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

Sunday, December 03, 2006

The night the pure sand grains gathered

Blessed is what I am to have strangers guide me to what's best for me. One can tell a lot more from a piece of paper than from a pointless conversation that would probably focus on the latest edition of Campus or a new concert down at the Culture Wheel.

For that I thank you.

I have been going through rough times lately; the roughest since… ever probably.

Our generation ain't about financial depression. We have the internet and we blog, we must be blessed then, huh.

الحمدلله على كل شيء

But then again… I think the plague of this era hits where it hurts the most. It hits the soul for those of us who've got one.

Any sheep can fall down, but it takes a man to get back on his feet.

Bring it on, I'll say.

I deserve better. I ain't a bad person. I must be worth something on somebody's price list.

This page means nothing to me now. It's served its purpose well. I will keep it out here as a souvenir; a reminder that one shouldn't really give up on things, a reminder never to be left off guard.

I will keep posting. I'll do it on a new page that marks a new beginning for me. I need it. I deserve it.

Something inside me died the past few days. This dead page should resemble the remains of that thing.

I don't want it anymore.

I'll keep it here.

I'll look at it and laugh at myself.

It helped me learn a valuable lesson.

The more you dream, the harder you fall… and the harder you fall, the more you learn.

I'll shatter this life painting into pieces of worthless glass…
And the glass morphed into a mirror that scared her off…

Saturday, December 02, 2006

Thank you and goodbye

I want to thank the people who’ve been stopping by to check this page. I’ve been somehow threatening myself every now and then that I’ll just stop blogging, that I’ll quit writing, but every time I say that it only takes me a week to regain my cruel senses.
Well… this is it. I’m done. I lost my reason to write.

They say that everything has it’s price, including people; but it so happens that when you walk into a store and pick a box that holds your name and realize that that there’s no price tag attached, that’s when you realize that it’s not because you’re so priceless…

Cheapness comes last to all; the true unspoken one. People go through all self-realization stages and always manage to go up a level cleaner, more mature, less discounted, and fine; but when you’ve reached ‘Cheapness’ however, that’s when somebody’s dropped you, and you’ve already morphed into shattered glass. If only people knew they were that fragile…

Let the God up there hear me. I want to live a normal life…

I don’t want to dream anymore.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

The way they cut through me

They cut through me, the bars. Six rays of sunlight cut through my hole like teleporting angels skimming into my life, giving me hope in slim portions of yellow visions from someplace beyond. I choose to live on the hope that on the other side of the dark walls something sweet awaits me. It takes more than a jailbreak to feel free and it takes much, much less than a couple bars to feel encaged.

I know what I'll do now. I'll just get back to my daily ritual of getting down on my knees and begging that whatever it is that is outside that I'm waiting to get to is as reviving as I dream that it'd be. Then I'll grab on to the prison bars, not sure whether I'm trying to breakout or whether I'm holding on to it so it wouldn't leave me.

I look up at the square shaped window from heaven, not sure whether I'm staring at the light of freedom or at the bars that encage me.

I don't even care… I've been encaged far too long.

Either way I know I'll manage just fine.

Monday, November 27, 2006

The Counted VS the Countee

I picked it. I'm trapped now and there's nowhere to run for cover. Facing the music becomes inevitable at this stage. It kicks sleep out of your eyes and the meadow becomes sheepless. All you can do is wait for the batteries to run out.

I'm counting the seconds instead now, hoping they'd bore me out of consciousness. They didn't though. They sound like an army of ancient warriors marching up my brain to achieve something spectacular, glory, and be a part of history. The History of my nights by R.R… by very own bestseller that I've been tricked into buying.

Every single night… what an idiot!

I can't wait for tomorrow.

Saturday, November 25, 2006

Fine Art

He picks a handful of mud from the ground and covers his face and clothes. Not wanting to be recognized he dips himself into the dirt like a candy dips into sour cream. He had also picked a hobby of pulling eye lashes and blowing them into the wind; along the air waves, carrying a wish that he had once whispered, hoping no one else would hear it. He was shy like that. He didn't want them to think that he wanted anything. He wanted them to believe that he was content. Satisfaction comes hard.

Confident and certain, he doesn't know what to do. He's no longer making sense and everything being said sounds gibberish. He forgot how to think. He forgot how to taste things. Colors no longer carry a valid excuse for significance and originality, the reason why he likes things in black and white. Animals are lucky.
Black and white don't lie.

He chases his shadow into another dream, into a room, empty as a desert; where his voice can echo back to him in silence. He liked echoes. They come back telling him that no one out there hears his cries. At least upon hearing their return he can shut up.

