Nostalgia

“الحنين وجع لا يحن إلى وجع. هو الوجع الذي يسببه الهواء النقي القادم من أعالي جبل بعيد.. وجع البحث عن فرح سابق..”

  ~ محمود درويش – في حضرة الغياب

The word Nostalgia has such magic to it; it’s bitter sweet both in meaning as in pronunciation.

We miss people who are no longer there the most when we go through days where we could have used their presence; when we are desperate for their presence. It’s not that we don’t miss them every day on normal days, we probably do, but our conscious knows better than to let it surface, so it locks that feeling in our subconscious until those moments of nostalgia occur.

The dead are the worst to miss. Not just because they are no longer there, but also because we tend to give them a sense of sanctity after they’re gone. We remember only their virtues and somehow convince ourselves they hold on to wisdom that would have solved our current dilemmas or soothed our agony. Ironically, their death is the secret of their wisdom.

The dead are the worst to miss. Because as we remember them, they never let us down, either because we didn’t hold on to such memory, or because they passed away before they got the chance. Both way, their memory remains painfully untainted and it’s summoned every time we’re let down.

The dead are the worst to miss. Because missing them is a dead-end to the pain we feel, where we linger.

False Impressions

It’s easy to buy into the thought that we have false impressions of others. It is harder to believe though that we might have false impressions of ourselves, as truer and even more common as it is!

I always thought I was selfish, turns out, I wish I were selfish, I aspire to being selfish, but I never really pull through with my attempted selfishness… I really try, I really want to, I really really really perceive selfishness as something good, I talk my friends and close people into being selfish, but I could never really pull through for my own self all the way. Turns out I am a failure at being truly selfish… and it doesn’t mean I am selfless or great, I am just not selfish.

I always thought I was a give upper, that I lack persistence… God I am not! I am the kind of fighter they probably needed in those raw wars fought centuries before my time where a fighter would fall a million times and keeps standing up to get more hits in the face and the body until their own bodies fail them before their wills do. I don’t know how to let go or give up so long as my soul is tied to something; it would definitely take me down before I even attempt to let go. I may have put it in a heroic form, but I am not necessarily fighting for a good cause to be proud of that personal trait; in fact, I believe good causes have the tendency to lose me when they get tainted by what people label them… but that’s another rant.

I never thought I was the forgiving type; I always believed I was as unforgiving as sin and always trashed second chances. But I lived to see a year (or perhaps two) of me giving second chances and completely believing in them, and I am proud of myself for that, I needed to know that I have it in me to forgive, it helped me believe in people and it really helped me to let go of so much anger and hate I once thought I’d take to my grave.

I am stubborn, proud (very egoistic actually), resilient, yet whiny and in constant need of reassurance that I am a great person. Why? Because I grew up where none of that was acknowledged, at least not to my face, where I had to fight for that kind of acknowledgement let alone praise after having been fed that I am selfish, a give upper, and black-hearted. Because every time I was actually praised, it either meant nothing or was for the wrong reasons.

But it’s ok, I get it, sort of… we all have our issues and our demons and we all have them chasing us either until they get us or until we get over them… I am not yet sure which is my case; I am still haunted and lost in that forest, but this is a brief moment of clarity that I was taught to cherish…

*lighting a match*

I am a good person, a kind person, funny, smart and make for interesting company. I have good taste in about everything, and I have an opinion about everything too, but it’s open minded and accepting of others.

That match will go to a kindling, and it won’t fade out taking me to that black hole that keeps absorbing me into its darkness. A friend told me “you will always have people who love and care for you, even when you’re dark, self-absorbed, and resentful of the entire world, because a true friend will also remember how much of a good friend you have always been and will not only give you a break when you’re down, but will be there for you” … I was too angry and sad to let it go through when I first heard it, but every day, a friend does something so random yet kind for me, and it’s God’s reminder that I have good friends, much better than those I thought I lost. That’s my kindling.

Nothing

I was told what to do…

You looked at me and I could see it all in your eyes behind that foolish ego that always tore us apart…

I walked toward you and wrapped my arms around your neck as you wrapped yours around me…

You started crying as you held me tighter…

Nothing, I felt nothing…

I held you tighter, in an attempt to summon those feelings I had always felt for you, to let them wrap around us and fix this, but nothing came…

I started crying and shivering in your arms because I felt nothing, and you probably thought I was apologizing or asking for your forgiveness or feeling all the things I should be feeling, but I felt nothing…

Is it because the spell that bound me to you was finally broken??

Is it because the most abusive relationship of my life, the one that created a solid pattern for all my other relationships to follow just ended in an even more dramatic way??

Or is it because I am numb?

I feel like I am a dying soul in a hollow shell of a body, withering slowly…

A couple of hours later, I laid in bed with the right half of my body shaking nonstop as it has been since we let go of each other… I was hearing the same old broken record, and instead of replying back, I could hear the echo of my words fading inside my head as my body shook even harder and tears fell through my eyes…

The most abusive relationship of my life, the one that created a solid pattern for all my other relationships to follow just ended… but it also ended me, I am no longer myself, and I no longer have the strength to get out of my negativity and try to distract myself until I am better, I have nothing to look forward to because this relationship and all those that followed its pattern had sucked me dry, and now my soul is slowly dying.

البيضة ولا الفرخة

أنا فاكرة كويس زمان لما سمعت “الفزورة” دي و رحت لبابا علشان يحلهالي بما انه كان أكتر واحد يعرف كل حاجة…

الحوار كان حاجة زي كده….

 

أنا: بابا، هو البيضة الأول ولا الفرخة؟؟

هو: الفرخة طبعا!

أنا: اشمعنى؟ ماهي الفرخة بتطلع من البيضة

هو: لأ، الروح دايما الأول… روحي جيبي بيضة من التلاجة و شوفي فيها فرخة ولا لأ… البيضة محتاجة الفرخة علشان تفقس كتكوت….

 

وعليه….

