Movies

"And when you go don't return to me my love."
My Chemical Romance

~

The door isn't open. Maybe it never really was. But I can pretend. I can always pretend.

"Give me a shot to remember and you can take all the pain away from me."

The shadow of the unknown beckons. I can feel it stretching across the blankness of my mask. The long lost scent of childhood is either dead or undercover. And, I cannot yet unmask this state of shade. The same old heaviness keeps increasing in invisible weight. Let go.

Let go and know that, in non-random fact, the truth shines through your cracks and whispers to your eyes: 'Tomorrow, I will be revealed.' Meanwhile, acrylic delusions frantically blink, staring at whatever colors they'd been spitting on my face. Don't let go.

Bits and pieces of me may well be scattered across the enneagram lines. But, you... do you really think you're swimming in my stream of consciousness? Look around. You're inside your own head. For the lines that, in your eyes, blur out the rest, they're on the other side of the coin you always flip. And they were facing the horizon right before you shoved them in, right before you sold them out to flush the red sea of lies, the one you'd pushed out of your lungs just to decorate that beautiful boring room.

"You're just a sad song, with nothing to say, about a lifelong wait for a hospital stay."

This soundtrack is bruised and broken. It might as well be dead. But our pictures are in motion and they bear no frames - they extend; they extend to infinity. Now the question is right there. It's always been there. 'Are you watching closely?' Are you listening? Are your lines in the script tearing up the fabric of your heartstrings? Do you need to talk to the director?

"Drop the dagger and lather the blood on your hands, Romeo."

Get out. I can't always pretend.

~

"We all carry on, when our brothers in arms have gone.
So raise your glass high for tomorrow we die,
And return from the ashes you call."
My Chemical Romance

Swim

ليه ليهمني اني كون بدل من اني صير؟

كل الأشياء بتعيش لتنتهي بلحن جديد

الفرق بين الحرية والخضوع تخيير

.أنا لي اخترت. أنا لي قبلت. أنا لي قلت 

مشروع ليلى

~

Capture the moment. These lines are the broken streets to redemption. And, yes, none of this really matters. But let us play. Let us choose all the players and leave the void all alone on the bench. Ideas of sunrises and sunsets have gotten pretty sick of my redundant words by now. But that's okay.

All the colors are wrong. All the colors are wrong. And the details on your face are broken down equations. And though they're riddled with miscalculations and derived from unholy laws, they always add up to the right answer when you smile.

I never asked for any of this. This foreign reality is hiding the stagnant scent of childhood beneath their eyelids. And I see nothing but locally manufactured pain setting record-breaking corner-to-corner lap times in their eyes.

So drink up my empty gaze foolish little brother. Replenish my doubts with your leaking bloodstream. Let us drink to all the penknives that redefined our veins. Let us paint our tired dreams with these bloodshot eyes and those grayish-blue brushes we have stuck between our lashes. Drink up this baroque art foolish little brother before your post-impressionist heart crumbles to wheat grains.

Let there be light and many, many shadows - are you there?

The door opens.

The door opens like an old and rusted wound. And I want to close it because I'd rather keep my apologies in my heart, because my absence tastes better than my presence, because this planet doesn't feel like home.

Let it out. Tell them. Tell them that you hate it here. Tell them that you'd rather die. Tell them that you have the right to disappear forever. Tell me what happened. Tell me why all the colors are wrong. Tell me that things change when we really want them to.

The door closes.

The door closes and we both know that it's time to leave. Let go. Release the moment for the lines have already faded. I wish I could make you feel better. But I can't. Yet, I wonder if you're looking through the keyhole. I wonder why I find incoherence so appealing.

Blessed be the knight of infinite resignation. And blessed be the knight of faith.

Game over - soon.

~

سمي الشيطان بإسمو وسمي الفنان كذاب"

نصف الأشياء يلي بحسها بتجي من الخيال 

وإذا بناقد نفسي كلنا منحتوي أعداد

".أنا لي كبرت. أنا لي قبلت. أنا لي قلت

مشروع ليلى

Poison

"You came close enough to know my heartbeat but still not close enough for me."
Oscar Isaac

~

These tears lack flow.
This ink is dead.
What have you broken?

This heart shakes
Like yellowish purple foliage
In capricious disquiet.

These words break
Like hollow-hearted smiles
And I can't let you in.

I usually find myself torn between the cosmic orchestra and the abysmal void. This time, though, I'm not stuck. I'm somewhere else. The alchemic lake has dried. The trees of knowledge are naked. But the sky is clear. Always remember that the sky is clear.

You entrust your heart and its blood-flow to someone and you suddenly find yourself waking up to wet, reddened lips.

"So con, convince your mirror, as you've always done before, giving substance to shadows, giving substance evermore." Whatever the poison, it's not really making any difference is it? And no matter how sweet the music, its mysterious remedial force can't stop this internal haemorrhage. And that's okay. I'm okay.

Now take this uninspired garbage and bury it alongside your decapitated principles.

This despair is all I have
And it's not yours to hold
I'm not yours to hold.

This encounter is a delusion,
Boring encrypted mythology.
I'm not here.

This perseverance is an empty shell,
And now I break it into letters.
Everything will change.
Everything will change.

~

"Oh why can't you let go
Like a bird in the snow
This is no place to build your home."
Imagine Dragons

Rapture

"That's why we seize the moment try to freeze it and own it, squeeze it and hold it"
Eminem

~

Breathe, breathe and break
This heart, this heart,
This heart's the love you give
The love you give for blood
Your blood, your blood, your blood,
Your blood it smells and tells
Of a love you make and take
And make and take
It hurts and shakes
The beat within; awaken.

