Sunday, December 14, 2014

To A New Chapter

Well, what can I say? I wrote a blog post more than four years ago declaring my intent to head to the U.S. and study Civil Engineering. The thought back then was exciting and scary. I was leaving Kuwait at 16 years old, studying something I have no interest for ad beginning a new chapter of my life.

Four years on, and here I am. A graduate. A civil engineer. But then again, here I am, excited and scared, unbeknown to me what's upcoming in my future endeavors. Lost.

I am thankful. I am grateful for the last four years of friendships, experiences and adventures. Low times and high times. Fun mixed with intellect. New beliefs, ideologies, approaches towards life and excellent education. I know more about myself more than anytime before. I understand the way I think and behave, and I've got a good grip of how I deal with things. I know what I can do and what I can't. I think I know my worth and the person I am going to be 50 years on.

It was a positive experience, for sure. But. There is always a but. But, I have no idea. I know myself but I don't really know what I want. I want more. I didn't suffice my desire for more. I'm not that bored of this life. I'm not fully satisfied. I do not want to leap that leap, from irresponsibility to adulthood. I'm still a youngster who needs more guidance and help, more intellect to make me surer and of greater value to myself and my close circle.

And I still lack that one thing. Love. That elated entity which I cherish with no avail. I have not that.

Now, reality. I'm a civil engineer, who hates civil engineering. Well, it's not complete hate. There is some love towards the profession, but it certainly doesn't define me. I won't allow it to define me. I'm an engineer, yes, but I'm a shitty one with no passion for it whatsoever. Yes, I do know about concrete columns and steel beams. I know about secondary treatment in a wastewater treatment facility, or the elements of the cross-section of masonry wall. There are also good soils and bad soils to be built upon. But, I have no interest whatsoever.

And this place. America. What a country! The people, the places, but I still didn't use it up. I want more. Whether here, or somewhere else. I have potential. I can do better, much better.

I still have three more exams and three more reports to do and submit before I'm officially done. The graduation was merely ceremonial, but it's all coming to an end. Suddenly. I've looked forward towards it. I think I spent most of my days in the last 2 & 1/2 years (the period which I realized that I can really do it and graduate) living my days with the intent that this time would finally arrive, and now that it did really arrive, I'm suddenly scared and wishing for more.

Let me explain this better. The fact that I can return from school, throw my bag, change into comfy PJs and crash on the couch with nothing to think about whatsoever is absolutely priceless. The friends around. The irresponsibility, the carelessness, the independence. Why would I want that to end?

I did have stressful weeks. Days which I spend more than 14 hours in the university engrossed completely in work or low times when the mood is depressing. But they were all compensated by bouts of laughter or acts of unorthodox nature. This is just to remind myself that this was a wonderful period of my life, and although I forgot many details, the goodness is to be remembered and memorized.

I went through a lot and I was carried by very loyal friends. People who spent years, literally years, to help me out and carry me out of my slump of carelessness. And I did it. I passed the finish line.

This leads to nothing, because I really have no idea what's next. Do I want to return or stay? Do I continue? Should I? What's certain is that I'll miss this, regardless of my future decision.

Thank you. Thank me.

Friday, November 7, 2014

The Calm

The obscenity of it all is never a surprise. The audaciousness is not even astonishing any more. It's a meddle not a disaster. 

My name is Ali.

The turn to the personal helps ease. 

My name is John and I'm trying to be eloquent.

The turn to the impersonal is impersonal and fake. 

*Resort to short sentences and an ambiguous collection of words that make no sense beyond their grammatical correctness. Their political neutrality.*

"My patience is the patience of sailors seeking pearls amid the seas."

I used to write when I used to have meaning. The lack, thereof, is a logical result to the contrary. 

My name is AverageQ8i. I'LL DO WHAT I CAN DO. 

Monday, October 20, 2014

A Cheap Script

You: Oh my God, you're really doing this. You're actually blurting out these deviated words? Fuck off. I have nothing to say.
Me: DO NOT TURN THIS ON ME. You started this, making it a minefield of deceit and hurt. You fucking backstabbed me. You put a knife in my back and fucking twisted it. Fuck you, for God's sake, fuck you.
You: I never meant for it to go wrong. You kept zoning out and leaving me to my misery, forgetting our beautiful moments. Snubbing my kisses, my looks of lust, my looks of love. What do you expect me to do? Wait? Wait for what? Wait for the rest of my life and see you smoke your life away, drink your emotions and gamble our life-savings? Your ripped our wishlist, the things we got together to do, to-fucking-gether. You have the audacity to come here and say that I stabbed you in the back? I didn't stab shit. I held us together. Held this together. Worked my ass off to feed us and your addicted self.
You: That is you when you have nothing to say. Shutting everybody up. Shutting yourself up. Go fuck yourself. We're done.
Me: We're done when I say we're done.
You: Remove your filthy hand off my arm!
Me: I won't. You're staying here. I will never allow it.
You: Look at yourself. Smell yourself. You think I respond to you anymore? I do whatever I want to do, without anybody's consent, understand me?
Me: Yes. I understand you alright. Now my job is to make you want to stay, right?
You: Don't play your games. Fuck off, I'm leaving.
Me: Well the game just started.
You: Bye.
Me: Check your phone.
You: You wouldn't.
Me: I would. Now do you want to stay?
You: Come. Let's settle this.

I'm not that much of a writer. 

Saturday, October 11, 2014


Nights are not so enriching anymore. I'm not moved by a cool breeze, by invigorating melodies, by enchanting poetry, by fast car rides, by conversations of intellectual magnitude, by teachings of substance, by idols and symbols, by celebrated personalities. It all came to a halt at a point in the last four years. Nothing heightens my senses anymore; nothing is of any value.