يعني اللي موجود الأول بيمد روحه للي بييجي بعده…

يعني الأم (و الأب) هما اللي بيدوا للجنين الحياه بإذن ربنا

يعني برده الأم (و الأب) همه برده اللي بيحبوا الطفل الأول قبل ما الطفل يحبهم…

همه اللي بيعلموه ازاي يحب و ازاي يعبر عن حبه، منهم همة، مش منه لنفسه…

الخلاصة إن لو مش عاجبكم أنا بحبكم ازاي ولا بأنهي طريقة، ياريت تلوموا نفسكم قبل ما تلوموني أو تقولوا عليا جافة أو قلبي جامد أو تقرروا اني لو بحبكم أعبر عن حبي بطريقة أحسن… لأن ده للأسف اللي اتعلمته منكم و ده اللي كل يوم بحارب نفسي و قطعها علشان معلموش لولادي…

أنا بسافر علشان أهرب من الأم اللي بتزنقوني اني أكونها، علشان في الغربة و وحدتها الاقي نفسي اللي أكيد هتعرف تبقى أم أحسن من اللي انتم بتقولبوها بأحكامكم اللي محجرة على تفكير بيظلمني و بيقول عليا حاجات كل اللي يعرفوني بيقولوا انها مش في…

أنا عنيدة آه، لكن مش جاحدة ولا قاسية

دماغي لما بتحجر كدة بيكون من وجعي لأن الوجع بينشفني و بيكسرني، لكن حتى وجعي عمره ما قساني مهما قلت و اتمنيت… لو كنت بقيت قاسية كان زماني قادرة أكبر دماغي و مكانش زمان قلبي بيوجعني عمال على بطال كدة

أنا آسفة جدا اني مش هادية و مهاودة و مسامحة في حقي زي غيري، بس على فكرة لولا اني كدة مكنتوش اعتمدتوا عليا كل مرة احتجتوا حد حد يشيل المسؤولية و يتصرف صح و بسرعة… و لولا اني كدة كان زماني اتكسرت من زمان و فضلت زوجة كارهة جوزها و بتشتم فيه طول ماهو مش موجود زي غيري و كان زماني بربي ولادي انهم يخافوا منه و يكرهوه و يلوموه… أنا كسرت “الباترن” اللي شفته قدامي كتير بدل ماخليه يكسرني، و بيحز في نفسي قوي كل ماسمع حد فيكم بيقول ان “لو ماكانتش دماغها ناشفة و عندية و طبعها وحش، كان زمان الولاد بيتربوا بينهه و بين أبوهم”….

أنا آسفة إنكم مش شايفيني غير كدة… لكن أنا خلاص تعبت من محاولة اثبات اني كل الحاجات التانية اللي مش شايفينها ولا هتشوفوها، لأني كل ما بحاول بفشل و ببعد عن نفسي من غير ما أقرب منكم…

و مباقتش فارقة، أنا بعدت كتير و مقربتش…

ده مش وجعك*

It’s like biting into one sour green lemon and feeling that electric shock filling up all my senses…

Everything is cringing with pain… the pain source is my heart, sending out ripples of pain, no, tides of random, yet somehow timed electric shocks that electrocute every cell in my body… and then, the pain subsides at my limbs leaving them totally numb…

My lungs swell wanting to burst through my ribs despite my attempts of expanding my ribs by breathing in harder through a stuffy nose and a blocked throat…

بحس ان روحي بتطلع… لكن في نفس الوقت بتحاول تكلبش فى جسمي على قد ما تقدر و ده اللي بيسبب الوجع…

The minute I start surrendering to the numbness, and feel that pain subsiding, tears start flowing and before I know it, I start fighting for air, but then the electric shocks attack me again repeating that entire cycle…

….

 ”ده مش وجعك… ده بيحصل لما بيتحدف عليكي وجع مش بتاعك و انتي بتحاولي تشيليه…

This is the kind of woman you are… you deny men their instinct to protect you because you make everyone –including yourself- believe that you’re strong enough to take it all…

انتي اللي هتشيلي الليلة!! و على فكرة يعني، دي مش ميزة فيكي… ده خازوق كبير

متصلبيش نفسك و تستني الناس تعمل منك اله…

Get off that cross ; there are no believers, and you will bleed to death…

Recognize it when it’s not your pain and reject it, and love yourself… when you love yourself, you don’t allow her to feel that kind of pain… you protect her like no one could”

 

* April 20, 2011

Another Note to My Pride

(7 months later)

Take me back, please take me back…

I feel what a paper must feel after having been through a shredder… with no hope of being pulled back together to look the same as before…

I have willingly endured more humiliation than I thought I would ever allow myself to go through… I am not sure how graceful I was about it all, but I have been told I handled the humiliation and the pain that came with it with admirable grace…

But I am running out of grace and I am running out of threshold for more pain… I need to be wrapped and sheltered and promised none of this will ever happen again, none of it…

I am promising myself this right now, and I am promising you you’ll never be locked in this room or any room … you belong in my heart, just like all the other things that make me who I am, and it was a huge mistake to ask you to step aside…

It was worth it, would I do it all over again, perhaps, but never again…

So I am sorry for thinking I was stronger on my own, turns out I am too sensitive to be left without that kind of protection and no one, no matter what they claim, can provide it…

So please make that pain go away, and take me to a safe place where I can heal.

Thanks.

Note to my pride…*

Don’t take this personally, but you’re asked to politely step aside and let me endure some “humiliation”…

I know you protect me from so much pain by telling me all sorts of excuses … but what you don’t get is that you allow that pain to grow inside me  because I become too proud to show it, too proud to let it tear me to pieces so that I can put myself back together, with pride…

So, I will put you in a room and leave you there until I can handle this…

I will leave you there despite the enormous amount of pain, fear and humiliation I feel writing this…

I will leave you there hoping that by stripping from you, I shall be protected by nothing but my humanity and that it shall suffice…

I will leave you here hoping and praying that I will find you intact if my pain gets too much and I run back to you for protection…

Please unfold from around me now… but also please be there ready to wrap around me before I disintegrate and heal me.