He writes down his prayers on a piece of paper, folds it into the shape of a bird, a bird that can fly, a bird that can go to places that he couldn't touch, and throws it out the window. He didn't sign his name though. Names don't matter where the bird's heading.

He knows now that he'll be fine.

Thursday, November 23, 2006

And on marched the fearless knight

Words he formed out of his dreams
Along the lines of what's real and what seems
Marches on a fearless night
Who took a black phoenix for his ride
Amidst the shadows no one could see
That he feared the gold dragon in his dreams
He fought the spider and the ghost
He grew a beard on like a goat
He used the broom for spider webs
And all the guts that he was fed
'Carve it inside', his father said
'Be grateful for the father who once led'
He passed the salt off to those of needs
And everywhere he buried the seeds
He's swallowed every bullshit word
Of every knight who held a sword
Be good, Principles, and shit like that
Trust is priceless. Never rat
He should have cut his eyes out blind
And stuck a fork deep in his mind
He should have loved himself some more
And fucking stab them at the door
Swines in human form a pact
They rise together, hand in hand
Twenty five years ago he cried for breath
And now he weeps and begs for death
But deep he knows he will be missed
By the spider and ghost and an arrogant bliss
The many signs that stood out strong
The many places where he didn't belong
He gave up long before he died
He breathed out what was already dead inside
He turned to her and held her hand
Hoping for once she'd understand
'Put me to bed. I beg you to stay
Until my eyes are shut away'
The knight inside demands the rest
He hates the person that he knew best
He's old enough to rule the world
Yet fears the dragon made of gold
That he made out of pillows and dreams and hopes
He washed the soot off with blood and soap
Took off the nightmare and wore a fake smile
And picked a sword long as the Nile
Walked through the door and through the crowd
Leaving behind his fear and shroud
'Behold. I am the fearless knight'
And lied as he promised to make it all right

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

That Special Thing

An endless stream of thoughts I write
About my fever of the night
I've often feared so many childish things
Ghosts and spiders and things that could have been
My hands keep shrinking, and reaching out
For an era of desire when tongues were drought
I drown in a time frame made of sand
While she moves around with her ringless hand
Playing her games, her 'out of reach'
A lesson I've learned that now I can teach
To empty handed fools like my self
Who once thought they were above all else
Stomp all over. I don't care
She's that special thing that I used to wear
In… Put me back in
Don't you dare touch my braided strings
It reasons how I've dealt with matters that long
When all my logic's served me wrong
Spoon-fed particles of dust of shame
I figured maybe, just maybe it'd fade
But then at a pier of nonsense she rose
Passed through me as I watched her go
Away in negligence of the thing she's left behind
Her fucking candy, lollypop; her magic ride
They all grow up and leave me here
In my own special third hemisphere
I cross the border. I cross the guards
They chased me on and through the yards
And gates of
Cairo. Down on my knees
I beg for rest. I pray for a dreamless sleep
Where ration can play the part it should
Where logic fails when all else could
I should have went that extra mile
I could have made it worth her while
But I didn't… I thought the strings may fade
Oh they didn't and now I'm too afraid

