt for a while and give our silly useless brains time to evaluate the matter, the sun would never give us a break. Within seconds everything would burst into flames, and nothing would remain but the tasteless ashes of our dreams and realities, feeding the senseless anger that leads us to self-destruction.

So let´s have another toast, right before I leave... To Amman, a city so ridiculously limited, in a way that challenges Imagination. A city whose walls close down on you every second, strangling your dreams, and forcing you to fight for every bubble of Freedom you have managed to create. A city where the eyes of strangers haunt your mind and keeps it restless, as you turn around to scan the faces in empty restaurants and less fashionable bars, paralyzed by unexplainable Fear from those recognizable shadows that only exist in your head. To Amman, to the amazingly beautiful moments we´ve managed to steal, and to the Moon shining down peacefully after long hours of the horrible sun, telling us that all our desires are attainable, even if we need to work just a little bit harder in order to reach the stars.

Let's have a Toast

2008-06-13T11:14:00.002+03:00

Yeah, sure, why not! I’ll drink to this, to that, and to a couple of other things. To you, to her, to us, to mistakes we’ll do all over again. To all the steps back, to realities we failed to change and we’re no longer certain we want to change. To foolishness, to idiocy, to stupidity, to all the things we still have in common with mankind. To lightness, that undesired feeling that weighs us down. To Freedom, to happiness, to Love, to every illusion we’ll never cease pursuing. To forgetting, to a past we imagined we could simply erase but never really could. To loneliness, to boredom, to ghosts that haunt us every hour of the day… But above all, let’s drink to God, to Death and to Beauty, to hopes and beliefs lost and regained within a second…

And after all the alcohol settles in, I’ll leave you there, staring as I tremble back to my car, fighting the strong temptation to get it all out, to throw up my whole existence right there before you on the sidewalk, to cry out all the frustrations that bind me to this ugly reality, and to yield to that overwhelming desire to hold you in my arms and keep you there forever.

Oh, the horrible things we do to ourselves just to silence our inner demons. We drink, and drink, and drink… until our feet fail us, and our words become less and less meaningful. The whole world is tuned down, but the ugly thoughts keep getting louder and louder, eating at our own sanity. We realize that we can never really drown them, yet we keep on trying all the same. We experience with our feelings, we walk willingly into abysses that hold nothing but pain, imagining it would kill some of the ghosts we hold inside. Still they emerge victorious, stronger than ever, and it’s just our souls that are weakened by the experience. We exceed our limits, overloading our bodies and exhausting them with physical labour they can’t possibly handle. Yet, as we lay down in our beds to rest, we see shadows dancing in front of our eyes, mocking our stupidity and the futility of our efforts. We try to escape, we run away into pills, and happy hours, and concerts. Into sleepless nights, and days of hunger. We read, and write and watch movies, we discuss stupid ideas and faiths and fantasies that remain totally irrelevant. We Socialize, we surround ourselves with a cloud of people of all sorts, trying everything to stall the inevitable moments when we’re left alone to battle with our own fears and doubts, without any chance to win, without any will to surrender.

Then, I’ll get inside my car, turn on the engine and switch on my half broken radio. I’ll search for whatever song that’s playing, and turn up the volume to the max, until the entire world is submerged under Music. I’ll drive aimlessly, singing along at the top of my lungs, until they burst, and I no longer feel a thing except for the sensation of blood rushing up my throat. I’ll drive faster and faster, leaving everything behind, trying in vain to run away from you, only to hit my rock-hard reality and feel alive once again just for a second before Death approaches from a distance to liberate me from my misery...

60 Years

2008-05-17T10:07:00.001+03:00

Last summer a friend of mine was conducting a survey on Palestinian Right of Return or Desire to Return as some might see fit to call it. The questions in the survey were extremely simple and to the point; eventually it all boiled down to a very familiar one: Would you, as a Palestinian, return if you had the right to?
Personally, I felt offended and I couldn’t explain why, until another friend told me she had a similar feeling. It felt as if my privacy was being invaded; that I was a guinea pig trapped in a lab with scientists watching my every move trying to analyze the LOGIC behind my actions. Worse even still, I felt that I was treated as a mere statistic.
Sadly, I couldn’t find the words to explain to my friend how it felt. For us, the question of Palestine remains extremely Personal, deeply connected to our most basic feelings and desires. It’s “the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock”, where dreams meet reality and logical choices are no longer possible.

----

“But there is also a third, a mysterious and disturbing category of women. These are women we liked and were liked by, but women we quickly saw we would never have, because in relation to them we were on the other side of the border.”

– Milan Kundera, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting –

----

So, “What if this is as good as it gets?” This is the best this damned Life can offer you, and you’re still too reluctant to take it. There’s nowhere to go from here but down and you’re just too blind to see that. Your dreams are standing in the way of your reality, stopping you from pursuing paths that can lead you to Happiness. You’re throwing everything you have away over a chance that never existed, like placing all your chips on 37 and waiting for a miracle to happen. But wait… Isn’t that what Life is all about in the first place? About wasting everything you’ve got and waiting for the unknown, about hoping for something better to come, regardless of what you already have… Well, I guess I’m still too much of a coward to know.

It was the first time I met you, dragging your dreams into this world. And right there, where dreams met reality a sea of confusion emerged dragging you to its bottom. You tried so hard to raise your head above the water but your heavy load was pulling you down. My face appeared on the surface, a reflection of yours, and each of us extended a hand to pull the reflection into him. That’s how it really happened, on the border. We were crossing in from different sides, my eyes caught yours for a second and the flow of dreams and reality stopped, giving me time to hold you, time to start that little dance. Right there, on the border, where people crossed without looking back, we mocked the seriousness of Life and Death, and danced into eternity.