*Written on March 13, 2011

The Spell that Binds My Heart*

“you’re not dependent on me”

 “in a way, I am”

 “no”

 “well I am, whether you like it or not”

 “you shouldn’t be dependent on me, you’re smarter than that… you know I have issues, I’m not exactly stable”

 “it doesn’t change the fact that I am”

With that last phrase, she tried to swallow that lump in her throat as she felt that familiar pain taking over her heart.

Why does he do that? Why does he insist on reminding her of why it ended? And he had to do that at the exact same time her heart and soul were pulling her back to him!

It didn’t end because he’s “unstable” or because he “has issues”, they were both unstable and they both have issues, among the million other things they have in common. It ended because she was willing to take a chance while he wasn’t… and the mere memory of that never fails to make her heart ache the way it does every time one of those memories hit her when she least expects it.

The memory plays before her eyes all over again, his big brown eyes holding back all those tears while tears were pouring out of hers as she kept smiling to make it all look less sad… he mumbled to me “don’t do that” and she smiled even more, nodding, and mumbling back “I’m ok, we’re ok”…

And so she did what she does best, she got stubborn, she got strong, and she ran in the opposite direction betting that her feelings for him would fail to catch up if she kept on cheating the pain  by all the available distractions and by pretending their friendship is growing stronger that way… but somehow he always caught up with how he cares for her, how he supports he, and how he does all the little things to make sure she’s ok, to make sure she doesn’t dwell on any bad thoughts before she sleeps…

And she is reminded all over again… that no one does that but him… because she lets no one do it but him… he’s the one she chooses to run to when she panics because only the tone of his voice soothes her even when they talk about the same things that disturb her…

So yes, she depends on him, perhaps more than she should… he always gets her, he knows how to handle all her madness, her breakdowns, and her panics just by being him… and that’s why she was willing to take her chances and get over whatever issues she has about being with someone… because it wasn’t just “someone”, it was him…

But he’s an idiot like that, an idiot she knows is crazy about her… an idiot who’s too scared to take a chance and so he realizes “she deserves better”, and then her pride ticks and she repeat to herself that she does deserve “better”… but the sad part remains that she doesn’t want to take her chances with better…

So in her own oblivion she just depends on him to always be there to make her feel better if he can’t (or doesn’t want to) be better for her sake… and he always comes through, until he realizes that by doing so they only get closer again so he tells her to stop depending…

* Written on February 22, 2011.

Who knew it was a “lather, rinse, and repeat” and that the idiot would break her heart in a way she would never want to recover… 

Safaa

I was getting out of a familiar building with her…

I kept looking at her happily and feeling peace within…

She was asking me how I’ve been and telling me she missed me, and asking me for all the updates, making remarks about how I lost so much weight since she last saw me, how I look happier and more “me”…

I couldn’t reply, but she looked healthier and happier, much more than I ever remember seeing her… he cheeks were budding pink and her hair, her real hair was beautiful light brown and her eyes were shining…

I told her, I’d drive her home, for old time’s sake…

She said “no no”, I told her it was no trouble at all, and it will give us time for me to tell her everything… told her I could drive her to either Zamalek or Maadi and both would be on my way… for a second there she wasn’t sure where she’d go, she said she didn’t know and she’d rather wait for the driver to pick her up…

We  were walking down the street towards my car, and she held on to my arm asking me to say nothing to the girls who were waiting by a car… we approached them and I recognized some of my old co-workers as well as hers who were offering a ride because it was starting to rain, but I pointed at my car and said we were both heading to Maadi…

I begged her to come with me…

Someone was double parked and the door man of the building who seemed to have just cleaned it was rude about calling for someone to move it… I didn’t get angry, I just moved the car breaking some stuff on my way, stopped for her to get in and we moved…

The dream diverted into other meaningless dreams…

She died in May 2009, she was the second mother I had after my late nana, one more mother I never had.

Wire

Wrapped around my heart…

Then extended to wrap around my entire body, head to toe…

And then, it’s stretched, and an electric current passes right through it…

And I shudder nonstop,

in pain.

and my heart skipped a beat

And when she fell asleep and left him for her land of dreams, he suddenly felt darkness descend all around him. It was beyond loneliness. It was as if his whole world was reduced to nothingness in a moment. He couldn’t feel or see or smell or taste or hear or breathe. All his senses were paralyzed and his entire being was suspended in some paranormal state. It was as if someone hit pause on him and everything suddenly stopped. Everything in him and around him. Except the thoughts floating in his mind and her aura resting in his heart. All he could do was keep them apart until she awoke and returned to him. Like a sun revisiting a lake after a cold night and hugging the shivering water with both its warmth and seemingly unending tranquility. So, like the water he waited for his sun, hoping the memories of her would keep him warm in the meantime.

~ a writer who wouldn’t admit how beautiful his writing is!

To the Man who gave me the Gift of Abstract

he told me to hide in abstract so that i can put it all out,

i told him it was hard when feelings are that raw,

he said it will make it easier to let those feelings out…

i learned the trick, i excelled at it.

and now i can’t reverse it,

…and he’s dead,

and i am stuck in my own world of analogies!

Allah yer7amak.