I break, breathe and break
In this moment, the moment, the moment
You capture me, capture me
Unwrapping rapture; rapture's free
If only, only you could see
Tell me what do you see?
This life, it's fractures
And in one of'em lies the key - to be
If only, only you could be - me.

You break and breathe today
Your love, it bleeds of night
It lights the way, the way
Home reads your eyes, it spells your lies
And these waves, they freeze the bay
The cove of my heart is ruptured clay
Okay, I'll play this game of gray and gray and gray - and gray.

I breathe and break twice tonight - twice tonight
And your love lies, it lies, it lies in bed with torn clouded sight
Dead still, it still beats in here, it's warm and bright - it's warm
This war is rain and it stains my plain face - a fraud
I'll face this pain they all applaud and you can take, take the storm
And I'll meet you at the break of dawn beneath the breath of dew - dew of me and you.

Break, breathe and break
Those walls, this haunted room of masks and demons
It's hidden hate that kills your freedom
It's the madness that pretends to reason
To speak ill of love, the love that broke the fall from Eden.

We break, breathe and break
Yet our flooded hearts set aflame, they'll set silence in the lake
And this grief we partake in, it'll flatten these ridges and flakes
But unbreakable vows, they're unshakable bridges - the soul awakes.

I break and breathe you in
I end and we begin
In the music of love - it's playing on your skin.

You breathe and break me out,
Cast terminal vanishment onto doubt.

We breathe together and then, again, I ask you:

What do you see?

~

"It's like I'm standing there you know appreciating God's design
And then you showed up; it's like you read my mind."
Black Star

Disconnect

"When the paper's crumpled up it can't be perfect again."
Linkin Park

~

Yeah but, she co-wrote my life with the words she never said.

There was once a young kid who thought he could do anything. One day, he read somewhere about a common phenomenon among teenagers called the Invincibility Complex. From that day onward, he understood that 'eventually they all fall' and that no one is invulnerable.

"What if I fell to the floor..."

There was once a young kid who dedicated all his observational skills to discover the strengths and weaknesses of everyone around him. One day, someone told him that he was projecting. From that day onward, he started including himself in his analysis.

"Couldn't take this anymore..."

There was once a young kid who got hooked on self-destructive behavior. One day, he came across the concept of self-love but he could not comprehend it. From that day onward, at every given opportunity, he told people that they should not reduce themselves or others to the mistakes they make.

"What would you do..."

And she breathed out love when my blood was mere fire, when I only saw my bruises in the blue sky.

When the definitions are wrong, all our stories, whether written or read, neither, or both, will be flawed and misunderstood. The worst stories are those that have missing links, where the reader can only focus on how the events are unrelated, how it's all incoherent nonsense. The best stories are where the reader feels part of the story, where the characters can somehow touch him, and thus, change him.

This is not a good story. It's just me looking for one in the emptiness. There are no characters here. There are only voices that my mind is trying to silence.

The origin, you see, is a sad conversation on an old and broken phone. The process, so far, involves an inconsistent run over fictional obstacles. And the purpose is -

And she stood behind her silent voice, staring at the sea, all three conspiring to heal my broken skyline, to mend the horizon that bends behind my eyes.

This story isn't designed to make me feel anything. It's not supposed to make you feel anything either.

But how do you feel about not being able to feel anything at all?

Does it hurt? Does it hurt to be you? Is that blood on your mask? Is that pain in your heart?

Where did she go? I just wanted to make her smile.

~

"I see you up again wandering so diligent
Crossing your T's as though it weren't irrelevant
They say formality, this is what they really meant:
They can be the walk and we can, we can be the pavement."
Agesandages

Sleep

“In a mad world, only the mad are sane.”
Akira Kurosawa

~

The echo behind the whisper in the voice told me that the meaning of the meaning of life reveals itself in those colored bits outside the lines.

Do you see them?

Now do you see the artist's hand tearing through the painting? It throws a spear into your left eye because it wants you to see it right. It wants you to get out of your supposed self, zoom out, and see the second painting, the picture of a recollection of a bloodshot awakening.

Now go back to the first one.
Do you smell the blood on your cheeks?

This is the blood of the heart of the heart of the matter, the co-authored fabric of a waning soul as it weaves waves of scented verses, a red and wrinkled rhyme, a poem on your face.

Truth is, broken borders are gateways for the gallant, to embrace the patterns beneath the chaos, to hold the pulse in the blood of the heart of the heart of the matter that has nothing to do with matter.

So can you hear it? It's knocking on the door behind you, like the wind of sinusoidal hope fading in and out of faithful light, through the only keyhole you've ever really known.

Yeah. Okay. Now what? What do I do with all these words?

[...]

How do I turn it off? How do I make it stop? Why am I thinking about so many things that I don't really want to say? I don't want to get it right anymore, I just want to get it. I want to say what's really going on. I want what's inside to come out unchanged even if all that I am left with is noise. I want the words to honestly reflect who I am without all the games and illusions. I want to make sure that I am not a fraud, that I am not a growing cancer of fabrications. I want to be real. I don't want to be a well-told lie about the content of an empty shell. I want to be real. I don't want fiction anymore. I want to be real. Why won't anyone teach me how to be real?

[...]

What a sad way to wake up. The pain brings you to your knees. You're all alone - just like you always were. And all these metaphors you take shelter in are just as weak and broken as you are. Just go back to sleep.

Live on.

I can't anymore.

~

"He who lives more than one life, more than one death he suffers."
Oscar Wilde