Where are those thoughts of passion when a glance is shared?

A lover is confined to the brown pages of a book, between two durable covers, to be imagined and not experienced. I should understand and remember that a human isn't just bone and muscle. The theory of instinct should be obliterated, as that would shatter what a human being is all about, a person of feelings. Love, a distinct, original entity which should never be forgotten.

I'm living but living what? A life, just a minuscule part of a larger haystack. No. This shouldn't be true. I should be meaningful, to myself at the very least, locate my own true north.

I'm not myself.

But I am really not my own property. I am completed by that other person, that gal whom I rotate around, and want to be next to. This is what I tried to suppress for the last four years. To get over, but get over what? I was getting over myself and living and living a life of others, a routine instigated by self-improving morons on the Internet and the pressure of educational excellence.

I'm not a person who conforms to a regular sleeping routine, and multiple hours of Engineering books, no. I don't have a bed, and an alarm and a daily time to wake up. I don't talk to people who don't interest me on topics that don't interest just for the sake of assigned group work. No. This is completely fake.

I don't compromise and lie. I don't keep superficial relationships or be cautious whenever I meet a new person. I'm a follower of the heart, a trustworthy person carrying the secrets of many, untangling others' problems, and harming myself for their good. Their problems, papers, lovers are more important than anything that I have. This is lost. I'm not me.


Where is the fucking composure? Prowess?

I guess I'm stuck in that snowball called adulthood. Maybe a story of success albeit nonsensical success.  

"أتبعك، ويضيع العمر، ويضيع الطريق، وخطوتي
وأدورك بخدود الزهر، بالليل، بعيون القمر
وأدورك بنبض قلبي الجديد، كل ما لمحتك بعيد، وأسأل عليك الصبر"

Sunday, October 5, 2014


You don't trust me, you don't give a fuck. You need me, and when you're done eating up my flesh, you'll dump my bones to the awaiting dogs. Your conscience is a lie. A bitch is what you are. A self-centered, bigoted, unaware whore of intellectual emptiness and a facade of fake kindness.
You obliterate the ritual laws of love. You know nothing of love but a set of traditional restrictions put forth by religious sayings and old tales, and you don't even cherish those. You're cruel, challenging a Disney crone on the extents of evilness your highness can reach, and you surpass her, as you categorize the means of wrong attitudes and hurting actions.
You can stare me down, citing your lies easily. You can't even recognize truth as you build a web of fake tales, and as you're caught in your act, the high-pitch of your voice suddenly pops up, invoking the racing heartbeats of my heart and utilizing its unknowing senses. 
Fuck you, may I say. Fuck you and fuck your deceit. Fuck the imaginary image of you, and fuck the thing I started with you. A thing which I knew of its deviation and never stopped, as I got addicted to your apparent easiness, which was all part of your plan. 
Fuck my heart which succumbed. 

The above is a burst of fictional emotion. 

Friday, October 3, 2014


I have nothing to declare. That should be enough for a long white page.
No. I want that look of determined solace.
I would like to call myself a poet.
I don't want to lose that essence within me, that untouchable entity.
I'm losing it. I'm losing everything.

What's an unwanted self but an average person?

"مساري ماهو باختياري، لها ساري."

Thursday, August 21, 2014

"Dignity of a Homeland 8"

We entered the grand mosque as the Imam started the long Taraweeh prayers. It was my first time in the mosque, and I was bewildered by the massive spaces within the mosque and the elegant designs on every inch of each wall, and the roof towering the endless blue carpet. But the atmosphere wasn't really spiritual as I sat alongside one of the columns; stares were shared by many, and audible chatter syncing with the Imam's beautiful recital of verses of the Quraan. It was nervy. A thick aura filling the air within. My shorts were quite an obvious indication that I was not there to pray, but for a completely different reason, and I felt the looks close down on me with each turn of the neck and each skeptical stare, or maybe nobody really cared. I don't know. 

Taraweeh ended, and people started to walk out. The whispers continued, and the usual relaxation after a sequence of prayers wasn't there. It was tensed. The orange shirt here and there comforted me, kind of, but I knew better than to wear such a shirt. A few familiar faces, former MPs, young activists, all of whom suddenly had the urge to pray tonight's Taraweeh prayers at the grand mosque. Groups formed as people receded to the outer spaces, anticipation clearly plastered on their eyes. Our signal to move out was the turning off of the lights. The grand mosque wasn't going to accommodate anybody, politically affiliated or religious, especially tonight. 

The outer courtyard, matching the interior grandeur of the mosque, now hosted the political crowd of the night. No more feigned spiritualties, no more readymade excuses; whoever is here, is here to protest and be part of the march. Police cars were around, but the jubilant presence of the people drowned any sense fear or reluctance. People were joyful, talking to each other freely, meeting one another after long whiles of absence. It was like a huge Dewania, where all understood why the other is here and mutual appreciation apparent on all. Salem and I talked, trying to look and sound as normal as possible. It was our first rally, and excitement mixed with minute proportions of fear were in our systems. Whenever we saw a familiar face, we talked about them, sharing Twitter experiences and thoughts about the personality. Smiles here and there. We laughed at a guy carrying a bag of 7Up cans, clearly not for drinking purposes, and others already covering their faces with surgical masks, looking quite absurd amongst the easygoing crowd. My attention was caught by a trio of females; a mother (or grandmother) presumably and her two young daughters blending in into the crowd, all in orange scarves. A confidence boost surged through me, if those girls were going to march with us in that rally, then why wouldn’t I march as well? This coincided with my brother’s constant texts asking me to return back to the car and leave the place. “It’s a trap,” he wrote, “nobody can enter from the outside premises. Everything is blocked off by the police. The people inside the perimeter are only a couple hundred. They’re going to crack hard on you guys.” I knew better than to dismiss his warnings as white lies. He has attended many previous rallies, and was exposed to the infamous tear gas, and he wanted to attend this one as well but couldn’t because the police cordoned off the square that we’re standing in right now.