And you doubted that I really loved you. But I did, in the most peculiar way possible. Like an author loves his unwritten characters, before he offers them as a sacrifice to satisfy the blood thirst of his audience. I wanted to own you completely, mind and body and soul. I wanted to erase everything, and write you all over again. And you thought that I was simply insane, was I really?

But I wasn’t, because I was always there… I was there when a stuttering shepherd performed magic tricks and led Jewish slaves through the desert and across the sea into this land. I was there when an epileptic Jewish rabbi claimed he was the son of God and tried to save humanity with love, before he realized on the cross that hatred was much stronger. I was there when the verses of an illiterate orphan united tribes from the desert whose armies swept through our land on their way to Heaven. I was there when a Kurd leading an army of slaves and mercenaries battled European Kings over the way God should be praised in this land. I was there… in Russia, when a bald man with a funny shaped head was followed by hungry armies into the palaces of the Czars. I was there… in Germany, when a man with a square moustache was cheered by millions as a God, and I was there later on when that God sent the flawed children of Europe to their death. I was there… When the boats of the survivors reached the shores of our Land, and they started their revenge on mankind to declare once again that hatred is much stronger than love. I was there when an Egyptian general tried to play the role of the savior, but his armies were crushed within a few hours. I was there when brother fought brother, and the same blood was shed to quench the thirst of this land. I was there when an army of tough men crossed the sea again but had no idea what to do next, so they stood there watching as the tanks of an Israeli general marched into their capital. I was there when the same tanks were welcomed as they headed to another capital, already devastated by war.

I was there when you were born, out of all the oppression, the frustration, the hatred, the anger and the stupidity. I was there, standing among angels as they stared at God in amazement, still unable to believe that such Beauty could survive amid all the Ugliness that covered the world. So I had to come down, to be about my Father’s business, to prove to those eternally stupid creatures that everything was possible. I was there every step of the way… In Jerusalem, Amman, Cairo, Beirut, Baghdad, and Damascus, watching as you grew up, realizing that hate was much stronger than I thought, and that the killing would never stop. But that never really mattered, as long as you were surviving, as long as Love and Beauty had a chance. I was there, every second of your Life, and I will be there… I will be there as you labor to bring more Beauty into this ugly world, watching over that little girl with your face as she takes her first steps. And finally, when you rest your head in my lap, smiling, as you take one last breath before you fall into an eternal sleep, I will raise my eyes to the sky and whisper: “Father! We have succeeded.”

Words

2008-03-23T19:27:00.002+02:00

“Words, Words, Words.” – Hamlet, William Shakespeare –

It has passed. Happiness and contentment are leaking through your eyes, slowly abandoning your confused soul. Electricity, shy and reluctant, shoots through your body to awaken your numbed senses, and you suddenly remember that you’ve been left alone in the cold. The moment dies slowly, and your memory tries to deceive you, creating an ephemeral image of it in the back of your mind. You shake that off like an old ghost and hold on stronger to the dying seconds, but your strength can never match the mighty powers of Time. You need to freeze it beyond his penetrating gaze before it fades away forever. And in your desperation you turn to another enemy for help, allying with Words in order to keep the moment alive.

“Words, Words, Words.” Just Words… Mere Words… At first your imagination doesn’t help and you can’t come up with anything of your own, so you need to “borrow” someone else’s. Kundera’s Words perhaps, audacious and somewhat original. Or maybe those of T. S. Elliot, vague like a dream. Auden’s Words prove to be helpful, simple arrows hitting their target. Or you can always sing some of Dickenson’s, pure emotions killed and phrased, balanced by the vibrant fantasies of Marquez. Kafka’s images come up often; horrific shadows passing through your mind, interrupted by the drunken blabbers of Hemingway. You remember a line from a Shakespearean play, humorous and smart, and you add another written by Wilde, refined like a good bottle of wine. Eventually, you’ll end up just where you started; “Words, Words, Words.”

And as the fighting draws to an end, you finally build up courage to use some of your own. You start slowly, still uncertain of your steps along the newly discovered path, but after a while, Words start flooding through you. Your thoughts are transformed perfectly, and your Words start taking a Life of their own, sucking up your strength with every breath they take. And just before it all ends, you realize that at some point during battle allegiances have shifted, and you were betrayed. Time is defeated, just as you wanted, and the moment is captured, just as you wanted. Yet, as you lay down your shield and start looking at the life that came out of you, you see a disfigured shape of happiness, cold and alien. And you’re left with nothing but that horrible and insatiable feeling of Emptiness, like a ghost warrior roaming the earth in search for a battle that has already ended.

Moments....

2008-03-03T15:15:00.003+02:00

“Happiness is the longing for repetition” – Milan Kundera

Today is my birthday. I suppose I could write something that sounds really wise and mature about Time, Immortality or anything similar that dwells in that vicinity of concepts, captured so easily by words and outworn by millions of attempts to phrase. Instead, I just remembered a message that I sent to my friends on New Year’s Eve 2007, suggesting that there are certain moments in Life that escape the powerful grip of time and outlast eternity, perhaps phrasing them is much harder but looking back at the year that passed they seem much more relevant, and of course much more important than the Ideas they shaped.

-----
Sitting in that comfortable chair in Anita’s house, listening to Fairouz’ voice as it approaches from a distance and “saturates” what remains of my over numbed senses. My ever full - thanks Moe- plastic cup of wine in my hand as I stare at the street lamp in the corner through the gigantic window, and wonder helplessly if its light was God’s graceful face or just another full Moon fading slowly into the night. And knowing for certain that I could happily stay in that chair for all the years to come.

-----
Walking through the old streets of Damascus and watching the incredibly beautiful girls of (Bab Tuma) as I listen to Macy Grey’s “Slowly”. Unable to comprehend how this city continues to defy the passage of time, and wishing I could become part of its eternal walls in order to possess such a power.

