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.

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи at 10/28/2006 09:09:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

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.

Insignificance!

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

He really does deserve it all.

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи at 10/27/2006 12:36:00 AM | Permalink | Comments

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.

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи at 10/26/2006 06:17:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

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----

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи at 10/24/2006 08:11:00 AM | Permalink | Comments

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!!

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи at 10/23/2006 02:07:00 AM | Permalink | Comments

Men often make up in wrath what they want in reason

Today I add another item to the list of the things that I regret.

I look at him and I see the respect he's earned by his utmost rage. He's managed to control them, own them, earn a level of respect that I most envy. I crave to be like him, but I can't. I love them. How could a man express his anger without hurting the people he loves the most? Should he repress that anger, learn to adapt to the punching bag routine? Find a stranger in a dark alley and kick them until he's paid his dues to the lords of wrath that lurk deep within his mind and soul?

Why do they let him behave that way? Is it out of love, respect, fear? How fragile are we?

Two decades and a half; that's how much it took me to learn that to be able to control one's emotions is one's truest strength. I say to myself that giving in is a sign of weakness. I have managed to control many things, repress them if I may say. I have learned to forget but not forgive. I couldn’t care less about revenge. I've always managed to walk away and eventually forget. But it so happens that, during the past fractions of time, I have severely broken all of the rules that I've planted inside myself for many, many years.

I've found someone to hate, seek revenge of; I'm smart about it though. They think I'm neutral. I'd bet it shows. I'd bet they know. What are we waiting for? Are we waiting for one of us to drop dead?

Guilt and shame are self-induced. I carry them with me wherever I go, thinking that if I lay them up ahead, wear them as a mask, I'd never fall into their holes again. I wonder if that is normal. I wonder if that is healthy. Don't answer, it won't do any good.

I've also come across love and gave in to it. I did need a push, though, but I guess so would any emotion. It takes one push to fall off a cliff.

Wrath, however, is what I've feared the most. It so happens that when you lose control of wrath your mind and eyes shut for a few minutes and you black out, thinking that you've clicked the pause button and nothing would be affected by your inability to control your rage. I must have yelled, screamed, shouted at them and at every piece of the surrounding furniture. But then I opened my eyes only to see that look, disappointment…

…and so I left the room, escaping everything that may have happened when I lost my temper, my control, the only skill that I've been developing through out the years. I crawled back to my hole and bumped into a mirror that I've found across my solitude…

I ended up crying.

For a fire has been kindled by my wrath, one that burns to the realm of death below.

Why didn't they come up with a word that means more than just 'Sorry'

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи at 10/21/2006 08:17:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

I'm thinking.

Philosophers along the centuries have all stressed the importance of thinking.

I can't do it right, the thoughts rushing through my molecular brain that is already filled with sinus fluid, the grind of the head, I shall call it. It's basically the happening of pollen grains hitting the air in the fall, disguised as particles of dust or as air itself, breathed in by people like me, ones that depend so much on their thoughts, the fools. The grains produce a bacterial thing that causes sinus voids to release some sort of mucus into the head. The ears, the eyes, the brain, and the neck ; they're all on the same list. Like me, they find it hard to run.

I've never trusted doctors. They're all frauds, money hunters, just like everybody else. They're not men of God, they're not angels; what good are they? The moment you walk into their office they write you a couple medications and ask you to come back a week later for another check up, another 50-500 pounds out of your wallet. They keep trying all sorts of newly produced medicines on their patients, their guinea pigs, when it could only be a bad case of influenza.

They also say that half of the healing process is based on trusting your doctor's advice.

How come they make us sign a statement that relieves the doctor of any responsibility whatsoever in case of several whatevers including death? Why don't we make them sign a statement as well the moment we walk into their office for advice?

I'd never be a doctor myself. If I ever were one, I wouldn't recommend myself. I wouldn't trust my own judgment on people. Who am I to decide what is right and what is wrong for strangers? Who'd give me the right?

Been there and done that. The medications ain't helping either.

The headaches still stand tall and proud, that fucking leprechaun.

Eventually, that's when I'd turn to God for help and guidance. I've been turning to Him a lot lately, asking Him for signs and answers, but the road is just too vague for me to follow.

Maybe this is my sign. Maybe I should stop and think. Reconsider.

I just don't know anymore. Maybe I don't need a doctor. Maybe I need an exorcist.