“I’m not leaving. Things are okay. A lot of people are around, and there is no sign of an imminent crackdown. Don’t worry, and I’ll constantly update you.” I voice-noted in reply.

After the end of the impromptu press conference done by former members of parliament in front of the mosque, another familiar voice flared from a police car’s speakers on the other side of the courtyard. The famed Major-General Abdulfattah Al-Ali blurted out random warnings to the crowd, as nobody really cared to what he said. The now moving crowd drowned his voice, as they started their own chants demanding the release of Msallam Al-Barrak, and judicial reforms. “Ignore him,” one of the protesters distinctly shouted, stating the obvious.

The crowds now mobilized on the street, and began their rally at 10:05. The jubilance of the atmosphere stunned me and engulfed me with joy. There wasn’t any anger or despair, but a pure sense of happiness and solidarity. The fact that people were together unified by patriotic chants, casted away any sense of fear. My own reluctance to join in the chants was stricken off when, as soon as we reached the intersection between the mosque and the Kuwaiti Stock Exchange, banners of the Civil Democratic Movement emerged from the left, carried by a considerable number of activists. It was a scene out of a movie. This was a moment to grasp, and I joined in, clapping and shouting, “THE PEOPLE WANT MSALLAM AL-BARRAK!”

That moment lasted for a minute, at most.

Following the grand entrance of CDM, sound grenades were flung into the middle of the crowd, followed by tear-gas bombs. Stunning. The crowd dispersed quickly, ignoring the calls to stay put and keep unified form. The speeding entourage of the Special Forces was as grand as the crowd itself, consisting of large black and blue tanks and trucks. The action movie scene was complete now, and I needed to adjust to reality. Running was the first thing entering my mind, but I didn’t want to get lost. Again, this was my first time. I clasped Salem’s hand and held on as we ran to the Northeastern direction, towards the car park and Qased Khair. I regretted wearing Crocs.

We reached the huge car park/garden, heart pumping, recollecting our breath. The smoke was yet to reach our new location, as many others started to arrive at our place as well. I estimate that we were a hundred or so, in the big square. I was disoriented, astonished and out of breath, and I believe Salem was sharing those same qualities, but we were calm, trying to grasp the situation and find a way out of this. I kept voice-noting my brother via Whatsapp, updating him. “They hit us, but everything is well. We’re next to Qased Khair’s parking. There isn’t anything, don’t worry.”

We tried to escape through one of the corners that leads to the demonstrations but that was covered by the Special Forces anticipating us. We tried to run for the seaside, adjacent to the Seif Palace, but the Special Forces were there as well, already knowing our choices. All four corners were sealed, and that’s when we realized that we were trapped. It was humid, and the constant jogging from one area to the other took its toll on me. Some were trying to access Qased Khair for water but the coffee shop had its lights off and its door locked with the unknowing surprised costumers shayyeshing in total darkness. Although I did smell some teargas, but I wasn’t affected by it, assuming that people overreacted when exposed to it. There was a bucket of water outside of the café, and people were flushing their faces with it.

Then Salem, suddenly, left my side and introduced himself to Khaled and Saad, two notable opposition figures. His sly introduction made me smile as Salem’s family name was an apparent giveaway to his political views (many of his cousins were political detainees at one point). I followed suit and shook my hand with the two, kind of assured that they were people who knew what they’re doing, in such circumstances. We tagged along as they tried to organize the crowd and keep all in one place, preventing the random arrests that happen to individuals by undercover forces.

I then saw a relatively old woman, obviously lost and tired by the gas bombs. She wanted to leave, exclaiming, “Finish, I don’t want this! Why won’t they let us leave? I want to go home.” It became clear that the Special Forces weren’t in the business to disperse the crowds only. Their aim was collective punishment and random arrests. They wanted to inflict as much damage as possible, without letting anyone leave easily. There was no way out with such an articulate siege on our place particularly. The woman tried to enter Qased Khair, which didn’t yield whatsoever. The employees were flustered themselves. A couple, a man in a dishdasha and a woman, who probably were not part of the march, were heading towards the forces, with their hands up. We asked the woman to join them, and she did, welcomed by the couple. The man shouted, “FAMILY, FAMILY.” We observed, sensing the acknowledgement of the Special Forces, and anticipating their arrival to the awaiting troops. Nope. Three of the Special Forces aimed their guns and professionally sent, to our extreme horror; three gas bombs, which skid swiftly on the floor. One of the grenades, according to my later understanding, hit the foot of the old lady.

The bombs sent us into one of the old buildings bordering the square. This time I realized the genuine effect of the teargas as I struggled for breath and the smoke literally covered my face, skin and clothes, multiplied by the humidity. The gas infiltrated the building we entered and coughs were all I could here from the people. All were struggling. Our group then ascended to the mezzanine floor, which had inner balconies overlooking the ground floor. I didn’t understand why they were going upstairs. The smoke followed us, and naturally floated up with us. We were enclosed, surrounded and gassed.