-----
Having lunch in Madaba, with Fairouz’ words pouring in from every corner. Both of us listening carefully as he described how they met, how they fell in Love and how he knew that she was the one. And believing for a moment that everything is possible, even the silly romances the songs were telling.

-----
My father’s sedated and tired eyes, expressionless as his suffering draws to an end. Then suddenly they are awakened and become responsive to my words. And for just a second, he gives me this reassuring look that tells me it was worth it, and that despite everything, it is still worth it. And me, wanting to carve that look in the back of my skull to give me the strength when I feel like giving up.

-----
She, with her eyes closed and her long hair thrown back, relaxing on that swing and smiling peacefully. Nothing but silence stirring in the morning air, with me beside her, watching over her tranquility, and thinking I wouldn’t mind sitting there forever, just staring at her amazing, almost lifeless beauty.

Hallucinations of Zeus

2008-02-19T22:59:00.002+02:00

“…That one can be in love with several people at the same time, feel the same sorrow with each and not betray any of them.”

(Love in the Time of Cholera – Marquez)

You’re sitting there, right in front of me, spitting out irrelevant words on irrelevant subjects as you attempt in vain to escape the awkwardness of the moment. Your face changes, yet it’s always the same. Both of us are always waiting to hear the same words, but you know I simply can’t utter them. I’m distant and detached, as I’ve always been, but my confusion is totally new. A source for Pleasure or Torture; it’s entirely up to you to decide. I still haven’t learned how to interpret my feelings, and it might take me forever to express them. The long feared silence approaches, and you look me in the eyes, pleading me to block its way, but I stay silent and gaze away.

I’m so confused; I have no idea what I really want. I want to see you again, to sit there one more time, silently watching you. I want to hear your voice again, trembling as you try to tell me that you love me, right before your words are choked by my absence. I want to break your heart, and I want you to watch me as I sadistically enjoy your pain. I want you to fear me, I want you to hate me, and I want you to run away. Then, I want to follow you, to run after you knowing that my Life depends on it. And finally when I catch you, I will hold you close, wipe your tears and tell you in the most casual manner “Don’t you get it? It was just a Joke.”

I’ve climbed up these stairs so fast, unaware that they were collapsing beneath my heavy steps. Now I have to go back, to descend along that tiresome path, from God to Man to Wolf. The way down no longer exists, and my only option is to fall. All I need is some of my own blood to push away the doubts and summon up the courage to jump.

We’re sitting there once again, with oceans of wine between us. My mind is buzzing with Thoughts, with questions: “How did we reach this far?” and “"What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon? And the day after that, and the next thirty years?"”. I’ll start drinking, one glass, then another, and another, till all my thoughts are subdued and my mind is cleansed of their poison. My Feelings will finally surface, strong and unmistakable, and I will know for certain that I love you. And after that, I will drink some more, piling up the empty bottles and drowning my feelings with alcohol. Eventually, only Desire will remain, that overwhelming urge to hold you, to kiss you, to make love to you on that stupid couch. Then, I will drink again, and again, and again and again, drying up my veins until I cease to be, and all that is left of me is You.

Love Song

2008-02-14T14:45:00.002+02:00

Just practicing my right of cheesiness, thought Valentine would be a good oppurtunity...

Have you seen the world today, my love
Have you stepped outside your walls
Have you walked amid apathetic crowds
And watched humanity as it falls

Have you gone through empty streets, my love
Past the dead who were lying there
Have you thought of things they loved but lost
Or was it more than your heart could bear

Have you heard the sound of guns, my love
So close, so loud, so clear
When every voice around was hushed
Were you afraid my dear

Have you ran back home today, my love
And carefully locked your door
Were you trying to shut the world outside
Or did you think that could stop the war

Have you talked to God tonight, my love
And asked him what to do
Have you raised your eyes to the skies above
And prayed selfishly for me and you

Have you thought of the past lately, my love
Crawling silently into your bed
The past repeats itself they say
And Devils may rise from the dead

Tomorrow belongs to us, my love
It’s still ours to lose or gain
Let’s make a better future, dear
Then wreck it once again.

Once Again....

2008-02-13T08:42:00.001+02:00

Chapter Heading

For we have thought the longer thoughts,
And gone the shorter way.
And we have danced to devils' tunes,
Shivering home to pray;
To serve one master in the night,
Another in the day.

E. Hemingway

Once again, these are the Longer Thoughts.

Preface to a Suicide Note

2008-02-12T14:18:00.000+02:00

So this is it…

Why should he go any further, where to, and for what purpose? There was no more purpose, there was nothing more than a deep, painful longing to shake off this whole confused dream, to spit out this stale wine, to make an end to this bitter, painful Life
– Siddhartha, Herman Hesse –

I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
– An Irishman Foresees his Death, W.B. Yeats –

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
– The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot –

I’ve been perfectly sober for a whole month now, but as I sit down to type these words I’m pretty sure that they will read like the words of a madman, like the random blabberings of a drunk.

It’s been hard since ever, yet less than a year ago something changed, and it only managed to make things much worse. How did I ever end up leaving my shell and trying to explore this stupid little world? Damn you Moe for all the help you have given me. Hope exists until you actually decide to pursue it, cause then it disappears and you realize it was just a trick your mind was playing on you, it was just a mirage created by the dehydration levels your body has reached. After that you’re left with the nothing you started with, and the nothing that replaced what you were hoping for. And of course, ironically, you’ve outgrown your shell and you can never get back to it.