~ a recent status that was dedicated to him

He was an artist…

He was a doctor…

He was an “Art Therapist”…

He established that center on the roof top of the building where he lived; there were low tables, cushions, all sorts of colors, card-boards of three different sizes, and a kitchenette and mini-washroom, and his study…

You’d go in, draw –or actually scribble- three drawings in order to sit with him and have him analyze them, analyze you… or you could just sit and draw and leave feeling relieved…

His “sessions” were free of charge, and there was a kind note on the board in the hallway politely suggesting that you were free to contribute so that the center never runs out of art supplies…

My first impression of the place was that it was full of what I used to refer to as “hippies wannabes”, “pseudo intellectuals” in addition to the expected “too forward for my taste” and “similarly shy”… yes, I silently watched and gave them labels for easy reference; not to judge them (even as judgmental as I could be back then, that was “innocent labeling”), but just a bad habit you develop when you’ve grown in a family like mine…

I remember feeling extremely uncomfortable with all those different kinds of people, some of which were looking at and studying me shamelessly, some were completely ignoring my existence, some were giving me subtle gazes from time to time, while others just smiled casually and told me I could help myself to coffee or tea if I felt like it…

I never felt more out of place that day, so I looked around in the place trying to find things that I could relate to so I wouldn’t feel like the alien I was… three things I liked the most: 1- him when he greeted me and asked me who told me about the place and actually recognized the name, 2- the stapled paintings and scribbles that covered the walls of the entire place and his study, even the dark and morbid ones that made me look away, and 3- the old building and the view of similarly old buildings surrounding it and the view to that street in downtown…

When I sat with him later at the terrace, he took my shyly colored scribbles and stapled them to the wall and sat next to me facing them as he read them, I still remember word for word… he touched my vulnerability without uncovering it… he hugged me with his mere presence…

All through my visits through the year that followed, he gave me too many abstract advice: find your passion, listen to your inner voice, your strength lies in what people around you view as flaws; don’t listen to their noise, you know better…

He was the first ”stranger” with whom I shared my writings without hiding behind anonymity… he said it was raw and full of emotions, and told me I could deliver it without hiding behind anonymity if I hid it all in abstract; he taught me all about abstract without saying much! Abstract was his gift among other things…

I remember my last visit very well because I just wanted to go and cry, and I had about six drawings from earlier visits when I couldn’t wait until he had time for me… he sat three hours with me, just talking with his calm reassuring tone… and I felt calmer as I left…

He died by the end of that week, two days after I was randomly thinking of him while driving and feeling grateful God sent me such a gift and almost panicking over the thought of his death…

 He died in a car accident with his wife… I got to know so much about him after his death, from the stories people shared…

I knew he never majored in psychiatry because of a “family curse” but he had done all the studying and reading (he had one of the richest libraries on arts and psychology)… I knew that most of the portraits and sculptures of him were made by him… I knew he never had kids of his own, but he managed to be the father none of the countless number of young men and women he inspired ever had… I knew that even those who had rifts with him came to his wake and cried their eyes and hearts out…

He taught me so many things of which I lost count in addition to those he actually spelled out for me…

Today, I find myself realizing why I loved him so much although I didn’t even know him that well… I loved in him what I love about all those very special people I have in my life, how human he was… how he (and all my lovely lovely people) restore my faith in humanity and in the goodness of people and make up for the major disappointments that cut so deep into me…

I live because of people like him… I still smile, I still have hopes, I still believe things get better and push myself through when they don’t because I have people who breathe hope and faith in me by just being good and kind and nonjudgmental… and I strive to be like them as hard (and sometimes borderline impossible) it gets with all the evil I see in my little bubble of a world that I actually find quite shielding…

It is hard to believe that all people are worthy of love when you have been smeared with all the dogma and preconceived notions that were validated by people’s selfishness, insensitivity, manipulation, and abuse… but seeing how he loved all people the same that even those who were angry with him grieved, and seeing his spirit in her, and in him, and in her, and in tens and even more, I know it’s worth getting burnt if it means I would keep seeing that spirit for as long as I live… worth all the disappointments and pain…

Definitely.

The Coo-Coo Stigma

May be because I was born into a family of diagnosed and undiagnosed “coocoo heads” (whom i love/hate either way)…

May be because I grew up around an uncle who studied for his psychiatric diploma and basically spent his study-time analyzing most of those family members using medical jargon like “psychotic”, “clinically depressed”, and “maniac”…

May be because I watched enough movies that pay such tribute to psychoanalysis, or read enough about Freud, Jung, and psychological disorders…

May be because I have seen a real “schizophrenic” who turned out to be a “bipolar”…

May be because I have lived with a person who suffers from “depressive mania” (among other things) and and another who has enough destructive insecurities and childhood complexes who put me through hell just because they never even considered seeking treatment!

May be because I had suicidal friends for whom I had to cover-up…

May be because I have a hysteric mother and a couple of hysteric friends who need the world to revolve around their existence…

May be because I have a life-long experience of developing defense mechanisms and recognizing those of others…

May be because I enjoy philosophy and find it to be one of the greatest evidences to what a mind is a capable of…

May be because of all those things and a few more that I am open to the entire realm of psychology/psychiatry…

I believe in the power of the mind…

I believe the in the “ailments” of the mind…

I believe that a mind deserves to be taken care of and attended to by whichever means…

So…

Those who judge, label, or discredit those who seek the well-being of their minds, whichever way possible… I tell them:

 You should be admitted to a psychiatric facility where you get to experience ever ysymptom for which you have discredited, judged, or labeled another human being who had the right senses to attend to the well-being of their minds…  because you people, your minds lack what no therapy can retrieve…  HUMANITY!

NO to Sympathy.

No, I am not sympathetic…

I hate sympathy. Call it pride issues, grandeur syndrome, or independence to an unhealthy extreme, but I hate the term “sympathy”… I hate the idea of anyone feeling “sorry” for me, and I refrain from sympathizing with people, especially those I love and respect…

Don’t talk to me about sympathy, let alone begging for it and jumping through hoops of humiliation and self-exposure to “earn” it from people, be it those who trigger that need in you ,or random people who could fulfill that need on the go once you tell them about your health issues, your bad marriage, your dead-end career, your lonely nights, or your linger to a loved one or your linger, period.

It’s… humiliating… it’s a desperate call for attention that sadly results in the worst kind of attention, a condescending one: sympathy…

Why would anyone settle for being someone charity story… “Did you hear about him/her… let’s feel sorry for him/her…”

Is that empowering? Does it solve your problems? Does it end your tragedies? Does it make you feel loved and surrounded??? Do you really think sympathy is genuine care???