Sunday, November 19, 2006

Something Dark

I shut it all out, the ray of light
I shut my eyes from the so-called bright
To welcome the pain of the deep color red
An iris so colorful, so easily fed
Rushes in the daggers of worried thoughts
To witness the morph of a dreamful boat
Mischievously lurking behind a lid so cold
Crushing me eyes, wrinkling me old
I should have wept, I should have cried for help
But Instead I went blogging, alas, it didn't melt
I welcome the thunder of something weary and dark
To wait for its sparkle and the road it'll mark
The dream of falling into the deepest of wells
And the more I dreamt, the harder I fell
The instincts I've trusted and the ones I named 'friend'
The ones that died and the many more that went
A killer in red lurking behind a skin
That covers my eyes and darkest of sins
They could see through me. They could see through my whites
I shut every space. I shut them tight
Underneath a layer of skin I'll pretend and hide
I'll cover my white lies, the ones I named pride
I’ll cover my dreams and self deal with my shame
I'll throw them away with my collection of mind games
In a box so big I call it 'the world'
With things that never changed and others that got bold
Amidst the fog a time machine that I'd built comes to life
Carries me to the days when all the wrongs seemed alright
On board I keep them closed, shut away from all the scars
Marking a map to eternal flames that I thought once were too far
The foolish games that I've played, the unanswered prays
I've given up on many things. It seemed easier back in the day
When I threw my heart on the table begging for a lover
And upon their birth I shut my eyes and run for cover
And the good ol' shoe glistens, lighting up another dark
Through which it once carried me through an untouched park
That held in all the secrets, all the sins, and dreams
That once seemed possible however ludicrous they may have seemed
I lurk like all else, I crawl back home
Through the hallway, through the door, and up my throne
Unaware of the raven that's claimed over my place
Unaware of the ugliness the creature held with grace
All tired and restless, I hold my white flag up high
Still shutting them I try to ignore the unanswered whys
Then a black monster crawled up from behind a leaning shadow
Crawled up my spine, in need of someone else's life to borrow
I lie again on my back counting the days that were theft
The life that passed in vain and the moments I have left
I could have done more. I needed another chance
But in a lifespan so short, all you get is one glance
With all things averaged, I'd say I did fine
But the guy with the scoreboard said now you have to die
I still have them shut away from the monster I have tamed,
A raven hideously lurking, bearing my name
Have I been such a fool? Have all those been clear cut signs?
Giving me hints that in the end the loved dies
The black shadow now surrounds me. My lids are no longer there
I'm alone and naked, needn't of lies to wear
I can see clearly now, but it often comes when it's late
When you're about to meet the master, the keeper of the gate
At last, I'm flying. My dark fate carries me on
Deluding me into thinking how I'm not empty to the bone
They're calling out my name and pointing their black fingers
Laughing, shrieking… I can only linger
And think to myself. Nah, this can't be true
I shook off the dust and tidied up my suit
Egoistically cunning, as always, I lurk myself
The troubles and doubts I'll throw back on the shelf
And watch them as they rot amidst the dust I shall become
Along with the raven that carries me. All becomes one.
The loved ones with the hated I throw in my box
'Adaptation' I add to the combination that's locked
Me out of everything I've ever loved. I've been known to be slow
And before I could blink I lost my lids, they're also buried deep below
Right next to my box of haunting secrets that marks my grave
Enchained to the bottom of my dream well I fall again enslaved
Still shivering cold. I feel naked still
As I highlight their names in my final will
I'll lie there waiting for the ravens to return
To carry me off to a brighter future where heads won't turn
Every time I cross the river off and away from their remorse
I don't need your moment of silence. I've gotten over my curse
I'll just look away, eyes opened. I no longer give a damn
Then a black demon that now possessed me cried 'I am what I am'

Saturday, November 18, 2006

'The world as it is' by O. Twist

Poverty, famine, wars, corporate greed, oil, terrorism, money, money, and money. Man's first accomplishment was probably killing a mammoth. Sign? I'm not really sure anymore. I usually demand certain things that some people may find naive. I try not to stab people in the back and to think about the overall welfare of my surrounding individuals before myself. I'm a workaholic. I've had one sick day off for the past four years at work. When people ask me why work so hard, it's worthless… and of course the endless strings of على قد فلوسهم I respond by saying that what you do defines you.

I'm an easily inspired person. Not easily influenced… inspired. A song can drive me on for months, an instrumental, a good movie, a book, a look.

A part of my job is to tell people 'This is where you make da big bucks. Give us your money and I'll make you rich'.

Personally, I never touch the money. I don't see it and I have no idea what they, my proud owners – the corporate entity, actually do with the money except have it stored away for a long time. I guarantee things that I can't control, but then again I guess this is what we all do one way or the other. It's part of a job, a lifestyle, a promise to a friend, a father's pledge, a line from a marriage proposal. Everything is uphill from here… that's what they all said.

The way I see the world? I think the world's become too complex for simple answers. The simpler you are, the less ambitious people may think of you. The deeper you are, the crazier you must be. I hold a job that pays well, I have friends, not so many but enough, I have a family that I love… and still the little leprechaun inside demands MORE. Oliver is not the only poor soul that demands more. We all do.

If I had more guts I'd quit my job and do music or write screenplays or novels. I'd even do it for free. I chickened out of the things that I want a zillion times.

رفعت الأقلام و جفت الصحف

So if every man's supposed to seek his own destiny… if it's all been written up there somewhere, I'd really like to know what's in it for me? What's next? I'm not lost, but I do need motivation… that something spectacular is bound to happen. I need a manual, a guarantee.

Call me an idealist… but I just wanna die in my sleep.

Friday, November 17, 2006

All big and grey

He wanted to travel the world, to explore, to have an adventure of his own to tell his grandchildren when he's old and wrinkled. He wanted to point and say 'I did this and I did that', to look back and smile in triumph. He wanted to love be loved, pure and senseless. He wanted heaven and beyond.