I have reached an empty chamber, and I’m surrounded by closed doors that cover its walls entirely, doors that I don’t have the keys to, blocking my way to the things that I never really wanted. I’m stuck, and the emptiness of the chamber is driving me crazy, consuming whatever is left of my energy to continue the journey in case any of the doors is unexpectedly opened from the other side. Everything has happened before, and every step along this journey reeks with that awful smell of déjà vu. Thoughts are flowing in and out of my head like a stream, but this rock remains stable in the middle, disrupting the flaw of everything, and I’m just too consumed to move it, or carry it on to the shore.

Before I proceed, I have to confess that I never believed in modesty, seeing how the ugly and the stupid wear it daily to hide their flaws always made me sick. Now I can state, in all modesty, that I’m probably the smartest and the most honest person I've ever met. This is probably why I can’t lie to myself; because I’m too honest to do that in the first place, and if I ever decided to do that I know that I’m too smart to be fooled by my own lies. How can people accept the mediocrity of this life and go on acting like it’s perfect! How can they go fishing in the desert and convince themselves that the worms and snakes they’re catching are actually fish.

I envy the stupid little cripples; they’re so far away from the borders in a way that makes all limits invisible. They can be happy about the tiny steps they take, and celebrate their successful crawling with nothing to disturb their silly little minds. I’ve always felt that I’ve finished the race a million years ago, and I’ve been standing on the borders ever since, all alone, where I can see nothing but the limits.

They say that Christ has died for our sins, carrying our burdens when he was crossed; the idiot must have missed mine. I’ve been carrying the cross since I was born, and I never knew why I was being tortured and punished for God’s own failures. Sacrifice is an ugly thing when it’s forced upon you. I’ve tried so many times to convince myself that “At some point, we must’ve chosen Life” but I never reached that point, and I can’t see it anywhere in my path. This makes me believe that once the gates are open, I might be able to reach that point, as I stand before the almighty and ask him in all humility “Why did you have to create me, you fucking bastard? You had billions and billions of others to toy with… And if you couldn’t resist the urge to fool around with something different, why did you have to give me a mind identical to yours, incapable of feelings that both of us have envied humans for having, and yet denied me any of your powers?”

I’m sick of everyone, my real friends and fabricated enemies alike. I’m sick of you, and you, and him and her, and her, and her. I have reached a point where I can no longer tolerate the Stupidity, the Ignorance, the Ugliness, the Selfishness, the Hypocrisy, the Contradiction, the Carelessness, the Shallowness and Superficiality, the stupid Imitation and Lack of originality that I see everyday. And above all that, I’m sick of all the lies, of all the stupid games, of all the smiles and niceties, of every little stupid detail we use to hide what’s truly inside. Why can’t this world be just perfect and honest, and why doesn't anyone seem to be upset cause it’s not?

This is it…

I have this strange desire to either destroy myself, or to destroy the rest of the world. Sadly I’m too consumed to go on with the former, and I never had the power to do the latter. The pain is too much, but I can’t do anything about it….. I need a break, a serious one; I need a Hundred years of sleep, without any thoughts or dreams. I need someone to toss me back there, among the cripples, so I can start the race again and perhaps enjoy the struggle for a few seconds before I reach the borders once again. Well, perhaps what I really need is a beautiful end to these ugly words, but I’m just too tired and consumed to think of any.

Unfinished Thoughts

2008-02-03T07:02:00.000+02:00

Random Questions

The Word

“There's too much beauty upon this earth for lonely men to bear.”
Richard Le Gallienne (1866 – 1947)

And its Echo

“Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in.”
Ricky Fitts – American Beauty (1999)

“…but it's hard to stay mad, when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst... And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it …”
Lester Burnham – American Beauty (1999)

How original can our thoughts and expressions be when they are frequently uttered by other people? Sadly personal experience can never become part of our collective memory, which means our endeavors are absolutely futile as we struggle hard just to reach a point others have passed ages ago.

…

“Was it simply the hysteria of a man who, aware deep down of his inaptitude of love, felt the self deluding need to simulate it?”
Milan Kundera – The Unbearable Lightness of Being

“It is alright for people to pretend that love breeds love, but it is not so, the seed of love is indifference.”
Waguih Ghali – Beer in the Snooker Club

How can someone’s life be depicted so perfectly in a novel that he reads? Have we really become “Fictitious Characters” trying our best not to disappoint the authors? Are we really actors on a stage who have lost their touch with reality and are simply performing predictable and predetermined roles without any ability or desire to improvise? We go through our lives trying so hard to imitate an image someone else has drawn in our minds, and we remain so faithful to this image that we become convinced of the originality of our own actions and the fakeness of everyone else’s, when in fact we are all the same.

-----------

Another Helen

She was too afraid of Death, or too attached to Life perhaps, I could never tell the difference due to my total lack of experience. Whatever it was, it made her appreciate every passing second and hold on to it much harder than the rest of us did, trying to squeeze the essence of life out of each moment. Her gestures and reactions were exaggerated and her feelings were magnified beyond my capacity of comprehension. For me she was the embodiment of passion, a sea Goddess on land, turbulent and unsettled,and I knew for certain that my ships can never be able to weather such a storm.

-----------

Butterfly

-- The most absurd laws of physics lie in the field of electromagnetics. With these laws man can prove that Light + Light = Darkness. I have never really given it much thought until I realized recently that the laws of Life are not so different, when I was able to experience how combining “Lightness” unexpectedly yields "Heaviness” --

She flew by as I sat silently watching, so light, so beautiful. And I had no choice but to follow. At first, she didn’t seem to notice me, and later on when she did she didn’t seem to mind. I started getting closer and closer; trying to figure out the source of that amazing power of attraction that she had, but I couldn’t. Was it the way she moved around so lightly, completely self absorbed in a way that left the entire world struggling for a piece of her attention? No, it was something else, fresh and new to my ever contemplating, curious little mind. In a desperate move, I reached out and tried to catch her, and to my surprise I succeeded. I knew that there was no point in holding on, for her secret was locked beyond my limited dimensions. Still, I really wanted to learn how to fly; and I thought she might be able to infect me with the lightness she possessed.