To me, the way I see it, sympathy is what you feel obliged to show when you couldn’t really care less… a mutilated form of relating to someone’s misery, yet secretly telling one’s self “whew, glad to know I am not in their place”… how could that possibly be genuine…

No, I am not sympathetic…

If you show me your scars so that I feed your self-pity, I’m sorry, spare me, I have my own scars and wounds, and I take pride in them, they’re not for show; I share them when I feel safe and surrounded with genuine care…

I am compassionate…

When I feel your pain, my heart aches for you even if I had never been through your exact pain… my soul relates to the aching of yours because on some invisible level we are all humans sharing more of the intangible than the tangible…

I wish my compassion would be unconditional to include those who seek sympathy as well, but they insult me with the manipulative tactics that speak to others’ sense of relevance, guilt, tendency for depression, or gratitude for having been “spared”…

People who perceive sympathy as a sort of “alms” the rich give to the poor so that they go to heaven simply lose my compassion because feelings are intangible and uncontrollable, and they do not buy redemption because they only set our souls free only when they’re genuine and pure from guilt and self-serving purposes…

It sounds like my old “ethical-nazi” self, I know…

I believe compassion, like love, is a form of giving, and that we do not assign ourselves as gods who would only give to the “worthy”, because we are all worthy… I just find my compassion turning to anger when someone is cheapening the process… I feel like I am being slapped on the face, and it makes me angry that right now the thought itself is making me shake…

If you have health problems, seek treatment and surround yourself with those who genuinely love you and care for you, those you love… you won’t even need to let them know because they will feel it, and then telling them will be rather dignified and heartwarming that it will take away from any physical pain or worry you might have…

If you’re in a bad marriage, go work it with your spouse before you discuss it with people… if your spouse has no ears for you, that’s a sign you should seek external help; I suggest counseling… if it’s a dead-end marriage, end it for God’s sake, life is too short to waste it with the wrong person… but whining over to someone who would nod sympathetically is a waste of breath, time, and words…

If your career is draining and unfulfilling, start planning a career switch… if you can’t spare the income, find something you can do passionately to fulfill yourself… unless of course your passion is whining!

If you’re lonely, trust me, exposing it for the mere sake of sympathy only makes you lonelier…

If you’re lingering for a loved one, go to them; that’s the only medicine for that kind of linger…

If you’re just lingering, then it’s for yourself that you linger… find yourself and heal it, because no one else would…

That’s how you win people’s compassion, when they see the pride you take in dealing with your problems…

Just don’t drain people with sympathy; it’s such a waste of feelings…

 

Note to the love of my life… Thank you for never allowing sympathy to exist between us; you make me breathe.

On Silence…

There are hundreds of quotes praising silence, calling it a “source of great strength”, a “true friend that never betrays”, and the most elaborate of speeches…

Others quotes basically confirm that silence is “heartbreaking” and that it’s “the loudest scream”

My father had religiously told me that words once spoken can never be unspoken… he made sure I knew that silence is made of gold and that I can never blurt things to people that I can never take back… he just didn’t explain that I should never be silent about my pain and let it take control of me, and so, I stopped recognizing my destructive silence…

Years later, I have come to recognize my silence and what it does to me…

Silence deafens me, be it mine or someone else’s… it. deafens. me.

My silence is a cold grip around my heart squeezing tears out of my eyes… my silence cripples my mind until it’s no longer able to tell thoughts apart… my silence makes my body get colder as it feels extremes of both pain and numbness… my silence absorbs the air out of my lungs making me struggle to breathe…

And so does your silence, because it provokes a silent volcano of pleads to not let me dwell on my fears and worries and assumptions that would tear me apart and then handle me to silence for I have nothing to base any spoken words on… and I can’t just speak my worries, my fears and my assumptions, because once they’re spoken, they are real (even if they never really applied) and I can no longer take them back…

So please don’t assume I know, don’t fear my reaction if I know, don’t worry about what speaking would do to me because nothing is as bad as silence… because silence lurks in the blur, away from the cleansing sun light…

Silence has no room between people who trust each other, so don’t encourage my silence with yours…

A Flower at Heart

Something about flowers call to me; I love flowers, even the pale ones that hold no fragrance, it’s like I know each and every one of them. I love flowers.

Last Thursday, I was getting out of a restaurant heading to my car and I saw a man selling those hand-made Egyptian Jasmine necklaces, he was chasing cars in hopes of finding someone who’d want to buy his jasmines…

Before I knew it, I found myself chasing him between cars until I was right behind him… he had just failed to convince a man to buy a necklace and he was turning when he almost bumped into me on the side walk of the other side of the street… he didn’t even expect me to ask him for jasmines, and so he didn’t even try to sell me any…

I stood for a split second before I gave him all the coins I had in my pocket and told him “I want jasmines”… it was like he couldn’t believe it… he gazed at me gave me a few necklaces as he said that cliche phrase “jasmine for the jasmine”, only he said it with such sincerity and gratitude… I was too embarrassed/shy to make eye contact; I thanked him and left…

I hung them on the mirror of my car after and kissed them like I always do when I am alone with flowers…  I kept breathing them in so hard; they represent a lot of things to me, things that speak directly to my soul leaving my mind in the middle unable to comprehend the intense feelings that go through…

The next day I drove to my workshop and looked for a place in the shade to park so that my jasmines wouldn’t wither… yes, I knew they were dead long before I bought them and that what my money bought was merely the fragrance of a beautiful dying soul… thinking that, I feel pieces of my heart breaking…

Today, I got in my car and I saw them all wilted and dry… I really did my best to ignore it, until I was alone in the car later that day, and I couldn’t keep my eyes on the road, instead, I kept looking at my jasmine and crying over them…

Flowers shouldn’t wither and die… 7aram… we take them for granted although we buy them to deliver messages and feelings our words can’t convey… and they pay for our words with their lives… no beautiful giving thing should go unnoticed and underappreciated…

I went home and looked for Amal Donqol’s poem…

تَتَحدثُ لي..

كيف جاءتْ إليّ..