He wanted to learn to fly. Was that too much to ask for?!

He wanted so many things.

He learned how to walk. He waltzed into the world and tried. He fell, but then he got up again and tried some more. 'Drastically doomed', that's what they told him, but he was too arrogant to give up.

It only took two spears to strike him down; one hit his brain and the other hit his heart. His soul remained untouched, as always, all stubborn and decomposing.

And so he crawled back into his cave to worship his reflection on the wall chasing a mammoth all big and grey, thinking to himself 'I could have done that'.

He could have done it all.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

Savor it

Revenge is a frozen tear wrapped in a triumphant smile; a false self-portrait of a man's finest hour.

Revenge has never tasted so sweet.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

The meter just keeps a-ticking

Monotoned, gray-scaled, black & white… my favorite complexion. Unfortunate for me, it's also the paint job they chose for Cairo's taxis. Sometimes I get the feeling that only because I like that complexion that the taxis appear to me that way. For someone who's into orange and blue, taxis probably look that way to them as well. For yuppie chicks, a combination of pink, light pink, and dark pink is probably what makes a taxi unique from other city cars… for them that is.

The moment you stand in the middle of a crowded sidewalk waiting for one to show up, you know you're in for a big disappointment. Perhaps that's why the Egyptians have been known to be خير جند الأرض; maybe that's why we think we're the best amongst all, that we're the center of the world… it's that ability to swallow the disappointment and wait… or settle for a short-people-customized vehicle such as the microbus where, contrary to floating in space, you actually get out feeling shorter. Some people prefer to walk instead, and to that latter group I belong.

Walking is not only healthy; it also spares you the bohemian and prehistoric caveman pop music that they play in microbuses, sung by people named after ancient Indian tribal warriors such as Sa'ad the small and Hassan the dark. Oh you can avoid that and get into a cab (preferable over microbuses if you have one limb and can't crawl), but then you'll have to deal with the chatterbox monster that's been locked away from civilization for the past 100 years that you've released the moment you got in… that is IF you got in in the first place. There's something about taxi drivers in Egypt that makes me bow my head in respect, it's their ability to control the road. I hate to think that in ten years from now they're probably going to control our destination as well. Get in and see where he talks ya… pretty much like destiny don't you think?

Destiny's defined as not knowing for sure where you're heading or when you'll crash and die.

Yes that's my definition of the word. I own a challenging dictionary. Memorize that!

With the street brawling, the rear bumps, the badmouthed slang, the overcharge, and the angry drivers with bad breaths, the streets of Cairo become a war zone, all in all battling for road glory. Schumacher wouldn't stand a chance. NASCAR should drop by some time. We've got many special talents, starting from microbus hit-and-runs and ending with multi car accidents… and don't get me started on the traffic lights.

Oh I've had many, many late penalties deducted off my paycheck, but I still refuse to buy a car. I ain't cheap. I just refuse to drive in the streets of Cairo. I get pissed off this planet just sitting there. I can't drive without a shotgun license.

Yeah… twenty years from now, car dealers would probably give those away with cars for free.

Hmm… maybe I should buy me a car.

Now where's my hockey stick?

Saturday, November 11, 2006

To read between the lies

Another light earthquake hit Cairo today after yesterday's. I only read about the one that happened yesterday in an SMS that I received from a free news provider service that I've subscribed to three weeks ago. At first, I figured cool!! I seem to be reading less and less newspapers lately and I've become a corporate slave. I thought that service would help keep me updated, but I guess I was wrong. It depressed me. It tends to send around 10 SMSs everyday (Thank God for silent mode)… and unfortunately the news are usually unfortunate. This guy got arrested and that guy blew himself up. A plane crash, a Palestinian massacre, an Israeli gay parade, an earthquake…

What the hell is the world coming to?!

With the vibe of Cairo's sexual harassments going on around the blogosphere, I couldn't write about that incident. I won't deny the fact that, for the first two days, I didn't even believe that it happened. Maybe I didn't want to… I dunno. A fellow blogger wrote somewhere that what happened is not just wrong… it's UNACCEPTABLE. I agree. Wrong is when you rob someone out of their money because you think that you deserve it more. Wrong is when you lie because you think that it held a valid excuse at the time. That sexual incident is beyond wrong. It can't even be performed by human beings. A wolf pack wouldn't have done it. And with all the shame running through the veins of my fellow countrymen I find a few names suing people right and left, demanding an explanation, a scapegoat. A dean at the Actors' Union whom I don't care enough to remember his name filed a legal claim against Dina El ra22asa. Apparently, they said that Dina and a couple other jerk offs named Riko and Saad the small were riding Cairo's #1 public transportation vehicle i.e. al microbaz when they decided to dance and sing in the middle of the street. That's also when Dina decided to get on top of the vehicle and do her thing. (Cheap strippers should learn from her) Apparently, she must have showed too much flesh. They all got horny or whatever and they marched down the streets of Cairo, hunting for their preys. What do I think? Nah… She maybe guilty of many things. I personally think that she should be burned on a stake, but she ain't guilty this time. No matter what she did can't and won't serve me an excuse strong enough to justify that shit.