Maybe I'll just wake up and find that I'm 15 again and everything's the same way I left it a decade ago.

If only I was that lucky, but I don't believe in luck.

Isn’t it true that when people use the words 'chance', 'luck', 'opportunity', 'freedom', 'salvation', you immediately think 'bullshit'? I think that might also be the reason why I don't trust doctors.

It's also the reason why the minute you say that you're being honest they'd immediately presume that you're a lying scumbag.

It might also be the reason why most people don't believe in God anymore.

We're too cool and too smart to follow the things that our ancestors believed in. We've sold out what was once the reason to be.

We're masters of our own destiny. We're our doctors, priests, teachers, and gods. We know what's best for us and it's all uphill from there.

Am I babbling?

I'm just blogging here so don't judge me. The truth is the more you blog about being this and that, people would eventually believe you, even if all those posts were actually copied off someone else's blog, an Eskimo's blog titled '100 things you wouldn't care to know about me'. I've said that I'd stop blogging like a thousand times and I think the end is near. One or two more posts and I'm done.

What is the fucking point if you don't find justice in your entries anymore?

I'll say fuck it! I don't need any of this. I was doing great before any of this. I don't need you to tell me how good or bad I am. I already know the truth.

Would this even count as blogging? It's one big ass BLAH, that's what it is.

I've been infatuated by so many things, most of which have been described as a waste of time in many people's dictionaries. This usually happens when everything that you ever loved and cared for end up throwing sticks and stones at you. It happens when they eject you, like a 50s Jazz cassette tape that won't play on a convertible 4000Watt CD/DVD/FUCK player. You should have known that I play different kind of tunes.

We keep thinking that we're strong enough to do this and that, but what about the don'ts?

Freedom is not the 'I will' illusion. It's the 'I won't' that sets us free.

I won't take this anymore. I refuse to chase a dream.

O I've been wrong about many things...

I should have learned from the first hit, but I guess it takes more than just one strike to straighten up my thinking.

I have fooled myself, haven't I?

I'm off to chase a fresh start. I so fucking deserve one. I also deserve better.

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи at 10/20/2006 11:13:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

Everything is a cliché of something. We're all copies of something that we thought was cool when we were 15, when we were young, strong, and stupid.

It's when you grow older and when your doubts paint a blur in your eyes and another in your heart; when all that you can see and feel is indistinctive fog.

True love doesn't exist. Selflessness is a lie. Don't get me started on soul mates!!

Life is a cruel joke.

Six years pass and you still can't find a better match. The only change that ever happened is a hair that lost its color. That's what happens when you find true love; when you use it as a benchmark for you to measure people. You're lying to yourself, giving it a name, calling it perfect. Define perfection. It's one of those things that people lie about to make themselves feel better about themselves or about others. It's one of those traits that we, proud ruling creatures, can't be rid of; our ability to categorize everything, percentile, overrate, underrate… O we love to judge. Six years of solitude, waiting for someone to stand a chance at kicking her off the chart, out of your mind… Oh you've wasted so much time and chose to overlook so many chances.

Was it even worth it?

Love is a word that we've swallowed on in so many ways. Movies and pop songs have ruined the way that love can be expressed. 'I love you' don't mean shit. Call me a cynic, but it's so damn true. We do, however, choose to ignore it. The truth is the only love that is genuine and unique is the love for a parent. It only comes once. Children don't count. Children are toys that we bring into our lives when we start to get a bit bored. We choose to love them when they smile and hate them when they break something precious. That, my friend, is the absolute truth.

Get a fucking dog.

Unlike the other human emotions of hate, revenge, shame, and guilt; love is a whole that is composed of respect, appreciation, admiration, glorification, and my personal favorite: delusion. Mix those things, throw them into another person's hovering shadow, and you've got yourself that lovey dovey aroma all over your life. Unfortunately, this is how love is found. If only it was as individual as guilt.

Shame and guilt, these are self-inflicted. Revenge is based on self-gratification. However, it requires the presence of another person or a group of persons to hate, which brings us to hate. Hate is the only emotion that, same as love, can only be delivered by adding a person other than yourself to the equation. I have hated so many things.

You can't categorize love. You can't set up a profile for your Mr. and Ms. Right. It just happens, same as shit.

Six years!

You tell yourself that you should have passed and moved on, that what if it never happened, what if she ain't that perfect, what the fuck are you waiting for?

But you still do wait, gladly.