(وأحزانُها الملَكيةُ ترفع أعناقَها الخضْرَ)

كي تَتَمني ليَ العُمرَ!

وهي تجودُ بأنفاسِها الآخرهْ!!

***

كلُّ باقهْ..

بينَ إغماءة وإفاقهْ

تتنفسُ مِثلِىَ – بالكادِ – ثانيةً.. ثانيهْ

وعلى صدرِها حمَلتْ – راضيهْ…

اسمَ قاتِلها في بطاقهْ!

Those verses of the poem hurt too much, it comes to mind every time I see beautiful flowers in a bouquet making me wish I could breathe life back into them…

I am empathetic, to flowers!!!! Sometimes I wish I were a flower…

“آه من خطوةٍ واقفه”

I can understand why you would waste a life time behind a closed door without opening it; doors have that captivating beauty and mystery to them that can distract you from pursuing whatever happiness that may lie behind them…

But I cannot understand why you’d let yourself stand still –even if for a few hours- behind bars that hold you back from all the things you’ve always wanted. There is no mystery about what’s behind the bars; they just keep you back from your life both bluntly and cruelly, taunting you with your own helplessness.

This is why the walls of prisons are connected by barred doors and windows; that’s the ultimate punishment for those who choose to remain in prisons…

You’re not a criminal, you do not belong in a prison… you see the life you’ve always wanted behind those bars… just figure out a way to tear them down…

Your life awaits you, don’t waste it standing still in misery… doors or bars… you shouldn’t blame the door for being too pretty or for hiding the unknown, and neither can you blame the bars for standing in your way… you only have yourself to blame, and so do I.

Mahmoud Darwish

يطير الحمام

يحطّ الحمام

أعدّي لي الأرض كي أستريح

فإني أحبّك حتى التعب…

صباحك فاكهةٌ للأغاني

وهذا المساء ذهب

ونحن لنا حين يدخل ظلٌّ إلى ظلّه في الرخام

وأشبه نفسي حين أعلّق نفسي

على عنقٍ لا تعانق غير الغمام

وأنت الهواء الذي يتعرّى أمامي كدمع العنب

وأنت بداية عائلة الموج حين تشبّث بالبرّ

حين اغترب

وإني أحبّك، أنت بداية روحي، وأنت الختام

يطير الحمام

يحطّ الحمام .

***

أنا وحبيبي صوتان في شفةٍ واحده

أنا لحبيبي أنا. وحبيبي لنجمته الشارده

وندخل في الحلم، لكنّه يتباطأ كي لا نراه

وحين ينام حبيبي أصحو لكي أحرس الحلم مما يراه

وأطرد عنه الليالي التي عبرت قبل أن نلتقي

وأختار أيّامنا بيديّ

كما اختار لي وردة المائده

فنم يا حبيبي

ليصعد صوت البحار إلى ركبتيّ

ونم يا حبيبي

لأهبط فيك وأنقذ حلمك من شوكةٍ حاسده

ونم يا حبيبي

عليك ضفائر شعري، عليك السلام

يطير الحمام

يحطّ الحمام .

***

رأيت على البحر إبريل

قلت: نسيت انتباه يديك

نسيت التراتيل فوق جروحي

فكم مرّةً تستطيعين أن تولدي في منامي

وكم مرّةً تستطيعين أن تقتليني لأصرخ: إني أحبّك

كي تستريحي?

أناديك قبل الكلام

أطير بخصرك قبل وصولي إليك

فكم مرّةً تستطيعين أن تضعي في مناقير هذا الحمام

عناوين روحي

وأن تختفي كالمدى في السفوح

لأدرك أنّك بابل، مصر، وشام

يطير الحمام

يحطّ الحمام .

***

إلى أين تأخذني يا حبيبي من والديّ

ومن شجري، من سريري الصغير ومن ضجري،

من مراياي من قمري، من خزانة عمري ومن سهري،

من ثيابي ومن خفري?

إلى أين تأخذني يا حبيبي إلى أين

تشعل في أذنيّ البراري، تحمّلني موجتين

وتكسر ضلعين، تشربني ثم توقدني، ثم

تتركني في طريق الهواء إليك

حرامٌ… حرام

يطير الحمام

يحطّ الحمام .

***

لأني أحبك، خاصرتي نازفه

وأركض من وجعي في ليالٍ يوسّعها الخوف مما أخاف

تعالى كثيرًا، وغيبي قليلاً

تعالى قليلاً، وغيبي كثيرًا

تعالى تعالى ولا تقفي، آه من خطوةٍ واقفه

أحبّك إذ أشتهيك. أحبّك إذ أشتهيك

وأحضن هذا الشعاع المطوّق بالنحل والوردة الخاطفه

أحبك يا لعنة العاطفه

أخاف على القلب منك، أخاف على شهوتي أن تصل

أحبّك إذ أشتهيك

أحبك يا جسدًا يخلق الذكريات ويقتلها قبل أن تكتمل

أحبك إذ أشتهيك

أطوّع روحي على هيئة القدمين – على هيئة الجنّتين

أحكّ جروحي بأطراف صمتك.. والعاصفه

أموت، ليجلس فوق يديك الكلام

يطير الحمام

يحطّ الحمام .

***

لأني أحبّك (يجرحني الماء) و

الطرقات إلى البحر تجرحني

والفراشة تجرحني

وأذان النهار على ضوء زنديك يجرحني

يا حبيبي، أناديك طيلة نومي، أخاف انتباه الكلام

أخاف انتباه الكلام إلى نحلة بين فخذيّ تبكي

لأني أحبّك يجرحني الظلّ تحت المصابيح، يجرحني

طائرٌ في السماء البعيدة، عطر البنفسج يجرحني

أوّل البحر يجرحني

آخر البحر يجرحني

ليتني لا أحبّك

يا ليتني لا أحبّ

ليشفى الرخام

يطير الحمام

يحطّ الحمام .