The problem doesn't only lie in the fact that those animals did what they did; it also lies in the fact that nothing happened & nothing is happening still. People talk and bloggers blog. Tabloids write all sorts of details, real and fiction, with one purpose on their minds. Sell Sell Sell.

So what's next?

If I were elected president or minister of internal affairs, I wouldn't jail them. I wouldn't hang them or gas them either. I'd nullify their citizenships and kick them out in the middle of the ocean. A friend of mine argued that and said that they should be enlisted in the army for ten years, but I disagree with that. In my country, I would only send the trustworthy to defend my people. I'll just throw them out. I don't give a fuck where. Out!! خلّي بلد تانيه تلمّهم

Yeah I can imagine what happens after that. The ever humble USA will come along with their user-friendly business cards that say at the bottom 'Give me your hungry and needy and poor', grant them a green card and ask them all sorts of questions about their country… the home that betrayed them.

'The only gossip I'm interested in is things from the Weekly World News – 'Woman's bra bursts, 11 injured'. That kind of thing' – Johnny Depp

So what the fuck next?! What news does my SMS inbox hold for me? More about the Sudan, Lebanon, Palestine? John F. Bolton's nomination? Another bombing in Iraq? Armageddon perhaps?

The more I read the news, the more I wish I was illiterate. Ignorance is bliss!

In the end I'll say that if you don't love this country enough to die for it, then you might as well leave, let the West nourish your ambitions… and that doesn't just go to the rapists.

Don't be a fucking liability!!

Friday, November 10, 2006

Je suis content

It's cold.

The ice storm caught up to his feet making them feel parted from the rest of the body. The winter illusion of a deformed figure of a man who was once beautiful and warm.

It rained cats and dogs and everything else. The raindrops freezing in the middle of the raging skies on their way down from heaven, morphing into cold bullets aimed at his emptiness. The snow impersonated the nature of dead molecules and cruised the sky in random manner, blocking a distant horizon, walling out an exit door.

Then the shadow of something dark haloed over his chest, deepening his voice, shortening his breaths. Marathon of the heart rapidly effervescing like a shaken cola. He sought liquid to quench the thirst of a hollow soul, but alas the ice has taken over and his tongue stuck trapped and speechless to a lake that he remembers was once nice and cozy.

He should have moved on when he could, but the crossroads were signless and the destinations were all ambiguous; they still are. He needed a man to grab his hand and show him the right path. He needed a father figure that never showed up.

'If only the wind would take me', he said, 'If only the storm could carry me'.

The darkness lurked into his eyes as his eye lids felt the need for comfort…

He's cold, but he's happy now.

The winter seasoned in and climaxed my desire to breathe
I want to remember the summer, yet I can't wait for the freeze

Saturday, November 04, 2006

Another diary excerpt

You reach a certain point when the words 'I care' don't mean shit to them anymore; when they start to question your true intentions; when they begin to feel that the best description of you is to name you a puppeteer, a person who strives to declare himself as your rightful owner.

Sweet talk is easy; a string of words fitted to change the course of another person's thinking. I hate sweet talking and I've always believed that words that fall along the lines of sweet talk are probably synonyms of the word bullshit quoted from the thesaurus book we use to stabilize the kitchen table.

Suddenly your image becomes faded and the people you've most cared for begin to question you and everything that you ever stood for. That is also the point in time when everything that you've worked for and done for the sake of that person falls into that same thesaurus page. You never wanted to change their course of thinking. You just wanted them to understand.

You think that everybody loves you and respects you, but she doesn't. Perhaps you should have crucified yourself in order to make them believe you.

To her you're a fraud… but you don't care anymore.

You're only a thesaurus page that people will now refer to whenever they feel betrayed.

The only problem is that you still do it gladly.

What haunts the blogosphere

The issue of the veil, the recent sick display of sexual harassments that lately took place in Cairo, the virginity department… and more issues of advanced logical proportions… those were the main issues discussed lately on the lonely charismatic blogosphere.