We relaxed momentarily, giving me time to notice that we were in a building filled with closed offices and small firms. I, once again, updated my brother, providing him with whatever information I had, and an approximate location of where we were, and whom I was with (it turned out I was completely wrong with the location). Salem kept checking up on me and Saad and Khaled tried to communicate with the outside world and reassured us. A bottle of warm water circulated us with little water inside. Our urge to drown it all up was evident yet nobody dared to finish, gulping a little and passing it over. We were silent for a while, until I saw a blue and black uniform stealthily entering the building from the right, followed by another and another. It was a scene out of Call of Duty; their shields fully covering their faces and their professional entry making our building seem like a hub of terrorists. I, for the first time, was terrified. Khaled then escorted us into a corner in the floor we were in. It was a narrow room, 4x1 probably, bordered by plastic bags filled with clothes, and a green bicycle hanging on one of the walls. All of us fitted in, standing of course. We were fifteen. The guys were advising us to silence our phones and keep complete and utter silence. I was at the far end of the room. The only thing separating us from the rest of the floor was an opaque yellow sliding door, which was closed as soon as we were all inside. It was tight and sticky, and I can dare to say that air was scarce. Tear gas was yet to diminish, and hence my eyes continued to sting. We now had time to stare at each other as we listened for the various shouts coming from the lower floor, presumably of arrests and standoffs. We listened for sounds coming closer, or footsteps ascending the staircases of the building. I informed my brother of my imminent arrest and current situation, as well as my apologies for not adhering to his earlier requests. The fast pumping of my heart never ceded, and I couldn’t figure out the reason. The silence allowed for the faintest of sounds to be heard, and hence we heard a lot of footsteps and the occasional shouts. The sounds were getting closer. They were on our floor.

Salem deleted his Twitter. Others were drafting “I have been arrested” tweets whilst others kept hearing out for more clues. Khaled and Saad, calmly, mouthed and mimed instructions of surrender without resistance whatsoever. One of the guys with us was seemingly stressed at that prospect. Salem shared a smile of indignation towards me, leaving no room for words. The footsteps closed in, and Saad looked outside, anticipating the orders of the Special Forces. It was coming. We were to be arrested, now.

And then the officer simply turned around and walked to the other side of the corridor. Screams were now close by. A couple of guys were, apparently, caught in one of the bathrooms on our floor. We kept silent. Fifteen minutes then went by with nothing of note, but arduous sweat and nerve-wrecking anticipation, and the lack of air. One of the temporary tenants of the small room was an old guy called Jaber. His phone rang, regardless of any inclination to silence it. He replied with utter confidence and no sense of fear, to our astound amazement. What the fuck was he doing? He’s going to get us caught. After the phone call, he apologized, saying that he was talking to his son, and he didn’t want to seem weak or afraid to him. Many of us tensely smiled. Another fifteen minutes went by, with nothing out of the ordinary, but we still kept still. I found a piece of cardboard in one of the bags and began fanning the guys around me. They appreciated the small gesture and offered to fan me in return. It was more relaxed now. After more moments of silence, Saad carefully slid open the door, to allow air to breeze in onto us. It was a relief. One of the guys walked out and checked the floor for any police presence. There wasn’t any, but the building, according to Twitter, was still surrounded. The room now had more space, and I sat down, drenched in my sweat. It was also a chance to chat and converse about politics, our situation, and what Twitter is saying. We heard of the rally going into the old market, and the Special Forces throwing in gas grenades towards the people there as well. There were also rumors of another rally about to start in Subah Al-Nasser. The old man, Jaber, talked a bit about his past, astonishing us once again by recounting that he was a member of the police force, yet he retired years ago. The irony sure is evident. Those moments also gave me a chance to take some pictures as well as a memorable selfie with the smiling elder. But it was yet a safe place to be. An officer can simply enter and arrest us all.

After about an hour since our entrance into the room, some of the guys were asking about the possibility of leaving the room, to the warning and sensible refusals of both Saad and Khaled, the impromptu strategic and tactical leaders of our small group, unit, I’m tempted to say. Khaled was already making his phone calls to arrange a car that would pick us up from our location to another safe place. An Egyptian guard noticed us and approached us. We were quite skeptical. Saad asked him to check the building’s surroundings for any forces, and he agreed. He was also offered 10 KD, which he refused. We feared he would go and notify the forces, but in ten minutes he returned with assurances that we could leave safely, except not in a group, but individually, which was met by the group’s refusal. It’s very easy to be caught alone, without anybody knowing. One of the conversations Khaled had caught my ear. Apparently a car was brought to our location, but it wouldn’t fit all of us. Khaled adamantly refused leaving us all behind, something I find very hard to forget. Another fifteen minutes passed by, and the way out was planned and sorted. The owner of Qased Khair was a personal acquaintance of Khaled, and he suggested that we’d enter his place and act like unknowing costumers. Minutes later, the owner emerged, surprised by our hiding place and escorting us out of the building and into his coffee shop. Our dismayed appearance made for a very peculiar scene as we entered the café. The costumers astonished. In a single file we went in. There were a couple of Special Forces personnel viewing us, knowing all too well the reason behind our presence, but couldn’t do anything as, officially, we were costumers of Qased Khair.

We sat in a round table, ordered water and tea and acted absolutely normal. I don’t think we looked normal. I assured my brother, but looking back at the whole thing made me ever so grateful. Salem and I were almost laughing, and our scene was quite funny. Political protestors, almost arrested a few minutes ago, are enjoying a cup of tea like nothing is going on, like the drenched shirt on me was a normal thing.

To the political detainees, to the political activists, to the injured, I write and dedicate. This is nothing compared to other tales of oppression and use of excessive force, but it’s a means to remember and document.Most of what is written is a first-hand account of the events, but some are of what I heard as to the things that I didn’t see.I wrote a conformed piece of the events but it was unfortunately lost. So please excuse the lack of needed prowess in this piece, as it is my second time writing it.Finally, I’d like to thank Salem, my brother, Khaled and Saad as well as the others who shared my experience in this rally, and I apologize if I misrepresented any.