But, I was wrong. Within my hands she grew heavier, and my heart grew heavy with her. Eventually, I had to let go. And as soon as I did, she fled away, filled with fear and confusion. I stood there for a second, fixed with heaviness caused by the lightness of my actions, but once again I had no choice but to follow her. It wasn’t long before I got her cornered, and she stood there armless and confused, unable to fully comprehend the reason behind my actions. For a moment or so, I sat silently watching, and then I had no choice but to retreat. I had won, yet my victory was much worse than any defeat, for it brought about a tremendous amount of guilt that I never experienced before, and from that moment on, I could only watch from a distance.

Death

2008-01-26T01:51:00.000+02:00

– 1 –

TO know just how he suffered would be dear;
To know if any human eyes were near
To whom he could intrust his wavering gaze,
Until it settled firm on Paradise.
– Emily Dickenson –

We were going to the hospital for a doctor’s appointment. He had been improving for the past month or so, but just when we thought the worst was over, his health started deteriorating. He lost his appetite once again and was getting weaker and paler every day. And as we headed to the car that morning, his legs suddenly failed him and he almost collapsed on the stairs, but with my support he managed to sit on them.

“Are you hurt?” I asked him, but he remained silent and gazed away. He refused to look me in the eyes because he didn’t want me to catch a glimpse of the pain and frustration he was going through. He sat there silently for a few minutes, then he whispered in a barely audible voice “It’s getting closer.” I asked him what “IT” was and he quickly mocked my stupidity. IT, was “Death” of course, how foolish could I have been to miss that. I asked him “Are you afraid of IT?” and he answered “No, I just want to get IT over with”

– 2 –

I ’VE seen a dying eye
Run round and round a room
In search of something, as it seemed,
Then cloudier become;
And then, obscure with fog,
And then be soldered down,
Without disclosing what it be,
’T were blessed to have seen.
– Emily Dickenson –

He had an accident in the bathroom that morning while I was at work. His head was bleeding and they had to call an ambulance to get him to the hospital. I stayed in his room, watching as he tried in vain to get some sleep, but the pain denied him any comfort. After a couple of hours, I had to go to work, so I stepped up to his bed and asked him if he needed anything. He stared at me for a while, but he seemed to be looking at something beyond my own figure, so I repeated the question again and this time he said: “Take me with you”. “Where to?” I asked in astonishment, for the mere notion of movement seemed out of the question. He seemed to be just as confused, but then he snapped back, looked at me and said that he needed nothing and I should just get to work. So I left.

– 3 –

DEATH is a dialogue between
The spirit and the dust.
“Dissolve,” says Death. The Spirit, “Sir,
I have another trust.”

Death doubts it, argues from the ground.
The Spirit turns away,
Just laying off, for evidence,
An overcoat of clay.
– Emily Dickenson –

My mother called from the hospital in the morning, saying that he had entered a coma that night. I went there to find my family and relatives gathered around his bed, with teary eyes reciting verses from the Quran and praying to God for an unlikely and unwanted recovery. My mother asked me to talk to him, to see if he would respond to my voice. All I wanted to do was to whisper in his ears: “Take it easy Dad, relax and just let go. It’s YOUR will not HIS, It’s YOUR will not HIS” but for some reason I couldn’t find the heart to utter these words in front of my mother. And so I left again, told them I was tired and had to go home get some sleep.

– 4 –

THERE ’S something quieter than sleep
Within this inner room!
It wears a sprig upon its breast,
And will not tell its name.
– Emily Dickenson –

Death came after I left. Treading slowly and silently into the room, trying carefully not to disturb the people who had gathered to welcome it. Unnoticeably it passed the tired eyes and the grieving hearts, and headed towards its new companion. In a second, one journey is over and a new one begins. I wonder how it felt for him as he floated away gazing at them standing by; unaware of his departure and ridiculously asking God for something he had already left behind. I wonder if he missed me, if he noticed my absence, but then again I remember how he was and I know that he must have understood.

– 5 –

This is the Hour of Lead-
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow-
First - Chill - then Stupor - then the letting go –
– Emily Dickenson –

The invariably sunny skies of Amman are misty as we head to the graveyard, yet the raindrops are held back by their God. Clouds are gathering, and the wind is unsettling the dust along the long road to the grave, yet the rain refuses to fall. The body is laid in its place, and clay is used to cover clay, but Heaven fails to show generosity and refuses to release the burden of the clouds. Finally, on the way back, a few scattered drops escape, mild and gentle they run down to meet the earth, unable to quench its thirst or relieve the tired clouds.

– 6 –

DEATH sets a thing significant
The eye had hurried by,
Except a perished creature
Entreat us tenderly
– Emily Dickenson –

A friend of mine sends me a message asking how I was doing. She tries to comfort me by saying that she knows how difficult it must be right now, but I should know that this will soon be over and I’ll be able to smile again as I remember the happy moments. Unfortunately, for me everything is different. I was smiling while I read her message, mostly because of the ironically extensive Islamic and Arabic traditional rituals that were performed to honor the spirit of a man who was antisocial, nontraditional, and agnostic in every sense of the word. A few weeks later, I start remembering the happy moments and my smile fades away. Once again I'm able to remember the time before his illness, which now seems like centuries away, and I realize how much I truly miss him. And as I start reflecting upon my own life, I realize that nothing I ever did made me feel satisfied or accomplished except when I managed to make him feel proud, and I know that I’ll never get the chance to do that again.