Come to think of it, didn't most civilizations end when efforts were taken away from religion and put into science and what was referred to as logic and philosophy? I dunno. I always felt that I was the logical type. I dunno anymore.

One of the neglected issues was the issue of Al-Zakah. How many bloggers out there pay Zakah anyways? And how many of those who don't often preach about veiling? How many of those who do break their fast whenever they want to by lighting up a ciggie or staring at the hot babe at work?

Aren't we all a bunch of hypocrites?

Just a couple days ago, a friend of mine asked me whether I do something else other than paying zakah and giving sadaqa. She said that those things are the given norms, their obligatory anyways… 'What else do you do?', she asked.

I, personally, don't do anything else other than giving away money. I'll go back to one of the Egyptian habits that I've developed since I moved back to Egypt and make up my own official statistical analysis of the whole thing. I'd say that at least 60% of Muslims out there don't pay their Zakat. Yes… I made that up… and I believe it. It's my blog and I'll say whatever I want. I don't settle for those Zakat calculators they keep sending in email fwds either. I calculate it by checking my bank account balance at the end of the year and giving away 2.5% of it for Zakat. I usually pick a family whom I know needs the money, one of the poor police 3asakers that guard my work premises 24/7, one of the care service dudes… whatever. 2.5% of a year end balance is by far more than what is required (in my case of course), but I do it anyways. I'd pay more if I could afford it.

Now imagine if everybody did the same. 2.5% thrown into a special bank account, designed to serve the poor and needy. Every month we pick ten families and give them a lump sum of money. Isn't that what Bait Al Mal was all about?

Do that… and watch people feel more appreciation, admiration, love, and respect to the Muslim faith. Do that and all young men can afford buying apartments, getting married… there will be no more sexual assaults, no more robberies. Rich people would then care less for new Nokias and Minis and more for those who deserve food and shelter and better education for a change.

Maybe I don’t go to shelters or ask kids on the streets if they need my assistance in getting them a better life and making their dreams come true, but I do try from a distance. I wish I could go to shelters and directly do some help… but I don't think that I have to… not really. I don't!!

I'd like to do it because I want to.

Sue me!!

In the end there are two kinds of people in this world (yes this is my blog and what follows is what I think)… there are men of logic and men of faith

Our generation?... naaah.. we're all just lost in between.

I believe they'd refer to it as اللى رقصوا عالسلم

We're the ones that don't know shit.

Friday, November 03, 2006

A. K. A. Prague

He uttered a few words in silence then left. He's grown a bit taller. He has matured a bit more. He now knows how it feels to be left to drown in a Petri dish, to be looked down on through a microscope and analyzed.

Maturity can only be described as an endless analog scale. No matter how fully matured you feel, there's always a chance to develop that maturity hoax a little more.

How mature can a person get really?

Deep down he knew that maturity is just a life long April's fool that everybody's fallen for. Deep down everybody's as childish as the very next person; dropping banana peals on the sidewalk, squirting guns at strangers whom we feel would forgive us for being the figure of innocence that we are, and other mind games that you wouldn't believe. If we're not in it for the fun of it, then what the hell are we doing here?

Add a very big mouth to a diminished physique and a narrow mental capacity and watch the human form evolve into something godly. Those are excerpts from our national anthem. Those constituted our religion, that thing we've lived by and swallowed…

… and life does go on!

It does… and he wondered if he'd be missed.

Le Martine once said that sometimes, when one person is missing, the whole world seems depopulated. If only bullshit had an a.k.a.

He rushed into a brick wall on the other side of the street, thinking strong, believing invincible. 'Nothing can break me', he said as he hit his mortared destiny, and off he bounced chasing a shadow of maturity in its most glorious form. He chased it off to the gates of Naples where he found his true heart, his old and originally stunning self.

The snob in him stood tall and lonely. He grinned with teeth that could light up Prague like a sun of day in the center of an infinite sky and cried 'Oh I still exist'.

They hated him. Yesterday he was their Olympic God. Today he's just a shadow of somebody who once was. How engulfed by life can a man become?

It's their loss. He so deserved better.

One day they love him. The next day they just don't. He's easy. He's small, insignificant, demanding his a.k.a. Like words from Holy Books that's been altered to cover the new and improved, he pretty much felt the same. He's easy to change, adapt, compromise, substitute to fit the newly established needs of the fellow men of the new age.

In the end the other warriors told him that all roads lead to Rome. What if the roads aren't clear enough to pursue?