Thursday, August 7, 2014


It has been a while. I'm spending my last vacation in Kuwait prior to my graduation date and that is if I hopefully graduate. And it has been a month or so since my return, and let me say that it has been quite eventful. From political gatherings to gas bombs and long Ramadan days to familial bonding, especially with the newborn Shoosh, and her older sister Zayan (nieces).

I stopped writing because I had planned something to write, which I did, but thanks to Blogger, I lost most of it :(, hence my disappointment and my procrastination. Did I mention that I love commas? The mark, not the medical condition that is.

This is a boring post.

Good night.

Oooh, I forgot about the title. It has nothing to do with what I just wrote. Well I'm optimistic about many things, although that optimism is mixed with hard work, but it counts as something positive.

Fuck this post a9lan. I plan for a much better one next time.

Goodnight. I have no idea why "goodnight" is allowed by the spellcheck whilst "goodmorning" is not. And now the new dilemma of "spellcheck" if it's a real word or not. English is fucked up. Why not master an exotic language, like Aramaic, or one of the Indian languages that only four people know and understand?

Are titles supposed to lack punctuation marks?

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Tired Letters

It is a rare occurrence for me to type down the title of a post, before writing it, as I believe that my hands have the freedom of wandering on the keyboard, typing letters, forming up words, at random, before headlining the piece. Today, the case is not completely the same.

I am punching in random words, but I am punching them with tired hands, droopy eyes, minutes prior to a final exam that would, to some extent, define my short-term academic career.

I apologize for blabbing, but I feel like bothering this other young girl sitting next to me, probably annoyed by the constant, rapid keyboard taps.

I want a warm bed and a lengthy, uninterrupted sleep.

I'll fail the exam :).

I'm returning to Kuwait soon.

This is not to be advertised by my various other outlets.


Saturday, June 14, 2014

All Black 2

The dark attic constructed a cozy atmosphere, an atmosphere of comfort and solitude, with nothing being able to break that. The presence of her next to him, made it all perfect, as her scents infused into the air, adding bliss-to-bliss, and lust-to-lust. The sweet smell of her hair, lying on the corner of his temple, enflaming his body to desirable fantasies. A small bed was framing them, and innocence was slowly escaping their characters. They were there, right next to each other, intertwined in heat and desire.

The dim twinkle lights above added extra shadows of mystique onto her figure, making her the more wanted, the more needed. His attempts to satisfy this raging hunger within him were subdued by her constant rebuttals. Her smile as she dodges his kisses, his wandering hands, grounding his senses of sanity and reason. The contradiction of it all was baffling him, here she is, allowing him to be at such close proximity to her, his arms engulfing her, yet she’s confidently testing his gentle attributes, the defining things that would constitute a gentleman.

Her moves, her breaths were taunting him, ridiculously examining his ability to stay sane, as she lay to his right, within his reach, her breath tickling his face, and vice versa, under that cold duvet. His heartbeat was also running loose, exposing his weakness, his desire, as they tirelessly pumped blood through him, allowing her the satisfaction of knowing the damage she’s causing, the correct result of whatever game she’s playing.

She started moving, as he surrendered and conformed to her wishes, lying on his back, giving up to her tactics of this game. She looked at him, strongly, knowingly, and almost apologetically, providing him with the apprehension that he passed the test, and due reward was about to be given. She gets closer, eyes fixed on his, absorbing his powers within the duel, and began kissing his forehead, exposing her beautiful neck to his needing eyes, decorated by her dandling black hair.  She lowered with the kisses, kissing his right eye, and then the left, driving him crazy with her scent, and her pecks increasing the temperature of the non-existent space between them. His senses knew better than to try anything stupid himself, and kept him still, as his body responded to her touches of magic and heavenly pleasure. She slipped to his ear, and started teasing them with her mouth, winning a sure battle. She then awarded him a little peck on his mouth, with which he couldn’t resist. His eyes were fixated on hers, as she defied him to move, and he did, he wanted more, daring to raise himself and return the kiss, as they both looked, stunned at the beauty of it all and the rebellion taking place. The strength of the look, the astonishment, and the moment of mutual agreement that was exclusively exchanged between their eyes, provided the go. They battled, and they kissed, never losing eye contact, as if wanting to store this minute forever, without any regrets, and with the utmost of hope. They kissed lavishly, strongly, confidently, maturely, acting within their senses, as they both lost their senses, allowing their hearts, mouths, hands, and most importantly, their eyes, do the talking.

Saturday, May 31, 2014

At the end of May

At the end of May I reflect. What have I done, and what have I not? 
Instruments are supreme beings. 
Music is the heavenly creature of such coordination. 
Reflections of love and life. 

Martyrs are just numbers. Dead, forgotten, casted away. 
Men are supreme beings. 
Death is a gift to a country, to a home. 
Blood mixed with sand to grace a mission, to immortalize a cause. 

I'm bullshitting. 
I'm on a bed. Far away from any sacrifices. 
A failure. A dream. 
Forming up theoretical aspirations, losing touch of reality. 

Sex is a cure. 
A kiss is a cure. 
A song is a cure. 
A joint is a cure.
Be ecstatic and forget about everybody else. 

Reach an orgasm and kill your fantasies. 
You're nothing but a lousy dreamer, a wounded soul hazed by a dream. 
You're blackmailed by a text, flustered by a ringtone. 
You're nothing but a bunch of hormones. 

