Optimism

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?

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.

WALLA MADRY SHGA3ED ASAWY! 

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.

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. 

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.

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.
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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.

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This is quite pointless, no? 

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,

                                                                                                                                  4."

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

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. 

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. 

Crave

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

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."
"Merci."

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.

"Aloo."
"Hala walla."
"Wainek?"
"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?"
"12."
"I'll be there in 3 mins."
"Okay."

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?"
"Coming."
"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.

Trance.

أخاف لو مرت النسمات، تشاركني شذى عطرك

Writer's Note: 
This may be continued. 

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." 

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.
"Grandma?"
"No."
"My sisters? Little Sophie? "
"No."
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.  

Versus

When he looks into her eye, the reverence of a prayer is formed within him.
She's the supplication of an orphan in need of a parent's lap. 
She's the divinity of his life, the just judge of right and wrong. 
Her anger is the wrath of hell and her pleasure is the bliss of heaven. 
Mercy is nothing but a kiss.

He's an outright sinner.
He's the guilty works of the devil. 
He's the naughtiness of a wrongdoer, the abolished conscience of evil. 
He's the motto of vile, the title of immorality. 

She's the innocence of a good child, the cultivation of virtue. 
She's the look of love. 
She's the holiness of faith. 
An epitome of repute, an exemplar of decency. 
She's the beauty of Joseph, the patience of Job, the doctrine of Noah, the trust of Ishmael. 

And the two met.

To The Left, To The Left

To those who don't know me well, well I'm a lefty. I write with my left hand. 

But then again, is this disclosure worthy of a blog post? Well, no. 

Okay. Let me try again. [This talking to the reader thing isn't working out so well with me so far]. [Why am I saying/writing 'well' a lot?] Sorry sorry. Back to the subject of this blog post. Fuck, I don't like where this is going. 

I'm listening to Laura - M7amad 3abdu, very nice song written by late Ghazi Al-G9aiby. 

Okay okay. So, to those who didn't talk to me for a while, or didn't get a lecture about the benefits of social justice and/or the woes of the bourgeoisie in the world, let me announce this: I'm a lefty. Lefty in the sense that I, on the political/economical spectrum of historical theories and world views, am on the left of things. 

This means I do not like capitalism. And it also means that I like socialism and communism. Wow. Such an important thing to disclose right? I apologize for dismaying you. 

Such a bland blog post mu? 

Asef. قاعد أعيد ذكريات الماضي بالكتابة الحرة وما إلى ذلك من ترهات. 

3ad really do you know what really surprised me recently, and is making me doubt my 12 years of Arabic language education? So you know when you write in Arabic? Okay. What does 'and' mean in Arabic? "و" right? So it's its own word mu? But the trick is that when you write it, you don't put a space between it and the word after it. Let me show you. 

Example: "مشيت مع جعفر و فجحان." This is wrong. 

"مشيت مع جعفر وفجحان." This is correct. 

I was stunned when I knew of this :(. *The choice of names is the result of my efforts to bring together the social divides in Kuwaiti society. We, the lefties of this world, do this. And call each other comrade flan and other stuff, you know, we're cool like that.*

Now I'm listening to "صوتك يناديني" by 3abdu as well. 

Bye.

Sarah

The smile is everything. The joy she conveys is universal but only unique to her. Life lives in her as she lives herself. Culture is united within Sarah. What would one want but music, art and the heart of a loving soul?

"اللي بيني و بينك أكبر من السوالف." 

"Ali, I love you. Ali, your presence in my life is unmatched by anybody." She utters those words as if I do add anything into her ever-blossoming existence. It's the other way round really. One would feel the days without her as lacking essence, lacking life. I'm the fortunate one having her, and since those first few days of Twitter directs until the long hours of Skype sessions, which make time stop as Sarah recounts the events of her past few weeks/months, Sarah never seized being the Sarah I know, the Sarah of exotic innocence. 

It's hard to find any eloquence in describing Sarah because she really doesn't require any eloquence. It's the vague simplicity of her manner that makes her arise from the boring ordinary. She yearns for my onlooking eye, my unbiased analysis of her expeditions, those quite eye-boggling adventures, and I'm always happy to provide the advise she seeks, whether she takes it or not. But the tales that she recounts only add to my need to be there, next to her. I want to protect my Sarah, shield her from the flirtatious eyes of her admirers and the stabs of her enviers. Yet my nods of dual apprehension is the response, as the fact that I can't be there is set solid. 

And there is that desired kiss. 

It's very hard for my heart to flutter when one appears on my screen. But Sarah is different. Sarah enchants the core of my senses, bringing me to a state of elation translated into a smile that I can't resist. And the eyes are a different story, requiring their own piece. However she looks, she's mesmerizing and memorable, and addictive. That is exactly how I know that I love my Sarah. 

