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

Always

“Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.” 
Wallace Stevens

~

His home is covered in snow and he can't get inside. He thinks tonight is the check we pay in the morning. And his gray wolf is covered in white, howling for a non-existent remedy.

Imagine the light in their eyes, brightly burning out.

Now fix your self on the resolution to embrace the brokenness of awe; fix your self. And as the stranger within you silently whispers a graceful breath, caressing the tomb of your undying dream, it sends a thunderous frisson down your spine - an unfinished arpeggio chews off your vocal chords.

Now the wings of the phoenix are set afire, and the wind is hanging on these broken wires. So we sleep tonight beneath the glow of snow and night, covering cortical flow with disharmonious blankets, sweating in the darkest shades of flares and glares.

Death is upon us dearest wolf - the supernovan star we enfold within us is due. This symphony of delusion will be ending soon - and as the ghost of yesterday takes tomorrow's train, we live and die today. We live and die today.

There are no maps in this revolution. There are no bulletproof hearts in this fight.

What you thought was gone is becoming livelier than honored blood. The child returns - the lady of the lake made an exception. His astral courage no longer exits at dawn. Ocean and sky may, in the mind, disconnect, but his core remains unbroken.

Get out of my head.

Look at yourself. Look underneath the layers of deception. Look into the dark and cut your shadow into pieces of coal - and swallow them whole. I'll pour this starlight in your drink and we'll split your dark side on the brink of this dot. So breathe out these words that emulate your scent and breathe in that venomous perfume. Know that the penultimate edge is never a line. It is that empty space between rapture and insanity. And know that the essence of knowledge lies in grasping the divide between why a forsaken moment can sometimes be momentous and for what the momentous must, sometimes, be forsaken. However, in the end, you must forget everything and listen. You just need to listen - listen to the music.

[...]

The mind extends beyond skin and bone, resting on the mirage of private property, projecting scheme and schema in the form of quantum energy onto a reality it cannot understand. So you see it there, paving the broken way with purple metaphors that smell like the eternal aroma of a dying flower; the morning glory.

The heart finds what it had lost - a pen. Yet this paper onto which we're supposed to write will not cease to be immaterial until the correct heartbeat frequency is set. The frequency depends on a few variables yet it is not your job to know them, it's your job to be all of them, all at once. Until you manage to do that, you can watch the foreign lines strolling down, down the script, waiting for you to act them out.

I wanted to tell her that she needed to lose the gift wrap because I could see the ribbons of her ego suffocating her soul. I wanted to tell her that it's not her fault. I wanted to tell her that I've read that the darkness will never comprehend the light, and that I have yet to realize which side I'm on. I wanted to tell her that I figure out illusions in the blink of an eye because I am one.  I wanted to tell her that everything was going to be alright because that's what I'd learned from my favorite songs - but I couldn't because I didn't want to lie. I wanted to tell you that no matter what I say, it will never be enough. I wanted to tell you that I, too, wanted you to know that I love the way you laugh. I wanted to tell you that you are both my remedy and my home, that whether you're covered in snow or moonlight or tears, I'll be right there with you. Always.

~

“How did it get so late so soon?” 
Dr. Seuss

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

Graceful

"He was the crazy one who had painted himself black and defeated the world."
Markus Zusak

~

Blessed be the brave.

It doesn't matter, really.

This wall needs to be broken down. I know my words aren't good enough. The world is filled with delusional freedom fighters. It makes you wonder who's pulling the strings. It makes you see that the ego is steering these wheels towards the edge of doom. I've always been into conspiracy theories. And though I don't know whether my subconscious mind was trying to tell me that my ego was scheming to seize control of my soul, I know that there is only one kind of grace that can destroy any and all devilish plans.

It does matter.

But I've lost too many rounds. And I keep pretending that I'm not afraid of that invisible thing weighing over my heart. I'm exhausted, you see. But, losing rounds makes you stronger, doesn't it? Yes it does. But what about those extra voices that accompany the pain in the memories? What about the cuts and the bruises and all the blood you covered with your blinks while it leaked out of your soul? You bury all those things in the places you love the most, the places that allow you to breathe, places you assassinate one by one because a slow death is subtly different from suicide.

It really doesn't matter.

There are people you love. There are people you hurt without meaning to. And then there's that darkness where there is no one, not even you, especially not you. All those broken machines you can't fix because you can't fix yourself, forget them. It happened that you were taught to never give up. But for what reasons? There are people you love. And then there's you. But what are you without them? How strong are you compared to the idea of losing him? How strong are you compared to the idea of losing her? And what about the feelings carrying this idea? Where did this come from? Where is it going? What are you doing? What are you not doing? Why are all these voices hiding behind immaterial masks? Is that grass or rubble atop your grave?

I usually take cover behind an armor of metaphors. But this time I'm not on my feet. I'm not even on my knees. I just needed the words to bleed out of my lungs because I can't breathe. I've always aimed for my heart. I've always thought I would bring it home. Of course, back then, I thought I knew what home really meant, and I thought I had one.