Not even the microscope could find him.

Rome, I seek thee.

Saturday, October 28, 2006

In Doc we trust

Again I find myself crawling towards them.

I went to get a sinus x-ray at Alpha Scan about two hours ago. I had to. I had to know what's going on up there where it makes no sense.

Don't you find it funny that they usually don't have any clocks hanging anywhere at the doctor's office?

I went up to the reception counter where some dude asked me about the type of x-ray I wanted to have taken, wrote my name down on some form, then asked me to wait; and so I did. Fifteen minutes later, some other dude called my name out and asked me to follow him through a door with a sign that said Restricted Area, the hoax of restriction and confidentiality. In there, I met a woman that looked like she was the one. She asked me whether I wanted a normal scan or a cross-sectioned one, to which I replied 'normal please'. She then wrote some meaningless abbreviations on that same form that held my name and gave it to the dude who escorted me back outside to the waiting area and asked me to wait again. At that point, of course, my seat had been taken.

What the hell just happened? Why did they ask me to go in there and ask for the same goddamn x-ray that I asked for at the counter? Why do they even have reception? Disguised unemployment! How insignificant would I feel if I held that reception dude's position? They just fool us into believing that they're all about professional help, don't they?

I waited some more, ten more minutes probably. No clocks to tell time and I felt like I've been waiting forever and a day. They might as well put us all in freezers until it's our turn to be scanned; at least that way we won't feel like we've aged a zillion years.

My name got called up again and I followed the same dude into an elevator. They've had that dude's job replaced by machines designed to call out your number and give you directions like two decades ago. I elevated to the second floor on which they asked me to wait again.

I waited for twenty fucking minutes. They had a film about a Napoleon wannabe playing on mbc2. The scene playing was when he got escorted to a mental asylum. It felt like a big fat sign to everybody there waiting for their forsaken turns.

And then it happened. They called my name.

I walked into a room where I met some dude who wasn't a doctor. He was a "technician". What the hell does a technician do anyway? They said that the detailed report signed by the official doctor would be ready by tomorrow, which probably meant that the technician didn't know how to do it himself. Did they even have doctors working there? Would that "official doctor" signature even be real? If I owned that place I'd probably fire half the staff and hire doctors who study for over seven fucking years and get to make 2400 LE a year. How is it that the two most important professions in Egypt get the lowest pay? Doctors and engineers should get what they deserve. They should also be executed if they ever made a mistake.

Technician my ass.

The dude asked me to stand in front of a board and took the long awaited picture or whatever. The board was attached to a big machine that looked like an electric converter with the word TOSHIBA written across. If only that machine could read my mind it would probably read the words Fuck You.

I was done in ten minutes, after which the technician said 'حمدلله عالسلامه'. I walked out of there thinking what if that whole thing was a big hoax? What if that Toshiba machine was actually an electric converter? What if they had one x-ray sample copied a zillion times and all they had to do is change the width and height of the skull to match the patient's skull size? Even a seven year old can do it nowadays; the miracle of Photoshop.

I felt scammed… again. I needed assurance and satisfaction.

I should have more trust in medicine.

I'll be getting the results tomorrow.

Friday, October 27, 2006

Another becoming

He became her stranger, her acquaintance, her friend, her soul mate, her lover, herself… then before he could blink, he found himself falling back to square one where he's not even there, where he's just someone she once knew, where he's not part of her circle of trust; not anymore, he's not; even though he'd give up everything just to become an insignificant part of that circle; even if he knew that he could be nothing more than a chair on which she could sit, perhaps kick away when she's bored.

Today, his name just rings a bell. He let her sleep on it, sweet moron that he is, as he indistinctly watched himself become one part carbon and two parts oxygen that she can easily exhale.

She once made him a better man.

Today, she made a big fat nothing out of him pointlessness, right before she elegantly walked away.


How can a word mean so much and yet still remains the emptiest word in the English language?!

He really does deserve it all.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

On bullet in the west of potential

No pain is worse than the pain of not being able to do.

The right-hand hemisphere of the human brain is the side that controls the creative functions. It is also the side of the brain which is underused by the majority of people. Because it is underused, much creative talent in many people remains untouched throughout life, stressing the fact that, until we try, most of us never know what we can achieve and what we could have accomplished.

One in six people in Egypt have the desire to write a novel, yet only a very small percentage of these people progress any further than the initial stage of just thinking about it.

