Were you serious?

To those who preferred Ledger as the Joker.. were you serious?

The Only Enemy.

وكان يشتهى أن يشبع من الخرنوب الذى كانت الخنازير تأكله، فلا يعطيه أحد - لوقا 15:16

And I couldn’t help but compare where I was and where I am now… And there was the new definition of brutality. Questions are not made of words, but of knives that are made of steel. The what-have-I-done dilemma is like a Samurai fight scene from a Japanese movie that has made it to the American charts, with the sounds of clashing long swords and flying warriors over walls and all – all in my head. Let alone the can-I-ever-get-a-second-chance whirl of uncertainty, which sucks out the air from your lungs and leaves your eyes dry from tears that need to fall. Needless to mention, the what-was-I-thinking and the do-I-deserve-a-second-chance-in-the-first-place. All of course, are masters at infusing me with self-loathing, guilt and sweet temptation to further linger in a filthy abyss.

Years ago I would have fallen with eyes closed and had hands to catch me, but now, I find ways to coil my limbs during the fall so that I only get bruised – rather than hit my head or lose sight or grow a Donald-Duck sort of head-soreness with flying birds and/or stars around it… and of course be in a state that allows me to go to my too-white-collarish job the next morning. And the bruises never last long, for they are refreshed with new ones. And I forget the pain… but I don’t forget him. Tell this to Purgatorio and he’d tell you “He’ll be back” with that slow-Bango voice of his. Tell this to Gouda and he’d say “I am proud you made the comparison” with his manly voice of confidence. Tell this to H. and she’d blabber out “There is hope” with a tone that tells you she is far from convinced of what she’s saying. Tell this to him… “Now it’s her turn to suffer,” with a tone I’ve never heard before.

I am my only enemy.

صباح الخير يا...

بنحب نصبح ونقول.. حمد الله ع السلامة يا احمد سامى

Cruellaville.

“You should never have to watch as your only children are lowered in the ground,
I mean you should never have to bury your own babies.”
Dave Matthews.

My experiences with death are not that many.. The first time I ever went to a cemetery was yesterday.. It erupted inside me a bunch of thoughts that I don't want to write down, because I don't want to keep a registry of them, because once I forget them I don't want a way to remind me I ever had them in the first place.. In all cases, you shouldn't live to bury your own child, you just shouldn't. No, you shouldn't.

Fighting Dorian Gray.

I had a portrait that I hung inside my heart because I didn’t want anybody else to see it – for I am sure that if anyone did, their eyes will fail to see it the way I do. Through the years, I didn’t mind change to seep through anything – including my physical traits, my social circles, my phonetics and spelling, my religious core, my drinking hard core… and any other core that there is. But I won’t let change touch that portrait. I fought so hard for it to remain the same way I see it. And I’d burn with jealousy when someone claimed they saw him the same way he looks in my portrait – but I won’t show it, because I am a very hard-to-see-through person and all, trust me I am… I mean I must be.

That portrait was more important to me than the person it impersonated. In my darkest nights, I’d kneel on my knees, clasp both hands, weep out my eyes and pray. I didn’t listen to Souad Massi or Billie Holiday and united my state with a miserable blue woman’s voice nor did I listen to Mohammed Mounir and felt how “7a2ee2y” he is and how I must know everything about life just because he’s on my playlist. I didn’t whine to girl friends over the phone, even though sometimes I’d do that to Purgatorio online – but only sometimes. I didn’t use my recently-acquired hard core drinking habits to fake drunkenness and call him up instead of kneeling in front of his portrait. I didn’t do any of that… I just prayed.

I prayed for dreams that were the victims of genocide, I prayed for a future that might have flourished, I prayed for resurrecting the past, I prayed for a final chance… but above all, I prayed for forgiveness. But just like those millions who pray daily to their own God, for the flourishing of Egypt in churches or for the freeing of Palestine in mosques… none of what I prayed for ever came. And again just like those millions… I still prayed.

The existence of my portrait slash god corner could have remained longer and grew stronger, for I am full of persistence and all… I mean I must be. However, there is this one thing that I couldn’t fight back – for he came and ripped off his own portrait and how I have seen him for all those years went down to the abyss. He’d boast off how low and cheap and sinfully human he has become and how lustfully he fucks obsessive mistresses, and that all those traits can’t belong to a god… and he’d go a step further to prove it by scratching the inside walls of the heart with blades. Apparently, he thought I deserve all that and all.

Now I am portrait-less, with a rectangular space that looks awkwardly clean other than the rest of the wall in the place of the portrait, which was removed. I don’t want any votes for a god, thank you, I am better off. It really hurts though, that he took away the only imagery I looked up for; it’s just not his right – he can vanish and lust and fuck, but not alter the portrait I had.

I am idle now on them dark nights... and I really don’t want Massi, Holiday or Mounir around.

Resistance.

There is nothing particularly sexy about rusty steel huge dirty pieces of junk that look like they are leftovers since the Industrial Revolution, which are full of holes from bullets that light seeps through bluntly without permission the same way a prostitute would look at passing prospects, which look like they are leftovers from the war that killed your remaining sibling and only lover, which amateurs use to practice shooting to add further holes or to simply enlarge the existing circles, which have no talent and no assets to utilize to fly away from the earth prints their weight has made, which are thought to be ugly by even the insects that reside inside them for shelter away from human steps, which have no god to pray for, which have no sexual organs to make love and seep out their self loathing, which are detested by the breeze that passes by. No… nothing particularly sexy… not at all, no.