Cities -- 1

2008-01-15T00:12:00.001+02:00

They say Love kills Time
They say Time kills Love
Oh my Love, let’s go
Before Time and Before Love.
-- Fairouz --

Sometimes it starts with an idea, a pure illusion some might say. It’s that photo on a postcard you received, or a short scene from a movie you liked perhaps. But that’s usually more than enough to trigger your curiosity. You go there once or twice to examine it more closely, and you start by visiting its main attractions. The amazing monuments and the buzzing streets grab your attention very fast, and soon enough you become addicted to that view from your favorite café, or the smell of fresh bread coming out of that bakery around the corner. Unconsciously, the decision is made. And suddenly, without a warning, you find yourself moving in there.

You keep on exploring, and as time passes by, the darker alleys and the collapsing buildings float to the surface. This newly found contrast with the more glamorous sides somehow adds to its charm, and you become more and more interested. Your eyes start hunting for the imperfections that distinguish it from all the others and they become the things you cherish the most. After all, they are your own discoveries, a luxury that only your eyes can enjoy, for they remain invisible to everyone else.

After a while, there’s nothing much left to discover. Everything falls into habit. The things you haven’t seen before become too predictable, and you become more or less familiar with every little detail it contains. The early amazement is replaced by a false feeling of security, and your capacity for wonder is suddenly diminished by the strong biased association you have formed with everything in it. You become too attached, and it haunts you as you travel, carrying around that heavy melancholic sense of longing for all the little things that have managed to become part of you.

Then, once again without a warning, you wake up some day and find yourself where you no longer wish to be. Time is Invincible. Time is Invincible. You pack your stuff and leave, leaving a few of your things behind to lighten up your burden. And you realize that this time you probably won’t miss a thing. The light and the darkness are merged so perfectly to stain your memory, but this stain won’t stay there for long. Soon more stains will come and will cover it completely, and eventually it becomes just a vague spot in the back of your head that you hardly ever notice and never really manage to understand.

Helen

2007-12-29T23:27:00.000+02:00

Listen. There’s only one woman in this world. One woman with many faces.

(NIKOS KAZANTZAKIS – The Last Temptation of Christ)

1.
She looked up and smiled at me, that perfect little smile of hers that I knew too well and loved so much. Then she murmured a couple of incomprehensible words that my lips echoed back in utter silence while she walked away. And every morning, just for a few seconds, the ugliness of the world seemed to disappear.

2.
I started that day as usual, by listening to one of her songs. She describes how she waits in the rain for her lover who never comes. Then a stranger brings her a letter from him, which she opens only to find that his words have vanished. Like tears, his letters have dissolved in the rain drops and were lost forever. And every time I listened to that song it made me a bit happier, for my misery was nothing compared to the sadness in her words.

3.
I never really liked her or respected what she does. She was just another insignificant creature in yet another worthless crowd. But when she described how hard it was for her to get others to appreciate her work, I actually felt sorry for her. And as surprised as I was, I had no more doubts that a woman’s frustration can melt the iciest of hearts.

4.
She was trying to teach us something she never needed to learn. “Natűrlich” she was not that good at it. And whenever we asked her about something she didn’t know, she tilted her head a little and laughed innocently, just like a child. Eventually, the only thing I learned was how overrated the value of learning truly is.

5.
We were playing that stupid video game, and I won. And giving me a ride home that evening she had that weird expression on her face that I couldn’t really interpret. Was she a bad loser? Or was she sad because she thought she was a good player and now her list of skills diminished by one? Perhaps she was just disappointed because I was just as insensitive as she expected that I might be, gloating shamelessly over her defeat. I don’t know what it was, but for some reason, that evening she looked more attractive than ever.

6.
She was really mad at me for forgetting to get her a “birthday gift”, and I kept teasing her about it until she exploded in my face. Then, I surprised her with what she had waited for, and I couldn’t help but notice the tears that ran gently over her cheeks. Was I in love with her? I still cannot tell, but I know that those tears were the most precious gift I have ever received.

7.
She was enthusiastic about everything she did. Her childish and almost naïve passion was strong enough to elevate her above my cynical judgments and glorify all the silly little things she enjoyed doing. Her energy radiated so powerfully it made me want to change, to do things differently, to enjoy Life a bit more and even to dance a little. But one day, something was different, the fire inside her started to cool down. And as I saw this happening I knew that a certain part of me will soon be dead forever.

8.
I was really tired that day; I haven’t had enough sleep or food for almost a week. She took one look at me and started asking me about my health; was I getting enough sleep? Was I eating well? And even though we were never that close, I still felt that she was genuinely concerned about me. I guess all I can say is that compassion is a word that rarely exists in the male dictionary.

9.
There was something royal about her, like a Queen who lost her monarchy and had to step down to the places we inhibited. Still, she was always distant, a few levels higher than everyone around, as untouchable as she was in her palace. And as I looked at her I realized that nobility is the birthright of a select few, regardless of their family inheritance.

It’s Helen, before whom all the kings have knelt. It’s Helen, for whom a thousand Greek ships have sailed. It’s Helen, radiating beauty and inflicting misery upon the Trojans. It’s Helen in every face, and it’s driving me beyond madness.

Ugliness

2007-12-10T19:41:00.000+02:00

It’s the dawn of the sixth day; the Universe is already created and done with, yet God remains restless on his throne. It’s his greatest achievement so far, but the stupefied gazes of the archangels are not enough to satisfy his ego. He needs a fresh pair of eyes to stare in amazement at his work, a limited mind to be astonished by his powers, senses that are still raw and pure to be raped by his marvelous creation. So… Adam comes to be.