Would that mean that we should try and use the right side of the brain a bit more? Certainly not. Where the right side is used to create things, the left side is used to actually come to the state of organizing the things that we create. The left side controls lingual capabilities, academic studies, and rational intellectual work. Eventually the right side won't stand a chance on its own. What good would it be if we created a zillion ideas with no string to attach them altogether?

Lately, I'm been finding it very difficult to organize my thoughts, make rational decisions. My left hemisphere is a battlefield in flames, burning down every action and every decision that once stood firm and solid. This is where the headache lies, digging in, burying its flag, marking a new territory, singing its own national anthem of triumph over my unorganized, irrational self.

Ever feel that there's a bullet inside long before you aim a gun to your head? My brain's left half is saying its prayers now, while the right half ain't complaining, singing Good bye yellow brick road, creating a hundred ideas every second of every day…

…no strings attached.

It takes one bullet to quench the enflamed thirst for revenge. It takes one bullet to shake it all down.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

The dawn, the sky, the contact list

To go out at dawn, heading towards the mosque, is probably my second favorite thing ever. My first being staring in silence at the Ka'aba.

I usually go to pray at a mosque close to wear I live. It's not a small one, yet not big enough to handle the crowds that go to pray every year at Eid. To solve that problem, they usually let women have the mosque for themselves and all the men get to pray outside; by outside I don't mean on the street though. There's this unused piece of land that is owned by the army where men get to pray at Eid right next to the mosque. They spread a long carpet and they're ready to go.

My best part of it all is sitting there and staring at the big and empty sky, looking up, waiting for something. You might also say that it feels as if God is watching over us pray.

The whole setup always amazes me. Families going together, hand in hand, standing row by row, praying, rejoicing, wishing each other the best. What else could a human being ask for?!

My Eid morning usually continues with me heading to the kitchen. I fix me a cup of coffee and go spend some quality time with my computer early in the morning until my family wakes up. I remember, seven years ago, when I used to log into the ICQ only to find my entire list of contacts online. They're all there ready to chat. The ones in North America haven't gone to sleep yet and the ones in Egypt or the Gulf have all come back from Eid prayer and are all waiting online to wish everybody else the best Eid ever with many more to come. I miss those days.

Time changes. Life changes. My contact list is offline. I lower down the volume of my speakers and listen to the Cranberries' Everybody Else is Doing it, one of my most precious music possessions…

and I started blogging… Why am I writing this post? Well, I guess it's because I'd like to feel that nothing has changed. That all is well in the wild, wild world.

الحمدلله على كل شيء----

Monday, October 23, 2006

That bitch!

Lately, I've been waltzing through many newly discovered grounds, sticking my flag into everything that I'd either like to claim or kill off. And to think that at a certain age you stop learning! The truth is learning is fun. It's OK to fuck something up. It's OK to be open minded to new ideas. The sweetest thing of all though, is killing off.

To kill off, in my dictionary, is to kick out of one's life once and for all. It doesn't matter where you do it or how, the act itself shouldn't even be a concern. To kill off, basically, is to actually let them KNOW that they're out.

Oh well, I'd like to write about bitches today, and I'm not just referring to bitches in the traditional understanding; I'm talking about bitches that are proud of being ones.

They talk cool and pretend to be strong, progressive, open-minded. They can tell you all sorts of stories about the things that they do. They're usually very articulate, but when put under pressure they break. Squeeze that bitch hard enough and enjoy a couple minutes hearing her moan; just like with teddy bears, they don't repeat the 'I love you' recorded message buried deep inside until you have them squeezed.

A bitch can also threaten you indirectly. She can also do it directly, insulting your beliefs and ideas, your religion, your 'basic solidarity', and even your very self. What strikes me, however, is how most people enjoy being around her, winning her approval, getting stamped on the ass by her well drawn lipstick. How can people be so fake, I wonder?

Of course, a person can never foresee a bitch. A person who foresaw a bitch wouldn't say that he did for the reason of not wanting to stand out as the black sheep amidst the cheering fans. Why do we even bother having her amongst us? Why promote her sick, shallow, demented being? I wonder if she's as strong in the real world as she pretends to be in her pretty pink bubble of a fake bitch world, thinking that she's special enough to claim Life as her first name. The fact of the matter is… life's a bitch too.

But then again, come to think of it, a bitch is someone whose services you'd gladly pay for, especially after you've been fucked. Oh she's so damn good at it, although I never felt satisfied. She was just way overdone!

Oh if I ever met that bitch, I'd probably kill her off… literally.

Call me childish, but that, my teddy bear friend, is as direct as a threat can get!!

I'm off the subject for good… but don't you dare fuck with me again!!

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