She's a cure, but not any cure. 
She's a matter of mind. 
She's an idealist entity, a materialist's wish. 
She's philosophical magic. 

At the end of May I reflect. 
At the end of May I know, I fucked up. 

Monday, May 26, 2014

Hopeless Words

Maybe the right description is 'helpless' instead of 'hopeless'. I don't think it matters, as both carry the same meaning. Who isn't tired of writing and talking about the same issues all the time with nothing changing whatsoever? It's a frustrating cycle of dire lack of results, reaching high measures of pointlessness.

Nobody is listening and nothing is being done.


I sometimes write here just to reconcile my old-existing need to punch letter keys on a keyboard. Touch screens are not, in any way possible, satisfactory.



This is quite pointless, no? 

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Medieval Love

"Dear K,
        I think I am approaching the 3rd year of me knowing you. It has been 3 years since I first saw those hazelnut eyes of yours looking unintentionally into mine, condemning my senses with an unending crush, or maybe love.
My heart believes that it loves you. Every beat it survives, refreshes its love for you. Every beat reminds it thoroughly of you. You are apparently, my heart's reason for existence. Not me.
Every time I try to sleep, my thoughts rush hastily just to collect fragments from my mind of you, and presents them to my heart, and suddenly my body experiences its heart's thudding and throbbing, just because it remembered you, remembered your eyes. 
My mind excels in painting my future, yet it only does that when you're also there, pictured clearly on my canvas.
My eyes seem to lack a taste of anything after you. Nothing I see seems to fulfill their liking. They benchmarked you as the epitome of elegance and grace and apparently that's that. I couldn't force them into loving anything they'd set their stare at, after they have once stared endlessly into your eyes, into your beauty. 
Dear K, its been almost a year since I last saw you, since I last heard your voice, since my heart last satisfied itself with the complete assurance that you're safe and close by. By me. 
K, I miss you. I love you. I wouldn't want anything but you in my life.
                                                                                                                 Yours truly,

Written on the 16th of November, 2011 with minor alterations. 

Sunday, May 18, 2014

All Black

The intrigue, the subtleness, the surrender. There, right next to me, a creature of power and strength, entangled by mystique and warmth. I wanted him, I needed him. The sharp stare of his eye, the depth, the impersonal gaze flooding my consciousness, blanketing all sorts of common sense that I once possessed, detaching reality and embarking me onto a threshold of magic and wistful lust.

An infelicitous sensation swarmed within me, groping my sensations, encouraged by the twilight of the room, glowed by only a couple of twinkle christmas tree lights above us, faintly scintillating his sturdy eyes that shot right inside of me. Subdued piano notes were played in the distance, voyaging our moment into utopian extremes. Races of blood rushed through me as he moved closer, surpassing realism and ushering in perfection. 

Perfection of a touch, a connection, an immaculate means of communication entrancing my senses, blurring my understanding of logic and reason, propelling my body into abnormal heats, flaming my insides, providing me abstracts of hedonistic pleasures. A kiss of infinite proportions, destined for survival, destined for us. 

A kiss that infiltrated me, destroying all bridges of piety that once stood in me. The warmth of his mouth tantalizing mine as I seek for more, exploring universes of untouched sensualities. I held his face as I delved through him, feeling his early beard, directing his motions senseless of any immoral guilts. I have him, I accept him, and now I enjoy him. He pushed further with his lips, his tongue anticipating mine as I parted my lips. I'm tasting him, tasting his aroma, his delights, surrendering my opening, my words, my security to his fine power. 

He ended it and took a look at me. The beauty of those eyes, filled with manly lusts and desires. A twinkle. I felt weak but I welcomed that weakness, I embraced it, as I pushed him over, and initiated my own kissing episode. This shouldn't end, and it won't end. I covered him, clasping his strength, his figure of undeniable excellence and kissed. He succumbed to my endless need with utmost delicacy, adding to the uncontrollable heat within me. The sound of the distant piano paced through me. I clutched him, moving disorderly on top of him, trying to subdue my unyielding ardor. My tongue seeking his, playfully engaging in a full scale war, where no one is a loser nor a winner. 

I felt his loss of senses, his lack of mind when he abruptly gripped my tiny body, and instantaneously carried me barely losing contact with my mouth. He carried me to the room with meticulous care, his delicate touches enraging all sorts of fervors within me. Nothing mattered in my life but my demand of him to put down my raging fires, my crazy lusts. 

He put me and blanketed me with his body, adding heat to heat, engulfing my perceptions except for him. I yearned, as he resumed his kisses, moving slowly, angering my inner feelings of need. His caressing fondles exquisitely flaring my temptations as they reach boiling temperatures. I was compelled by an urgent concupiscence, a steamy thirst for more. Much more. 

And I woke up. 

Note from writer: 
This is written from a female's perspective per the request of a dear person. 

Friday, May 16, 2014

Mood Swings

The urge to write is immense. 
A sabbatical of misery. 
A half-empty glass, a failure's success. 
بانت نهاية قصتك، وانعرف منهو الأناني.

Words are limited, letters are not enough. 
Dictionaries are filled with shit. 
But then again, minds are shittier. 
Have we a soul? A heart? 
Have we a life? 

What makes white white? What makes a paper, a paper? 
Meanings are lost. The greats have perished. 
Nonsense is deemed wise. Coherence easy. 
I make no sense. 

Fingers onto boards, random punches. 
A heavy heart lightened by grammatical strictness. 
Punctuation vital. 
All summed up in the space between essential and essence. 

About to leave. 
Entering fuckery. Embracing mood swings. 
Italics are pitiful. A sign of self-assigned knowledge; bullshit. 
Who are we to judge what's important and what's not? 

