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"

No comments:

Post a Comment