Butterflies

“After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.”
Aldous Huxley

~

It’s crazy, isn’t it?

It’s crazy how everyone’s insane, how they keep pretending not to be.
The night is devoid of comets and stars. And I have three cigarettes left. It’s funny how I try to silence the pain with toxins, though I know poison could never be a cure. But I’m well-acquainted with the easy way out and I’m tired. I tried to convince her why she shouldn’t kill herself. And I saw my failure reflected in her eyes.

My fingers tremble because I’m overwhelmed by all the pain I see around me - not because they’re typing intense words. What I let out is nothing compared to the world my eyes perceive. All I see is hurt; a world of dying butterflies slowly crashing to the ground like multicolored leaves. The night is devoid of color and soul. And I have two cigarettes left.

How can they not see the patterns? The path to perdition is set. The road to self-destruction is paved with broken smiles and desperate lies. The confusion is deafening. And I can’t listen to the cosmic melody because all I see is the blood on their hands as they play their instruments. Someone once said that we become what we lose. He was wrong. We become what we want to become.
The night is devoid of moonlit words. And I have one cigarette left.

She couldn’t unzip her dress. So he helped her. And her skin was like that of a flower unfolding the beauty of the universe behind all the smoke streaming through his lips. There’s the universal, the particular and the veil we’re trying to pierce. There’s the actor, the audience and the curtain closing as we speak. Then there’s you and me, and the mystical unity we fail to breathe. And this night is devoid of love and sanity. And I’m all out of cigarettes. And I’m all out of love.

This smoke is as real as the grand delusion. And it mixes well with all the words I could never say. So take this secondhand ramification of endeavors that never made it out of my head. Take it even though words will never be actions. Take it because I’m out of breath and out of smoke. And I can borrow the latter but does anyone have a breath to spare?
The night is devoid of light. And I wish that I could say that 'there is a light and it never goes out.'

But not tonight.

Tonight we die. But tomorrow, we live again. 

~

“Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent”
Victor Hugo

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

Forsaken

"For a while I thought I fell asleep
Lying motionless inside a dream.
Then rising suddenly I felt a chilling breath upon me."
Dream Theater

~

They fail to realize that the universally desired constancy of happiness is but ignorant stagnation, and that unending joy lies at the peak of despair.

And you, you fail to notice the pain,  those miniature supernovas hiding beneath the shadows of your extremities, as their fading light lies waiting to engulf you. Yet all pain wants is an embrace, a hug that pulls you back to you, to the divine realm you keep avoiding.

But the show does go on, and the music surely plays on. And our dreams, they die in restless ripples, silently whispering words of forgiveness to our oblivious souls. And I know I always ask you the same question though I try not to, but it just demands to be let go. So, again, I ask you, what do you see? What do you see?

"On and on, does anybody know what we are living for?"

This symphony of waves is breaking the ocean's heart. It's sending chills into your eyes, slowly, steadily, down your spine, composing that stuttering poetic paralysis, imploring you to transform pointless motion into the multidimensional insight that can auto-tune these submerged instruments. So do what you need to do. Do what you need to do so we can play our music as we drown. And if we do, take some time to listen, then look at the forsaken waves we saved and tell me what you see. Tell me if I'm there. And when you don't find me, pretend this was our goodbye song.

"Outside the dawn is breaking, but inside in the dark I'm aching to be free."

The show was a no-show. I was never here. And neither were you. The water was breathless make-believe. And these dreams were children of delusion. And all the dreamers we know are dead inside. Still, no one can see you. No one can feel you. And yet, you keep going, still. Why? Because I'm practicing to perfect my art, tugging and twisting these cursed heartstrings until art becomes the explosion my tremors foretell - because everyone loves fireworks, because maybe then, someone will show up.

"I'll face it with a grin. I'm never givin' in. On with the show."

Blessed be the patient and the brave. And damned be the hearts that took and never gave.

"The show must go on."

~

"She softly whispered in my ear,
Forsaken."
Dream Theater

Phoenix

"Dusk is just an illusion, because the sun is either above the horizon or below it. And that means that day and night are linked in a way that few things are; there cannot be one without the other, yet they cannot exist at the same time. How would it feel to be always together, yet forever apart?"

Nicholas Sparks

~

Free your mind. Regain stability. There is nothing here for you.

This barrier is weak and broken.

They're all fighting shadows. And I'm fighting with this pen. And it's unable to salvage what's left of me. My senses fail to capture the music. And my heart fails to feel it. Doubt is all-encompassing. And I am not here. I'm that gap between the heartbeats, the forgotten leaves in the wind - a fragment of torn silence that couldn't make it through life's blind spot. We are who we are, failing, fading and forsaken. We're that broken down dust at the beat of dusk, deluded by the bruised colors of sky and sea, drowning in their symphony.

And now the drugs don't work. And all the stars are out. And there is nothing to look away from. The world is ugly and this blackness is bliss. So let there be light, and many, many shadows to shelter us from sight. And, you, dear weakened soul, go back to sleep, for this wand you hold, it bleeds but fraudulent magic. And I... I am here. I'm this damp gaze suspended in breathless vacuity, the infinite horizon that never was... that never will be - a loveless shadow in a deserted darkness.

Now, listen close, dear ruptured heart for now, it is time to go. Listen close and act at once so we can leave, so we can run, so we can row, so we can breathe [...] Now, go and sever that faithless bond and crush those picture-frames. And burn them. Burn them all. Burn them and build yourself great wintry walls of atonement from their residual ash. Have our new citadel of seclusion rise above perfidious pain, above tainted clouds and forlorn rain. The stars are dead and you will never see them again. The stars are dead. The stars are dead and their theoretical story is bitter sorrow - impeccably unwritten, eternally unread.