Why edit? 
Why change originality? 
Why alter real feelings? 
Why kill the genuine; and keep the prosthetic?

Plastics are wrong. 

Monday, May 12, 2014


"Smirnoff Ice, in an ice-filled glass please."

The stress of a hectic week is to be evaporated by a cold sip of alcohol. The night is calm, a blanket of blackness glittered by a couple of stars here and there. The past few days weren't easy. Preparation and procrastination didn't mix well, coupled with anticipation for a weekend of absolut pleasures.

"Here you go."

The outdoor bar provided a comfortable exposure to the woods on the outskirts of the resort. The resort itself consisted of a bunch of cabins, enclosed within the forests of South Carolina. Early summer breezes and tranquil nights made the timing just perfect, especially following that long, tiring week. Choosing a light drink is just a prelude to further expected delights.

Booking the smallest cabin is a tactical choice. Warmth, lack of space and the lone queen bed being part of the general plan. A weekend to be forgotten and remembered is the scheme, and strategy is key, beginning with that ice-filled Smirnoff Ice. A drink just enough to up the mood without disturbing any of the required senses needed in just a couple of hours.

"Hala walla."
"At the bar, you?"
"I'll be there soon. Everything ready?"
"Yes, but there is a small issue, unfortunately."
"Sheno, sh9ar?"
"Double cabins are fully booked, so 7ejazt the studio-like one."
"Oh, la 3ady. It's okay. We'll work it out."

The plan is working out much better than expected, as no signs of protest were raised. This small win deserved another drink, but that can't happen, for the night to be enjoyable. A cigarette would just do the trick. Hydrated lips cuvetting a Marlboro Light infusing the Smirnoff's sourness with a nicotine-filled pleasure, exhibiting dances of blue smoke through the illuminated darkness, did the trick.

The iPhone vibrated: "Cabin number?"
"I'll be there in 3 mins."

A simper. One of those uncaring smirks. Nothing is going to ruin this. Confidence is sky high. Stepping off of the bar's highchair, and heading to #12. A slow walk. Why rush? Let her have all the time she needs. After all she has been driving for long hours, and may require some short-lived privacy.

iPhone: "Where are you?"
"Quick, I'm inside."

Nothing is going rush him. Maybe his heart is rushed with anticipation, but the steps are as steady as they were. Subtleness and neutrality are the roles being played, and they are to be stuck with from the beginning until the end.

The Jaguar is parked next to the Mustang. Typical. Maybe another drink would've been better. #12 is there, lights glowing from the window, and movement within is apparent. The time has come. Knock knock; curtesy is vital and gentleman-like.

أنا وانتِ وبس 
أنا وانتِ وما معنا أحد

Lagging seconds, followed by movements and then steps towards the door. She opened and everything opened, the years of anticipation, longing and lust. She's there in front of him. There to be held and carried, there to be gazed at. There, a creator's masterpiece, a craft of glamour. Composure escaped him, as if what he originally planned for flew out of his throat. Nothing was uttered according to his mental script. He hugged. He rode into those open arms, clasping her scent, yearning for what he didn't ever own, resting his head on her shoulder, drowning within her hair.


أخاف لو مرت النسمات، تشاركني شذى عطرك

Writer's Note: 
This may be continued. 

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

A Revolution of Innocence

Striding confidently, her smile picking up pace and her shades adding glamour to beauty, R entered my life. A momentary meeting, preceded by countless texts, would make anyone know that she's there to be cupped, held and hugged endlessly without letting go. How would one entrust life with a gem like R and not fear for her?

Her presence is longed for. She's a definition of happiness, an articulation of absolute fun. And then she was held, hugged, discovered.

That perpendicular moment, an eye to an eye, a stare to a stare, a lust to a lust. One wouldn't be able to describe that adequately, it's just hard.

She's wanted, needed. One that has her can't ever think of giving her up, but then again, "this is life." A life that wouldn't let one be next to her at all times, making every moment, a moment to be remembered, a moment relived.

And then, there is that other side of my R. The side that nobody knows of.

The side that intrigued me, that took me to a spherical journey into a universe of temptation and hotness. Actions that would glow within her eyes, and allow me the feeling of pleasures, which others rarely do realize. A smoke. A sip. A bad word. A kiss. A look. A look of heated sensations, unequivocal truths and lies, temperamental feelings.

And then, there is that safety that I'd feel with no other. The warmth of being intertwined, one hand caressing my hair, as the other hovers over my face, as I reward myself with nothing but pecks of utter appreciation onto it, hoping that that sense of gratefulness is conveyed.

"الله لا يغير الحال، نبقى مهما الزمن طال، كيف أسيبك؟"

It was once said, and it'll be reaffirmed: "I love you." 

Thursday, April 24, 2014

Voices and Souls

The setting was dim. The wreckage was apparent throughout the avenue where Ahmad lived. He couldn't absorb the destruction all around him. The appalling scent of burnt rubber nauseated him. Ahmad didn't even notice the wounds covering his chest, the pain only served as a minute pinch to his senses as his eyes scurried through the dark smoke trying to make out the building of Uncle Saleh. Was it still up, did it get damaged as well? But he couldn't locate it, he didn't recognize anything around him. The sound of multiple sirens started to alert his senses, arousing his own motion of survival. Before finding anyone else, Ahmad must find himself.

