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.