Adam is created. He opens his eyes for the very first time, takes one look at the vast universe that stretches before him and starts screaming madly. God is disappointed; this is not the outcome he expected. He walks away leaving his servants behind to deal with the new creature. The wretched Adam is now shrieking in a voice that deafens demons in the deepest pits of Hell. He is tormented by the tremendous sight that is burned forever in his memory. The angels are barely able to stop him from gouging out his own eyes. They have no idea how to handle the situation, so they decide to tie him up and sedate him with alcohol until they figure out what to do. Finally, they come up with a solution; they veil the universe, disguising the horrendous details which God had put so much effort in creating. The angels are unaware that Adam, drenched in alcohol, can still see beyond their cover. Yet as he sobers up, reality starts fading away, and the world becomes slightly less intimidating, almost livable.

A few thousand or a few million years later, I’m sitting at a bar with some friends. I already had four drinks and was feeling a bit tipsy but still felt compelled to mock one of my friends for his extremely low alcohol tolerance. He decides to teach me a lesson; so he walks to the bar and comes back with a huge glass of the devil’s own cocktail, that radiating electric blue. Halfway through it, I’m already more drunk than I have ever been in my entire life. Then, something weird happens. I start seeing things differently and the almost familiar surroundings suddenly become alien to me. In a few seconds, I see the universe as it was created; Adam’s memory is brought back to life in front of me. Like a newborn I discover the world for the very first time, examining the tiny little details hidden in every corner. I stare at the moon, the sky, the stars, the walls, the streets, the tables, the people and a terrified cry almost escapes from my mouth. Suicidal thoughts run rapidly through my head, but alcohol stops them from taking shape. The world is too much for me to handle, and intolerable pain rips me apart as I realize that there’s nothing that I can do about it. Defeated, frustrated and isolated, I raise my eyes to meet God’s mocking gaze and ask him:

“Why does everything have to be so damn UGLY?

Purpose

2007-12-05T09:48:00.000+02:00

Something was definitely wrong; she hasn’t been herself lately. The sunshine in her laughter had been replaced by a forced and tired smile, and hope that once danced in her eyes suddenly escaped, leaving behind a void which sadness crept in to fill. Thick clouds were hovering over her peaceful and sunny world, and her thoughts started wondering beyond their usual borders, into the darkness.

There are moments in Life when you wish you have limitless God-like power, the power to change the world and fix all its imperfections. For me it was not the wars in the Middle East or child exploitation in Asia that I wished to stop. It wasn’t AIDS in Africa or poverty in South America that I wished to cure. It wasn’t the genocides or the holocausts I read about that I wished to erase. It wasn’t the volcanoes, the hurricanes, the earthquakes or the tsunamis that I wished to prevent. All I wanted was the ability to reverse Earth's rotation and bring back her laughter.

Unfortunately, I have no such power, and I still have no idea what is wrong.

Soc"I"ety

2007-10-29T13:37:00.000+02:00

No man is an Iland, intire of itselfe; every man
Is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine;
John Donne

I’m having dinner with some friends, absent minded and sleep deprived. A close friend of mine is sitting to my right. He takes a look at me and asks what’s wrong, but I ensure him that I’m just tired. This starts one of the most sincere conversations I ever had with him, in which he advises me to unlock my doors sometime and let others in. The fact that I’m usually with him when all my social inhibitors are supposedly subdued by alcohol seems to trouble him even more, for he admits that even then I’m still self enclosed and unwilling to communicate.

I’m sitting alone in that coffee place, drinking espresso and waiting for some friends to arrive. And as I watch society drifting by through the huge glass entrance, I begin to wonder how life would be without all the inessential decorations we’ve added over the centuries. Would the fake masks of civility drop once all the innovative technological “enhancements” are removed? A guy parks his Porsche near the entrance and steps out, accompanied by his gorgeous girlfriend. For the next few seconds the caveman’s mentality takes control, urging me to run a spear through the man’s chest and take hold of his possessions. In the world I imagined, just a while ago, this would’ve been totally acceptable and he would’ve surely understood.

My friends arrive, and we start talking. The same old conversations repeated over and over again. Empty phrases and meaningless words, emphasized by the painful silence, this has been the ongoing theme for my social life of late. And during these brief encounters with society, life stands still for a few seconds, the surroundings fade away in the surrealism of the scene, and God’s brush is inspired by Dali’s madness, disfiguring all faces beyond recognition until they all become one and the same. Eventually, all that is left are the invisible walls that stand between us, and the ones around me seem to be the thickest.

I park the car and step out of it. My friend and I have decided that I had too much Lemoncello to drive, so we’re walking to his house at 5 o’clock in the morning. As soon as he closes the door I remind him to lock it, and for some reason this seems to amaze him. He looks at me and asks “You’re not really drunk, are you?” and I answer “Too many fucking brain cells to start with.” This reminds me of another conversation I once had with one of my childhood friends, he believed that my biggest problem was that I think too much, perhaps that was really it.

So here I am in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the ocean from everyside, the Continent remains out of sight and I'm still waiting for a hand to pull me to the maine.

V-day

2007-10-07T22:31:00.000+02:00

‎"You're just jealous" she said teasingly. ‎
‎"Of the balloon giraffe! For God's sake, be realistic." I sarcastically dismissed the charge. ‎

And walking home that night, alone, engulfed by a red sea of roses and balloons and my own ‎generation of oversexed post-teens, I could not help thinking about what she said. ‎

Jealous of what? Of their idiocy, of their blind imitation and lack of originality, of their ‎characterless behaviors, of the way they adopted alien traditions that were totally pointless in our ‎sexually frustrated society. ‎

Jealous of what? Of the way they materialized love, and turned it into a commodity. Of their ‎cheap gestures that stripped it from that element of the Extraordinary and made it just a ‎common thing in their endless list of mediocrities. ‎

Jealous of what? Of their synthesized feelings and mis-used words. Of their silly attitudes and ‎fabricated confusion. Of ‎their red roses and outfits, of their chocolate hearts, of their BALLOON GIRAFFES!!!!