Add a few sacrifice drops to the love formula that you're stuck for good. You're willing to go the distance, but you're just horrified. What if it didn't work? What if she wasn't really all that?

I still strenuously believe that the notion of true love ain't real, that people do move on. However, find someone who makes you happy, laughs at your jokes, shares your hopes, respects your foolishness, and wouldn't mind spending the rest of their life with you, give all of those up, and live your life trying to make them happy. Cost ain't relevant. You know that you'll love them and their children for the rest of your life.

Love doesn't come easy. You choose to try to make a good life for them, a life that they deserve. You challenge complications.

She's messed up. You are too. You tell yourself that maybe the reason you're scared is the fact that it's just too good to be true, that love ain't real. You've already told yourself so many stupid things.

You just don't know anymore.

You're waiting for a hint. You've never believed you'd need reassurance, but now you so fucking do.

The questions still stand tall and mighty: How clear can it get? Is this even love? Is she the one? Are you her one? If you die would she still raise your children the same way you'd have wanted to have them raised? Do you trust her? Does she trust you? Are you still waiting for a sign?

It's a yes or no question basically. You don't need to know more.

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи at 10/19/2006 12:46:00 AM | Permalink | Comments

The fragile spinal cord asked him to shut up. It said 'Enough of this bullshit. This ain't good for you'. His nerves broke the silence with heavy beats of a pulse that went babbling endlessly.

'Paradise is but a step away', it said, but the road was way too foggy for a vision to conclude.

Words are easy, the sweet ones. It takes guts to oversee them and crawl out of a misty shadow and wipe off everything that once was. He wants to become, but fails.

He should have known better.

He should have listened, but his ego told him that he deserves better, that he ain't a quitter; an ego he so desperately wanted to follow, an ego he's so willingly indulged.

He is that weak.

The freewill illusion revolves around the belief that no one can interfere with your decision, not even gravity.

'Never fold', it said, 'Just keep running and spinning and falling and rising, chasing your fucking rainbow, and bluffing'.

He fell for every word.

That idiot!

And to think he held a winning hand.

He deserved a better life. He deserved a better hand; but no matter what cards he held their's always had higher scores; wild cards, they were all wild cards.

He was by all means outplayed.

And the tribal beats echoed inside his subconscious, marking the downfall of his own freewill.

Freewill is underrated.

Tough Luck!!

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи at 10/16/2006 10:09:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

Today, after a one good year streak of trying to avoid any kind of encounter with our beloved government, I willingly chose to get back into the game. I had to get a vaccine shot against… err… something that I can't even pronounce. Dumbstruck I was when I realized that those public sector health centers had their weekends shifted to Fridays and Saturdays, same as mine, instead of the good ol' Thursdays and Fridays, hence I had to either take a day off from work just to go and get that shot or to try and get a one authorized hour before heading to work. I should have known that it ain't that easy in Egypt. I must have forgotten what it's like.

So I headed to the office and asked some dude 'So what do I need to do in order to get a vaccine against whatever?'. He said that I needed to pay the fees first fel khazna in order to proceed with my request. So I said 'Alright. So where's the khazna?'

Unlike ordinary government entities, ours tend to locate different departments far away from each other as possible. Perhaps Egyptians find it fun to go through the hassle of locating the right person for the job in question, a good time killer perhaps; or maybe there are hidden cameras located everywhere, a big brother sort of shit, where top level monarchists can watch and laugh their asses off. Naaah… my theory is that the more you kill your countrymen's time, the less time they have to worry about how good their government really is.

So, apparently, el khazna was located across the street, and off I went chasing time, crossing a street jam-packed with vehicles. I walked into what was supposed to be a health department office. It was basically a six-room apartment. Each room had at least five door signs signifying the grave importance of each room. Signs such as edaret el tebb el weqa2y, edaret el teb el nafsy, edaret el teb el psychopaty, and the list never ends. All hung on each and every door. I, curious as I am, walked into some of them only to find one or two desks per room. Yup! That's it! Empty ones. There was also the switch room with a sign on it saying 'Mamnoo3 tanweer el noor'. Ya far7ety!!

There was also the secretary room. I also checked that one out. In there I found fifteen desks with at least thirty women in there jabbering like a fucking machine gun. They talked as if it's the end of the world and there was an important message that needed to be told. Each of those women talked and didn't listen. In fact, I don't even think that they cared enough for a reply. I didn't even know who they were talking to or where that would even count as a conversation?!