***

أراك، فأنجو من الموت. جسمك مرفأ

بعشر زنابق بيضاء، عشر أنامل تمضي السماء

إلى أزرقٍ ضاع منها

وأمسك هذا البهاء الرخاميّ، أمسك رائحةً للحليب المخبّأ

في خوختين على مرمر، ثم أعبد من يمنح البرّ والبحر ملجأ

على ضفّة الملح والعسل الأوّلين، سأشرب خرّوب ليلك

ثم أنام

على حنطةٍ تكسر الحقل، تكسر حتى الشهيق فيصدأ

أراك، فأنجو من الموت. جسمك مرفأ

فكيف تشرّدني الأرض في الأرض

كيف ينام المنام

يطير الحمام

يحطّ الحمام .

***

حبيبي، أخاف سكوت يديك

فحكّ دمي كي تنام الفرس

حبيبي، تطير إناث الطيور إليك

فخذني أنا زوجةً أو نفس

حبيبي، سأبقي ليكبر فستق صدري لديك

ويجتثّني من خطاك الحرس

حبيبي، سأبكي عليك عليك عليك

لأنك سطح سمائي

وجسمي أرضك في الأرض

جسمي مقام

يطير الحمام

يحطّ الحمام .

***

رأيت على الجسر أندلس الحبّ والحاسّة السادسه.

على وردة يابسه

أعاد لها قلبها

وقال: يكلفني الحبّ ما لا أحبّ

يكلفني حبّها.

ونام القمر

على خاتم ينكسر

وطار الحمام

رأيت على الجسر أندلس الحب والحاسّة السادسه.

على دمعةٍ يائسه

***

أعادت له قلبه

وقالت: يكلفني الحبّ ما لا أحبّ

يكلفني حبّه

ونام القمر

على خاتم ينكسر

وطار الحمام.

وحطّ على الجسر والعاشقين الظلام

يطير الحمام

يطير الحمام .

هكسر الأصنام

هكتب كلامي بالعربي علشان شايفة انه هيوصل أكتر للناس اللي محتاجة تسمعه… أو بمعنى أصح، الناس اللي يهمني يوصلهم هيفضلوا يقروه بالعربي… و أهو حتى علشان ميتحججوش باستخدامي لغة تخص ثقافة تانية و يلزقوا كلامي في مصطلحات زي westernized…

الطلاق مش نهاية الدنيا…

و السبب انه بيدمر نفسية ناس كتير سواءا الرجالة أو الستات أو الأطفال أو أسر كاملة هو إن احنا قررنا نخلق معتقدات و قناعات و نحجرها و نعمل منها تماثيل… و ياريتها تماثيل لآلهة نعبدها و نقدسها من باب الحب، لأ من جبروتنا على نفسنا عملنا تماثيل لشياطين و أرواح شريرة بنخاف منها أكتر ما بنخاف على عقيدتنا… و امعانا في العك، لزقنا كل التماثيل دي في العقيدة و حاوطناها بسلك مكهرب شائك يصعق كل من تسول له نفسه التشكيك فيها

طب ايه رأيكم بقى إن الطلاق حلال… و الله العظيم حلال و بالعند في اللي مش عاجبه مش هكر آيات قرآنية تثبت ده…

مفيش نص بيقول اي حاجة تفيد ان “العيال” هيتمرمطوا أو هينحرفوا أو هيتعقدوا… دي كلها أفكار اختلقناها و صدقناها و حققناها بمنتهى “النجاح”…

اللي بيقول “شايفين فلان و فلانة ولادهم ادمروا/باظوا/انحرفوا… و ده أكبر دليل على ان الطلاق مش الحل” ده ليه محاولش يفك الموضوع و يفكر ان يمكن ولاد فلان و فلانة دول لبسوا في الحيطة علشان محدش في اللي حواليهم اداهم اختيار تاني… هم ادوهم معادلة واضحة و صريحة و قاسية: 1+1=2 مع ان الموضوع  مش مسألة حسابية و دايما فيه عوامل بتفرقنا… لو كنا كلنا اسطمبة واحدة كان يبقى فيه مننا كتير أشكال و ألوان ليه!!!!

دي حاجة كدة في علم النفس اسمها

Projective Identification

يعني وصموه فاتوصم… حد رسملك طريق و انت مشيت عليه بحاذفيره…

يعني مثلا دي الجمل اللي بتتقال لأي واحد؟واحدة بيفكروا في الطلاق:

الولاد هيتشردوا… لو كنت/كنتي بطولك كان يبقى فيه كلام تاني -  و دي اشتغالة على فكرة، خصوصا للستات لإن هي لو بطولها هيطلعوا من شنطة حمزة الجملة الجاية

مين هيرضى يتجوز مطلقة؟؟ -  عنه ما رضي، يا بنتي اللي مش عايزك علشان “مطلقة” ولا “معاكي عيال” يغور في داهية، ولا بلاش، سكة السلامة.. ده “فلتر” إلهي اساسا

الطلاق ده أبغض الحلال -  حلال يا بشر حلاااااال و فيه حكمة كمان ولا دي بقى اللي هنعمل عبط على حكمة ربنا فيها

مدام بيصرف و بيبات في البيت، مفيش حاجة اسمها طلاق – ده لو ملاك، لو القبول خلص، يٌرد له ما أعطاه و كتر خيره و مع ألف سلامة

يعني ايه مش قادر/قادرة على العيشة معاه/معاها، هية لعبه، ده عمر، ده مستقبل – ماهو علشان عمر و مستقبل مفيهوش دور تاني… هو دور واحد، ليه يضيع علينا!!