For God's sake Lara, of course I was jealous. ‎

Abre Tus Ojos

2007-08-13T04:01:00.000+03:00

"Was I before a man who dreamt about being a butterfly, or am I now a butterfly who dreams about being a man?" --Zhuangzi--

Suddenly, the whole world comes at you, all at once. And your senses are ‎overwhelmed by reality, rushing in to push aside the ghosts of the night. Your ‎muscles start building up momentum to thrust your body into a long awaited yet ‎totally unnecessary clumsy state of motion. But your mind hinders it, clinging on to ‎the remaining threads of your dreams, unable to make sense out of all the shredded ‎pieces of thought. Then, the universal elements conspire against you, the fight is ‎unfair and the victor is already known. Softly, light creeps in through your curtains ‎then bursts a thousand suns in your eyes, voices tread lightly upon your walls then ‎explode a thousand trumpets inside your ears and even the comfort of your bed and ‎the softness of your sheets betray you, driving a thousand daggers into your skin. ‎Your mind finally surrenders, leaving behind your most creative and genuine ideas to ‎be stupefied by reality, and watching sadly over the ruins of a world that held, just a ‎moment ago, infinite promises and possibilities, to be lost among the scattered traces ‎of your memory. ‎

And so, you're awake. ‎

Confession

2007-07-23T16:17:00.000+03:00

“There is a luxury in self reproach. When we blame ourselves we feel that no one else has the right to blame us. It is the confession not the priest that gives us absolution.”

--Oscar Wilde, the Picture of Dorian Grey—

I often wonder whether man created God to help him cope with his own mortality, or whether God created man to lessen the boredom and loneliness of eternity.

In either case, both were disappointed.

Bless me God for I have sinned. My thoughts have strayed far beyond redemption, into a land free of the sickness of deities and the silly misconceptions of men.

Bless me for getting drunk on life’s absurdity, and trying to escape its boundaries before you struck me sober with the bitterness of reality. I have followed my faith across the borders of religion, and waded through seas of the faithless in order to find you, but you stayed out of my reach while keeping me within your tight grasp.

Bless me for using the useless little brain you have given me, and asking too many meaningless questions. I only wished to understand this world a bit better, to perceive it through the eyes of a creator, with the timeless gaze of a god, and a vision unblurred by the failures of the past or the mediocrity of the future.

Bless me God for coveting thy property. I sought Immortality, believing that the luxury of infinite time would give my mind what it takes to encapsulate such a horridly colossal concept as that of your omnipotent existence, but that was far too complex for my humble being to handle.

Forgive all of this, dear God, and let’s call this game even and end it without any further delays. After all, you’ve created me with all my imperfections, and you cannot deny me the simple pleasures of sin. Or maybe I was the one to have created you, with all your power and ruthless divinity, and thus I cannot blame you for the burdens of my random, selfish existence.

In either case, all that I've done is totally irrelevant.

....

2007-07-03T17:59:00.000+03:00

What is Reality?
But an Illusion we create
To keep our sanity in a maddening world.
Then, something happens,
Suddenly you're awake.
And as the faked axioms collapse,
Giving your deluded senses a break;
Through the vagueness of your memories,
And the clarity of your Dreams
In your newly acquired awareness
You're shocked by the simple truth
That all you are, all you were and all you'll ever be
is a Lie.

Mortality

2007-06-16T16:41:00.000+03:00

A friend of mine picks me up on his way back from the gym, he needs to go home and take a shower before we join another friend for dinner. As usual, I start blabbering randomly about the insignificant events of my day before he interrupts me and says "Man, you're totally wasted." A fact that I keep denying throughout the entire evening, unaware that my reeking breath was contradicting my words all along.

At his house, I collapse in this huge, armless, American style, white – or ivory as he might argue – chair. As I wait for him to finish, my eyes start hunting through the books in his library, and I end up picking Kundera's "Immortality", a clearly unsuitable choice given the preceding circumstances or my prevailing condition.

Anyway, I skim through the pages, searching for hidden messages from God or his demons, a habit from my early reading days when I used to believe that any book can be genuinely projected on the reader's personal life without compromising the writer's attempt to reflect his own. And finally, my eyes fall on this sentence: "I have too high a concept of life. Either life gives me everything or I'll quit."

And that was it. The shock I needed to revive my sobriety back from the dazing depths of my dreams. Thus, the thoughts battle once again to corrupt my spirits, and I start wondering when I actually decided to quit. Was it when my goals were set too high, just beyond the limits of what my life can afford to give? Or was it long before that, when I realized that deep down inside I was never truly interested in what it had to offer?

Damn Kundera and his words, they can only spoil your mood and ruin your evenings.

The Longer Thoughts

2007-04-23T08:00:00.000+03:00

…Wondering through busy streets. Lightheaded, mainly from lack of sleep. My mind haunted by ghosts of unfinished thoughts, all banging against the walls of my head, trying to escape their prison.

Then, a single thought takes control, hushing all others with shouts of promised Freedom. And with most of the voices silenced, the rebellion starts to formulate into a lucid and simple question: “What if?”

What if my trembling legs fail me as I cross the street, and I fall down hitting the ground so hard that I nearly lose conscious, then I find myself blinded by the lights of a rushing vehicle that crushes my skull against the asphalt before it travels on?

Would it hurt so much? And would I, then, feel sorry for a life I wasted and regret dreams I never pursued? I don’t really know. All I know is that all my prisoners would be released, and I would finally be freed from their burden. Then, I should no longer care, for God would elevate me to a higher state of existence, to oblivion.

Or perhaps I could just blog myself free.

These are the longer thoughts.