So anyways, I found a room with a door sign that said EL KHAWANA that I later realized was El Khazna written by what can only be assumed to be a five year old with Down syndrome. I FOUND THE KHAZNA… Hallelujah… and the door was locked. 'So where's the khazna dude?', I asked. 'Oh he's authorized to arrive late today, an hour late'. WTF man!! Well, alright. So I checked a sign PRINTED in small font that said that the Khazna dude arrives at 9:30. So why the hell does the daily shift start at 9 when the khazna dude, who's supposed to be the preliminary access point to all other services, arrives later than all the others? What do they even do from 9 to 9:30? Oh well… I'll just wait and pray.

So it's 9:30 and my rage leaked out from my bleeding brain. 'Where's the manager?', I asked some lady (Did you ever realize that all women who work at government entities look the same?). She said 'Well, asl Sala7 7ay2addem eseqalto orayyeb.'

Oh they should have given that expression I owned deep within at that point a name.

'Sala7 meen?'

'Sala7 beta3 el khazna', smiled the government thing.

'Wana maly? Meen makano?', I asked with tears leaking down my brain.

'Ramadan masek makano', said the thing.

'We feen Ramadan?'

She said 'Well, he went to pick up the general manager to drive her to work'.

Another unnamed expression took over.

'So is he the health center's driver too?'

She said 'No. He's probably on his way… MA3LESH'

Ahhh… the word that works magic. We should replace that pointless eagle we've had on our flag since forever with that word.

And so I waited for what seemed like a decade. I knew I was going to be late for work; another 70 pounds ripped out of my paycheck… and then it happened!

Some dude who looked like he should be driving a prison bus walked past me and into the secretary room… and the machine gun jabber talk stopped for one second then continued with a newly added tenor. I asked some lady in one of those five-department rooms, 'Oh please don't tell me that that's Ramadan'.

She walked in there, called Ramadan, and he wrote me a receipt for the payment on a piece of crap, not paper… CRAP!! And off I ran across the road. They gave me the shot; stung like hell (are those even nurses? Are those even human?). I put my shirt back only to find blood all over the shirt.

I couldn't comment. I still can't. What would it be good for anyways? Another Ma3lesh perhaps?! Fuck it!

I left with blood all over my shirt, pain in my head, and off to work… with a promise that I'd come back and submit a complaint. Am I even the first one to do that? Anybody? If we lived in a normal system, such a complaint would get 9-10 people fired, at least; but this ain't even a system, is it? This is BATTEEEKH!!

I guess that the true vaccine I needed to inoculate myself with should have been in avoidance with incredible systems like ours.

I quote a friend of mine who said that such acts of incompetence are fun when you're really bored.

I agree.

Ya ah ya ah!!

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи at 10/15/2006 09:45:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

A dance, a pop song.

A symphony.

Only a fool believes that a perfect relationship lacks arguments and fights.

I've always hated Mozart. I don't like his work and I personally believe that he was just a fraud. Surprisingly, however, as I grow older I always seem to picture his work along the road. His orchestra plays vividly in the background as life passes by, and even though I never learned how to read music sheets, I choose to believe that I can follow the keys.

The slams and pitches, the unfinished C minor, the low notes and monotones that, during which, some people unwillingly fall asleep; and the high notes that wake them up from their dreams about watching a ballet about Bo Peep and her cattle in an empty theater, the high notes that drive your inner rage into salvation. You sit back up and stare at the maestro, discharging your anger, waiting for your turn to speak and cry and shout, only to find another low note that begs you to take a deep and cleansing breath, to ease your way back into your dream about a sweet girl and a meadow filled with love.

That entire piece… was salvation.

Mozart was a genius.

The high notes and the low notes, that's what life is all about; the ingredients to a perfect relationship that I choose to hold on to forever.

An endurance classic.

Life.

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи at 10/09/2006 01:41:00 AM | Permalink | Comments

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи at 10/08/2006 09:18:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

That fucking little leprechaun sitting in the middle of my brain, whistling devilish tunes, making himself heard, blowing smoke into my nerve strings, pulling me down into his dark void, making me humble, making me beg.

'Leave me alone', I cried, but he wouldn't listen. He kept smoking his big brown pipe, pretending he's sitting in his own fucking terrace, watching the peaceful stars, following the galaxies, listening to the soft breeze brush against cheeks that hold a big ass grin on a cool summer night.