يعني مستعد/مستعدة متتجوزيش/متتجوزش تاني؟؟ ماهو مش هتجيبي/هتجيب للولاد جوز أم/مرات أب – مممممم طيب ايه الحل؟؟؟ الدين و الشرع بيقولوا ايه؟؟؟ “بلاش جواز تاني” و “بلاش طلاق أصلا”، صح؟؟؟؟ اتقوا الله… و على فكرة يعني، أصلا اللي بتتطلق/بيطلق بيفضل مدة قافل من الفكرة أصلا و ضد المبدأ ان حياتها/حياته تدور حوالين شخص تاني

فيه جملة بنقولها دايما (غالبا لما حد بيموت) لكن مش بنطبقها:

الحياه تستمر

لما حد بيموتله حد بنصبروا و نقوله “البركة فيك” أو “البقية في حياتك” (مش مقصود بيها معنى يتعارض مع الشرع، المشكلة مشكلة صياغة)… طب لما يبقى مش موت، و لسة فيه حياة تستاهل تتعاش (بقرفها) و أحلام تستاهل تتحقق ليه نظلم نفسنا و نظلم زوج/زوجة  و أطفال؟؟

و ده مش ضد الاستقرار الأسري اللي الدين بينص عليه، لكن العيشة اللي مافيهاش رضا مابيجيش من وراها استقرار و بتخلق امتعاض… و بعد سنين تيجي تلاقي الأب أو الأم حاشرين نفسهم في حياة ولادهم و بيفرضوا عليهم رأيهم و يصروا و يحطوهم بين مطرقة سمعان الكلام و سندان العقوق… ماهم “ضيعوا عمرهم على ولادهم” و فضلوا مستحملين العيشة علشان “البنت يجيلها عرسان و أهاليهم ميتخضوش ان باباها و مامتها مطلقين” و علشان “الولد أخلاقه متبوظش و يعرف يختار و يبني بيت” و مستنيين “رد الجميل” اما في صورة اختيار دراستهم و مستقبلهم أو شريك/شريكة حياتهم، ماهم دافعين التمن من عمرهم!!!

تصحيح:

 تمن عمر كل واحد/واحدة في ايده/ايدها… محدش هيدفعه من عمره ولا من اختياراته و اللي فاكر انه/فاكرة انها “بيضحوا تضحية نبيلة” يقعدوا على جنب علشان “التضحية” كمبدأ لا تنتظر ثمن… يعني الهدف “النبيل” اللي بتضيعوا عمركم علشانه في الحقيقة “مقايدة” و رخيصة كمان لأنكم هتورثوا الدين ده لأجيال هو و الإحساس بالذنب اللي متنكر في صورة “عرفان”…

اعملوا لحياتكم… عيشوها… و ارضوا بيها زي ما هتختاروها… اختاروا غلط، لأنكم هتوصلوا لنقطة ممكن أوي تلفوا و ترجعوا و تصلحوا الغلط، و لو مفيش لف ولا رجوع للخلف، أكيد فيه مخرج… مش علشان الدنيا فانية، يبقى نفني عمرنا و حقنا في الرضا و السعادة فيها… متخلوش حد يقولكم ايه من حقم و ايه مش من حقم، محدش هيحاسبكم غير ربنا… و ربنا جوا كل واحد فينا…

و زي ما رشا بنت أو السعود قالت:

مينفعش ابداً تقبل ان كلمة “يا رب” ينطقها لسانك بصوت واحد تانى غيرك انت

منهجك انسجه انت…عَرَفه انت…نقيه انت…

اغلط فيه وامسح وعيد من الاول…اغلط فيه وقطع الصفحة واكتب على نضافة…اغلط فيه وخليهادام عينك واقلب الصفحة وحَسِن بس انت….كتابك انت..بخط ايدك

 متغشش من بليد

He*

He lives more in his head than outside of it…

He is pensive, questioning, and contemplative…

He has high aspirations… of himself, too high…

Some things happened in his life that made him too doubtful and cynical, and cost him his faith in his own goodness and that of the world…

And so…

He believes no good deed can redeem humanity, and that humanity shall be saved only by God’s grace… a God whom he occasionally disobeys his rules as he pins it on Satan and the lure of sins…

He hates himself thinking his hatred could perhaps purify his soul from his sins… but in hating himself, he bestows great injustice on others with his preconceived malicious expectations of them…

And so…

He sees the world through very dark shades that questions and even eliminate light and beauty, leaving nothing but sin and spite… people are sinners who are only motivated by lust to all that’s wrong, and he keeps getting tempted to join them until his guilt tears him apart into a self-forced salvation from which he relapses, over and over…

He is consumed with fear… not from God, for he believes in His mercy and grace… perhaps from people, even though he despises them… for they can harm him with their bigotry, hypocrisy, and narrow-mindedness, overlooking how he constantly judges them the same way he fears they do him…

Or is he afraid of himself… or of the voice of his own demon?? He insists on calling that inner voice all sorts of unholy names… he blames him for every sin and every indulgence to temptation… he blames him for enjoying life’s simple pleasures and for finding beauty in “sinful” words…

And so…

He strips himself from that voice, and condemns it as well as all those who speak with the same tone… deeming himself to an eternity of reluctantly living up to virtues that do not keep him from falling, and with every fall, he fails to enjoy the sensation free-falling, he wastes his time fearing the minute the cold floor beneath him will break his bones instead of learning how to fly in the process, and perhaps rise up to those virtues….

I know him, I see people I know in parts of him, I recognize someone I used to be as well…

But I would like to believe that I broke free… that I believe in people’s goodness just as much as I believe in God’s good grace…

I would like to believe that I love and forgive myself for every sin, and that accepting myself for who I am will only bring me closer to my salvation and will strengthen my hand-made fabric of virtues by which I can live…

I would like to believe that more good than bad shall come out of trusting humanity, and that whatever bad that shall touch me will be a lesson well learned… that we learn to protect ourselves after having been hurt, and that any other way of self-protection is more like self-denial of LIFE…

So, I see him, I feel anger at him, I feel anger for him… because I know he needs to let down his guard and trust more despite that pain that will pierce through his heart as light touches it for he had shielded in the dark for too long … I wish I could tell him that bliss is within pain and that it’s for us to unfold the latter without mutilating what it covers…

*inspired by the protagonist of Youssef Zeidan’s Azazil (that I haven’t yet finished)