So let there be light, and many, many shadows, and I'll be that shadow that never lets you hit the ground.

Let there be light, and many, many shadows, and may the phoenix and the blackbird never again resound.

~

“My breaking heart and I agree, that you and I could never be, so with my best...my very best, I set you free” 
Rachel Yamagata

Split

“Dream delivers us to dream, and there is no end to illusion. Life is like a train of moods like a string of beads, and, as we pass through them, they prove to be many-colored lenses which paint the world their own hue. ” 
Ralph Waldo Emerson

~

Lonely wanderers unite in separation, falling in raindrops through your windshield. And as the beautifully broken breaths of rain find gentle rest on your tender skin, I pull you in closer, and I hug you tighter. And, for a split second, all the desperate seekers of the world find home in our embrace.

The road to love is paved with mystery. The colors on the street depend on the clarity of your heart. The surrounding buildings are adorned with perfect pain and breathtaking joy. And we could be walking there now, hand in hand, carrying each other's hearts wherever they want to go.

Some say that everything here has an expiry date. Others believe that some things last as long as eternity.

Stories have been told and re-told. Words have been designed and composed, recycled and sold. And, today, I find myself wanting to write out thoughts and feelings in secondhand wording though I have no story to tell. I thus find myself filling the void with empty metaphors and darkened smoke. But that's okay.

Time flows faster, racing the tides of motion, blazing through space to finish off this bond and the one after. We breathe it in thinking that we have it contained when, in reality, its bullets are already out through our holey skin, setting the scene for our unholy grave.

But there is music in this world, music worth fighting for. It is the kind of music that silently cuts you deep so its tear-perfumed light can pervade the abyss beneath your heart. The music reminds us that there are souls worth the trouble, and that their smiles are infinitely more valuable than our pain-born hatred.

Yet I am tired and out of soul. And every road undertaken holds beside it a thousand roads untraveled and a wealth of unopened neural pathways.  I am tired and out of soul. And there is no one here because the door is locked with a key I lost long, long ago.

Still, I remind myself that change is inevitable, that it is necessary. And like a flock of birds alters its formation, so too must the stars we have enclosed within.

By the fields, near the lake, I once whispered all of my secrets to everyone around me. But I was alone because no one was there. I remember that I told them about the dark side of red, that part they always left unread. And I told them about the violet shade of blue, and how pain always starts in you. I spat out the driest words of dread, with blood clots hanging by a thread. And now I give that thread to you today so that you pull out this wretched heart of clay.

Hidden demons unite in separation, falling in fire-drops onto our skin. And as the beautifully broken ocean lays us to rest, you pull me in closer, and you hug me tighter. And, for a split second, I almost believe that you're here.

~

“Here too it’s masquerade, I find: 
As everywhere, the dance of mind.
I grasped a lovely masked procession,
And caught things from a horror show…
I’d gladly settle for a false impression,
If it would last a little longer, though.” 
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

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 

Stranger

“The pain started years ago, but I'd lived with it for so long at that point that I'd accepted it as an inevitable part of me.” 

Ashley D. Wallis

~

She couldn't understand it, that small and very simple statement: 

He's in love with someone else. 

I told her that people are free to fall in love with whomever they choose, that she needs to stop fighting so that he can find peace and happiness. She said she couldn't stop thinking about him and I told her that I totally understand what she's going through and that things always get better in time. Then she asked me why he would stop loving her. And I froze for a second because I had a flashback and then I answered her in the best way I knew.

"People change all the time. They develop new feelings for new people. The downside here is that he changed and you didn't. The upside is that you will too in the near future. And if you want to look at it from an ideal perspective, the old him still loves you, and one day, the same will apply to you, when this you becomes the old you. Then all the moments you can't get out of your head, all the nights you spent thinking about him, all the beautiful daydreams and whatever songs or movies remind you of him, they'll become distant memories that rarely ever visit you. But when they do, they'll draw a faint smile on your face accompanied by a tender blink and a downward gaze and when that happens, you'll see that the old you was very lucky to love and be loved by the old him."

I went on and on but she was not convinced. And I knew that all I said was in vain because a blinded heart simply wants what it wants and because I saw how the look of brokenness in her eyes remained unaffected. And still, I kept going. I kept going, on and on and on.

"You need to stop fighting for him because he probably belongs with someone else and that's something you have no right to take away. You need to stop fighting because if you don't, the pain will destroy you. You need to stop fighting because ten months isn't even a long time. You need to stop fighting because while you're here crying on my shoulder, he's kissing her and I swear and I promise that I'm sorry but this is the truth."

I probably shouldn't have mentioned the part about him kissing her because she started crying again. And the sight of her pain overwhelmed me with sadness so I looked away. I looked away and wondered if I actually cared about this young stranger who opened her heart to me even though she didn't even know my last name. 

Regardless, life goes on, and it stops for nobody. And eventually, it gets better. So, dear reader, if you have loved and lost, or suffered from unrequited love, I hope you know that everything. everything happens for a reason. I also implore you to remember that life is full of surprises, opportunities and distractions. And most importantly, you should know and believe that there is someone you are meant to love and that they are meant to love you back, that you can share a life and family with them, till death do you part. So instead of being sad, look forward to the moment you eyes will meet.

You might meet him very soon.

~

“When I found you, I had not found myself yet, but when I found myself, I had already lost you.” 

Elmar Hussein