'I'd do anything', said I. 'Go away.'

'Leave!'

He didn't. He just wouldn't.

He stained my skull with tar from the inside, that cruel joke of a man, until there was nothing more to grieve for.

Oh I hate you.

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи at 10/08/2006 09:08:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

You really can change the world if you care enough.

We've all been motivated one way or the other. At school, when you aced a test and found a new pair of Nikes waiting by your bed. At work, when you find an email in your inbox from your boss thanking you for a job well done and find that the email was CCed to your colleagues and members of top management… There's also the financial motivation we'd like to find on a piece of paper often referred to as 'paycheck'.

Do motivation and inspiration share the same meaning?

No… they unfortunately don't.

We can walk around for days, months, and decades waiting for something to inspire us, to make us change for the better and discover our truest self. This inspiration could come in several forms; a photograph, a hug, a speech told by a person who says it from the heart, a mere hug.

I demand my Martin Luther King. He wasn't a bullshitter. He actually believed in something. He just got up there and talked and fought for the rights of his people. He gave them hope, but didn't lie. Nasser was an idiot, a bullshitter, a fake. He was a good man and probably a good person, but zalamooh lamma 3amalo menno rayyes 3eleihom. Everyone loved him back then, but today, people argue his fakeness, that he made Egyptians believe that they were something that they're not, a higher race, an Egyptian Reich. We still think we're the center of the world. Allah yer7amo ba2a.

Is this world the world of "Show me the money and I'm yours"?

People went crazy when that Telecomm Italia Ghandi commercial was made by Spike Lee. The world needs to be inspired. I'm tired of demanding material. I need to follow something great.

I understand that this is the world of fast food, fast cash i.e. ATMs, a faster internet connection, a shorter film, a shorter novel; a world where people just… don't… have… time to spare, but I do need something more than just a commercial.

Some people see things as they are and say why. I dream things that never were and say why not? – George Bernard Shaw

Inspire me.

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи at 10/07/2006 11:06:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

A picture is worth a thousand words… or so they say.

We write poetry and diaries in order to vent or express. School articles served that a bit too when we were younger. They also added educational material from time to time.

Why is it that whenever we read a novel or a piece of poetry by a certain someone we insist on seeing the face behind the words?

Why do we get bummed out when we check a blogger's profile and find it empty, with nothing but an answer to a stupid random question and sometimes not even that?

Why do we build assumptions about a person's personality or childhood trauma or financial status based on a chain of words or an opinion about a specific issue? A complexion of letters wouldn't, shouldn't say much.

Don't people have the right to escape their personal world and their mirrors and log into a kaleidoscope of thought, even if it's only for a few minutes everyday?

Isn't that the how and why of the origin of filmmaking?

Bertolt Brecht, a German dramatist once said that people remain what they are even if their faces fall apart.

Sure some posts immediately throw in the image of a stressed out individual or a suicidal one. Sure you can instantly assume that this person is cool and that one's dull. Why would you assume that that blogger is a person in the first place?

Why would I want to meet you or see your picture?

Why do readers act as therapists when they log in to comment on a post? Why do they even pretend to be your friends?

What does a face say that words don't?

Why bother?

Do me a favor and don't try to picture me. These posts… are as far as you get to knowing me.

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи at 10/07/2006 10:02:00 PM | Permalink | Comments

Well, I've been asked by Arima to write my top 15 favorite things. I don't think that I ever considered that, so I guess this should be fun.

There you go, orderless.

1. Coffee and cigars
2. To laugh and be laughed with
3. Reading books at dawn in my apartment's balcony
4. Long dreamless sleeps after which I wake up looking and feeling brighter
5. A good movie
6. A moving opera (Laugh all you want people, still won't change a thing. 'Tis a fact)
7. The pursuit of a dream or an objective, not the accomplishment, but the journey itself. I've gotten used to the disappointment. I do believe that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger
8. A long chat with a dear friend that includes an argument or two
9. Convincing someone of a belief or an idea; also being convinced
10. Staring at the sea. I hate going in though. I never was a good swimmer
11. The smell of perfume mixed with the smell of a cigarette that was just put out
    
12. Singing. Yes, my voice is good enough to tune
13. White chocolate
14. Typing original material, nonstop at dawn
15. The sound of a guitar string
16. European meadows (Yes, I know. I cheated. I don't care)

China perhaps?!

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи at 10/03/2006 09:09:00 PM | Permalink | Comments