Flashback

This is paralyze.

This is paradise.

Up, up and around.

Uneven lines of reckless thoughts.

A muddle of words insignificant to hope.

Frozen lips warming steady hands.

Sand trickling down her legs.

Images you can’t get out of your head.

Spinning memories of her window-sill.

The cars outside.

The loud bangs of her hammering another picture into the wall.

It’s all right there.

But you can’t see it.

Like it’s gone, but it’s not.

Escalation, deprivation, expectation.

Fall into a bunch of feathers.

Take her there with you.

Get her off your mind by keeping her closer.

Resist the temporary sedative.

The Parallel Universe

I don’t see beauty anymore.
I don’t feel my thoughts unless they imply negativity.
I don’t understand what I should be feeling, because feeling in itself has become either inevitable or controllable – and both possibilities seem dangerous. I feel because I have to feel, but my mind rarely responds. The heart is there, but it had resigned from talking for centuries, it seems.
I look at my surroundings and understand what I should be doing and why I should be doing it. But at the same time, not doing it seems just as logic. My thoughts are not mine. They’re those of a person living in another dimension, where thoughts – in fact – are louder than actions.
Where not crossing other people’s bridges is not a crime, but a virtue.
Where feelings are visible like bubbles and can be caught in thin air, either to be adopted or to be destroyed.
Where light symbolizes anxiety and challenges.
Where the dark only means the absence of light – nothing more, nothing less.
Where the world is not round, but has the shape of a tree – you either sit at the bottom in the mud, or you’re fortunate enough to be at the top with a swift breeze running through your home, enhancing your comfort. 
Where water is not merely there to be drunken, but is an elixir that revives the mind far away from the heart.
Where entire populations share the same vision of hope, prosperity, and tolerance, thus creating no clashes or wars.
Where children decide over essential matters, whereas adults take care of the more trivial things, for children have a vision that grown-ups have lost.
Caress your outer being and let go of your inner cage. It is time for a ride on the desirable waves of distance and arbitrariness, where you come first and the rest of your senses follow.

Conflict of Control

With a lack of imagination he had never experienced before, he took one more step towards the exploding light. What was to come should be better than what had passed. He had experienced her as unbearingly selfish und cunning, tossing around with her feelings and deafening everyone with her loud screams in a world of silence. But he was unlucky enough to be a victim of her unmagical spell, which had transformed him into a person he did not recognize, let alone a person he could accept. So for now, the exploding light seemed pretty fine and liberating in a way.

Spells were not made to be broken, but to be emphasized and indulged in. She was still roaming around in his brain, playing around with his soul and joyfully allowing herself to take control, while he numbingly appeared to be indifferent. In the end, who would want to be held responsible for thoughts and actions? He could always blame it on her. Eventually and inevitably, passion arose, gripping whatever thoughts were left and turning them into a new thing he had never experienced: rapture. Incomplete, excruciating rapture. It painted the sky green and made the grass look like a bed of snakes. Definitely a wrong kind of high, but a rapturous mean nevertheless.

She played around with her ribbons; swaying them through the air and unraveling lost shapes with their silky, smooth curving. She was untouchable and far away from any sense of guilt or redemption. She was the definition of the abuse of freedom. She flew like a butterfly when she wanted, stabbed like a scorpion when she wanted, loved like a hooker when she wanted, danced like a ballerina when she wanted, and lived like a queen when she wanted. Not once, had she thought that he would penetrate her being, while she was controlling his. But reality and irony united as he unintentionally did.

She became fragile, hesitant, and was taken aback by things she could not identify or put her fingers on. The power of the spell faded, as he unknowingly became stronger and naturally drew the path they were both following.

Not the overbearing, deafening beings will mark their presence in others, but the silent, rational wise.

Tune of Mental Death Story: of the Refrigerator

The humming sound of the refrigerator just won’t stop! Mmm. Mmm. Mmm. Constant, continuous, monotonous, and absolutely mind-killing. Mmm. As cold as the items inside, it accompanies his life. Mmm. It makes him miss a state of being, a situation; where industry was something useless and unnecessary. Mmm. Where apartments were fine without technology and metallic, cold items that made a nerve-wrecking tune of mental death. Mmm. It felt like each brain-cell was painfully screaming and about to explode. Mmm.

Sometimes, he would forget it was there, but then he would unforget on more time and it would start playing with his head again. Mmm. And each time he would focus and hear it, he would flinch and wince, wishing it would go away. Mmm. Mmm. Mmm. Argh! Hell on earth! The unheavenly sound of hell!

Then, the enlightment! Mmm. Pull the plug. Mmm. Pull the plug. Mmm. Pull the plug - it hailed from above. Mmm. His face lit up – mmm – his senses rose high above his kitchen – mmm – his feet lifted his body up from the ground – mmm – his legs started running like never before – mmm – his hands reached out – mmm – his eyes widened – mmm – he pulled the plug – mmmm-zt.

And suddenly, life was fine and the world started singing cozy tunes of warmth and comfort.

Faint Midnight Ramblings

What is a poet without words?
What is a light without rays?
What is the truth without proof?
What is a candle without flame?
What is a river without water?
What is a flag without nation?
A failure of purpose. A rotten myth.
And that is what my senses tell me when I am distant.
Where is thou truth? Be true to yourself.
For words can do a lot, but not solely turn into actions and reality.
For waves can carry you far, but not necessarily to the shore.
For light can mean guidance, and sometimes even doom.
For life awakens in the springtime, gaining energy to survive throughout the year.
For life can be life, and death can be death, but your perception of both is what makes them true.
For you can be me and I can be you.

خواطر توقعية لتأجيل محاكمة مبارك للثالث من أغسطس المقبل

ورد في نشرات الأخبار اليوم أنه تم تأجيل محاكمة حسني مبارك و نجليه و حسين سالم الى الثالث من أغسطس المقبل. و في هذا السياق علينا أن ننتبه للنقاط التالية:
١. سيقع ميعاد الجلسة الأولى في شهر رمضان و هناك احتمال شديد أن المحكمة ستؤجل المحاكمة مرة أخرى لبعد العيد
٢. بعد العيد ستتم انتخابات مجلس الشعب طبقا للدستور الذي عدل بعد الاستفتاء و الذي يعطي الحق لأعضاء مجلس الشعب القديم - و الذين انتخبوا بالتزوير - و أعضاء الحزب الوطني السابق و أعضاء المجالس المحلية في الترشيح. و سينجحون. و من الضروري اضافة أن مبارك لم يمضي بعد على أى مستند يثبت تنحيه أو حتى تخليه عن منصبه، ففي
أغسطس سيعتبر قد انتهت فترته الرئاسية. و بذلك يكون مبارك قد أنهى فترته الرئاسية طبقا لما طالب به من تعديلات في بنود الدستور و شرعية دستورية من وجهة نظره..

فأين ما يحقق الشرعية الثورية و التي طالبت بانتخاب مجلس رئاسي يضع دستورا جديدا بأقصى سرعة و حل المجالس الشعبية؟؟؟؟؟؟

فهل هذا يحقق مطالب الثورة و شهدائها؟؟؟؟؟!!!!!

A post just to post...

Post-revolution Egypt is weird. We believe we are liberal, democratic and accept other points of view, while we do not. The simplest proof for that is the nausea we feel whenever someone supports or feels sorry for Mubarak, or even says that he has in fact done something for his country. I can't write anymore. I'll continue this later. But right now, I'm just going to post this in order to post. Cheers...