Ahmad's shirt was saturated with blood, and his nerves began to respond to the blinding pain by sending multiple painful signals to his brain, paralyzing his ability to move. He's supposed to act quickly if he is to survive, only reassured by the ever-emerging sounds of sirens, presumably ambulances. He laid on his back easing off the burden on his chest, and began to breathe steadily, looking to his right and left. That is not the room he was in 10 minutes ago. Glass was shattered everywhere, half of the roof was collapsed next to him, ornaments that belonged to Mazen's apartment, which he visited often, were scattered to his left, and the dust just wouldn't subside, or was that smoke? Surprisingly, Ahmad was completely calm, with his breaths returning to the steadiness of a casual jogger. He kept muttering the verses he remembered from the Quraan, always returning to the first chapter and almost rehearsing it for the time he was going to need it urgently, up there, he kept thinking.

Then the doomed thoughts began tormenting him. His mother, grandmother, his 4 sisters and the new niece whom he just celebrated her birth. Where were they? He didn't want to think about where they were at the time, fearing the worst. Then anger. Pure anger covered him. Why? Just why? Why would one do such a thing?

Ahmad now recognized voices growing closer to him. Cries of "الله أكبر" and "لا إله إلا الله" and "إنا لله وإنا إليه راجعون" were simultaneously being called around him. He heard women and children crying and men shouting curses. Once, every few minutes, a howl of apparent mourning was initiated by one of the women signaling the death of a loved one, as he presumed. The anger choked his breath, and tears started trickling down his face. He felt, once again, as a young kid, unable to do anything, caged by the strength of the oppressive forces that surrounded him. The same feeling that was there 19 years ago, when they shackled his father and guarded him as they threw him in one of those old, dusty black SUVs, for him not to be seen ever again, until he became a distant memory, an entity worth forgetting. Now he began hearing the sounds of strenuous footsteps approaching accompanied by calls for anyone alive, and in need of help. Ahmad strained as he tried to alert whoever was coming close by, testing the ability of his vocal cords to shout "help." Nothing came out. He tried again, and again silence. Frustration now blanketed him as he was thinking of something else to do. To the right he saw a large jarred piece of glass that looked like one of the windows that used to shield his room. Haplessly he tried to move and carry that piece. Finally something was working out, although the agony of such action was indescribable. Carrying the piece of glass, and with all remaining force Ahmad had in that moment, he tossed it as hard as possible on an adjacent wall, causing a terrible screech that seemed to be magnified by the echo of the new hollowness of his destructed room, half room. The sound of the crash was a success as the distant voices grew closer and closer, asking for a response as they called for anyone in need. That was Ahmad's last duty for the day, as he collapsed, again, on a bed of sharp fragments of glass, wishing for nothing but utter and absolute revenge. Ahmad fainted.

2 days later

The makeshift hospital Ahmad was residing in shouldn't be worth being called a hospital. Beginner nurses were scattered everywhere, with the presence of doctors being as rare as electricity in medieval Europe, or for a better similarity, as rare as electricity in nowadays Homs. He woke up exactly on the 48th hour, after being sedated continuously, with the med student supervising his case knowing that the pain of his injuries, if he had woken up earlier, would endlessly agonize Ahmad. His memory wasn't fuzzed, and he remembered every little detail of that blast; the sounds of airplanes buzzing beforehand, the scrimmage for safety by the population on his street, the calls for cover, the swiftness of the whole thing, the 10 minute hammering of barrels falling everywhere, colliding with a building, and exploding soon afterwards. And when everything seemed clear for a while, that time gap of comfort when the manmade storm of explosives subsided and gratefulness streamed through his body as he thought that his building was spared, just in time for the last barrel of them all to fall directly on his head. With complete vividness, he recounted the shouts for help, the screams of "God is great," the bellows of utter fright, and the transformation of the multi-story building that he lived in into a mass of mess. Sheer pain surged throughout his body, muffling him into a chorus of moans that were heard by his fellow wounded on the beds next to him, and by the bewildered nurses as well as Uncle Saleh.

To his right was Uncle Saleh, commanding the nurses to call the young doctor. The brightness that always illuminated the old man's face wasn't there anymore. Creases and darkness were now the features highlighting the lineaments of his face, with a deep sorrow permeating by his looks of worry and anguish. Ahmad worked up the power to voice a few words through his moans in the form of small questions that required answers.
"Mama?" Ahmad lightly said.
"No." Uncle Saleh confirmed by shaking his head.
"My sisters? Little Sophie? "
His heart was crushed. He wished he was dead. Death was a better salvation. The agony increased as he frantically wailed and cried his heart out. Uncle Saleh joined in, not caring to comfort him or ease the agony. Both were distressed to disproportional measures, to inconceivable states of loss and emptiness. Ahmad then felt that thud of hope as he recognized that Uncle Saleh was alive. If Uncle Saleh is alive, then so is... Not caring about the formalities of traditions, and the inappropriateness of such care in his following question, Ahmad uttered, "and Amna? Where is Amna?"

Uncle Saleh lowered his head and shrieked at the mention of his beloved daughter. The patients, nurses, and the hurried doctor all stopped as they saw the old man hit his head, crying her name multiple times, afflicting pain on himself and emotional pity on the others. The scene was frantic, the devastation colossal. And Ahmad. Ahmad stopped crying, stopped moaning. Ahmad just stopped. Tears left his confounded eyes with his pure soul.

I cannot imitate or describe the utter devastation of war and death. I never experienced or have ever been close to someone who did. This is all fictitious, but this is just my way to falsely experience such trauma and highlight it. We look at wars indifferently. The numbers of the dead turn are just numbers lacking any sort of humanity or personality. I just hope that this short piece is a means for my little group of readers to know that the dead are humans that once lived, having aspirations and ambitions, wishing for safety and security, and were unfortunate enough to be under the fire of dirty politics. May the souls of the martyrs have the comfort of bliss, and may their sacrifices be remembrances for all of us.