There are no words. Every human being who has ever written a word knows deep down that - there are no words.

So what to conclude? When nothing ever was and nothing ever is, how dare I tell you that everything is gonna be okay? When all I can hold onto is my ever-faithful void, and all that I ever was is a broken chess set with half the pieces missing, you can't imagine how easy it is to imagine the ending.

There it is.

Blessed be the patient.

Will it matter?

~

“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality."
Jim Morrison 

Emoh

“Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” 
Anton Chekhov

~

Shadows form when the light is blocked. And while many stipulate that dark shadows often stand in the way of beautiful colors, the truth is that this darkness is merely the vacant spot of unexpressed light. And while the obstacle moves closer to the source, the shadow grows, larger and larger. As a reaction, the source usually increases its intensity, making darkness darker, and turning the edges from which we fall into it to mysteriously shimmering black gold.

So it is likely for a shadow to appear as an intricately ornamented enigma which life challenges us to unlock when, in reality, the complex design perceived is one projected by the mind. The latter is one of the pieces of the puzzle. You can measure its edges and understand its limits to see the source behind it or you can simply fade into its appeal.

At most, if not all moments, our soul attempts to express something through our mind. The message is corrupted by the noise of false assumptions, misplaced desires and, most commonly, a dishonest sense of self. Naturally, the sources of noise overlap. And while only a magical blend of love, faith and wisdom can redeem the purity of the message, it is essential to remember that in a single life, a multitude of souls and minds are part of the equation.

Now, when you look at something, a wall for example, or a screen, there's always that distance between you two. And sometimes, when you truly focus on that space, it makes you lose focus, and it feels as if it's transferring you to a different world. It is in this same world that people imagine scenarios in their minds, scenes or memories of scenes that make them smile or blurt out parts of a forgettable script in front of strangers on the street. It makes sense now how, throughout my life, I had felt most at home while walking empty or nearly empty streets. It's always that same distance, that same space. You can choose to drown or swim in it. You can ride its tireless trains or just watch their fictional and occasionally thrilling accidents. You can visit people there, like those who stopped being in your life or those others with whom you've shared not more than a single honest gaze or conversation that was cut short by the ways of life. Clearly, this personal space differs from one person to another. Mine happens to be the closest thing to a constant home that I've ever had. And though it merely looks like a worn-out piece of stained crystal glass onto which my thoughts are registered with a permanent marker, the chaotic scribbles, graphs and figures have become like the curtains to a window. And these curtains seem to have far more appeal than the outside world.

I don't know if you've ever come and sat by my side because my eyes have always been locked on the tainted window. All I know is that I've been sitting here forever, slowly writing on fragile glass, painting layer upon layer of imaginary curtains, secretly wondering why the people outside can't see me. And right now I don't even know if there's a door behind me if anyone wants to come in.

Shadows form when the light is blocked. And my window is covered with curtains of words and faces, memories and dreams, lies and confessions, numbers and profiles; a drawing that makes no sense. Yet. fortunately, sometimes I can discern a distance between the window and me, and when I do that, a soul-sent message finds a peaceful place in the chaos, filling in the blanks with meaning, blanks I thought were vain bullets in my heart.

But it turns out that's where the light goes in, through the puzzle piece, through a letter your soul sent to you. . 

So where are you now? Are you sitting next to me? Can you see these rays painted with the light of meaning? 
A four-letter word shines through the specific locations of the puzzle pieces on the window of the story of your life. 
[...]

I've always believed that Art is an explosion and that Love would one day gracefully bring the old tainted piece of glass to pieces, to fireworks for two soulmates that sneak out of their windows for a late night embrace and a loud conversation under the night sky about the stars above them,followed by a silent one about the stars in their eyes. But, perhaps, I'm wrong. You might very well be this light that's piercing through, and I might even be yours. And, perhaps the light is divine. Either way, love is not the explosion of the glass-like story of your life, it's just an exchange of light blocked by whatever obstacles you have floating on the surface of your eyes. 

Some waste their lives trying to solve equations in the dark, with numbers and variables that only exist in that personal distance that no one else can see. Others waste it by breaking out, with shards of glass broken in their pupils, not knowing that a light not seen through one's own eyes makes them slowly bleed out till the human in them becomes too ghostly to be alive.

Perhaps love happens when a window momentarily functions as a mirror.

So look closely until you see the reflection. Or maybe just close your eyes. 

What do you see? 

Is his window hers and hers, his own? Or have they built a secret passageway in-between?

Who do you see?

Were they unknowingly sleeping next to each other all those nights they thought the bed looked too empty?
Were their fingers interlaced this whole time? 
And are they now both smiling at the same reflection?

I don't see any reflection.

Are you here?

Are we home?

~

"When you look in the mirror, do you look at yourself, or for yourself?"
Unknown