Outlet

One needs an outlet. One needs to blow off some steam, and one is just bored of reality.
One is disappointed, ungrateful and lazy/slacking/being not one's self.
One is helpless, caged, depressed, hateful, heartbroken, torn and angry.
One needs fantasy, love, courage, friendship and faith. One lacks all.

One is surrounded by amazing people. One is loved by many. One is remembered by all. But one only wants one. One has only one target. And one cannot accept that that one is not to be. Never meant to be and never will be.

One is being practical.

One is sad.

One made mistakes. One lost his heart. One became an automatic machine. One's days are just numbers, and one's hours are simply times. One remembers but has no memory. One is too afraid.

One's moments of such are temporary. One will be smiling in a few seconds. One will overcome this and return to normalcy.
Yet one fears.
One fears the yearning, the longing, the heartaches. One is not crushed but is duly tortured by such feelings. One relied on time, but time failed one, and one is giving up to grueling reality.

One wants to be so wrong. But one's heart is sure enough.

Insomnia

*Warning - Unethical content in this post.

Trickles of sweat were tickling his temple as he sat on a bench alone, on a humid night, in the dim university campus, simply pondering on the sleeping trees.

He almost envied these trees for their ability to just sleep, uncaring of the outside elements of this world.

The trees' nakedness wasn't hindering them from the pleasure of exiting life for a few hours and returning on the mornings to resume their works.

A grin then escaped his lips. "I need to see a psychiatrist," he thought.

20/6/2011

"Chub wala kelma!!"

"Ya S3oud, mu ana elly yengally chub, mu ana."

"Btasketeen wella shlon?, Menu entay A9lan?, Who the fuck are you?. Ga7ba, ga9ait 3alaiha bkelmetain, Necht-haa, O Al7een Lo ta7lem ma ra7 tetzawaj men 7atta zabbal bangaly!! Tgouleen 'mno ana?' Entay wala shay, WALA SHAY."

Tears were beginning to form in her eyes, as she gathered her bra and panties, without even caring to put them on. She quickly zipped up her dress and slammed the door as she left.

S3oud simply continued sipping his scotch.

21/6/2011

"Just released, a police report just affirmed the death of a 19-year old female Kuwaiti student at the deceased's apartment in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. The report said, 'Sarah Al-Thamy committed suicide by over-dosing on Vicodin, a pain killer.' The investigation is going as to why Sarah killed herself. Police never found a suicide note." ABC News.

S3oud's insomnia kicked in.

Not in anyway is this a true story. Names are fake.

7 Months.

It has been around 7 months with me being in boring old Kansas. Studies aren't that great, well I have never been the study type, add to the fact that comprehending both calculus and chemistry is a difficulty I'm facing.

Life is good, yet I still didn't meet the right person for me to spend the next 3 years with in America. I'm referring to an American girlfriend of course ;). Nobody is noticing my beauty :(, bess wait for it.

Ma Wa7asht El Dar?

I miss Kuwait very dearly. Life here is not bad, but the comfort of home is longed for. Being asked about, knowing whats going on and sharing the grieves and happinesses with the family is something my heart aches about for not having.

And I miss writing. The inspiration is almost non-existent.

And believe it or not, my english is getting worst in America. Nobody is stimulating any intellect in my system, and everybody cares about drinking, smoking and possessing the best ass in Manhattan as a companion. That's the vice of being in a university town.

I went to Adele's concert dudes and dudettes. Something I'm bragging about although I know just a few of the lyrics in one song she sings.

Twitter has been gone in the last 2 months, as I was planning to 'concentrate' on my summer course, yet I believe it came to no positive avail, grades have barely gotten better, but they're better which is a good sign.

Its my exams period right now, and I wish I would do well and get the fuck out of here for a change.

Oh how much I miss blabbing around here, so Anony would comment and Zifny ;).

O Wait, let me dedicate a song to someone that may be reading this.

كنت أعرفك لما كان الحب يعرفك .. كنت أعرفك لما كان الطيب وصفك ..

كنت أشوف الدنيا فيك .. كنت أحب خوفي عليك ..

لكن إنت اليوم ثاني .. جاحد و قلبك أناني .. و السؤال عني يكلفك ؟ يبا كنت أعرفك ..

Well I'm not dedicating it literally because it doesn't really explain what I feel, bess inna its playing on my itunes now .. Lets continue ;p ..

عد و احسب كم عذرتك و كم عذر خليت عده ..

و عد جروحي من عرفتك .. و لا جرحي صعب عده ؟ ..

و أبعدك عن كل شكي .. و أنجرح و أسكت ما أحجي ..

Why is it that I'm feeling sad right now. I feel that, a select few that really care about me, which is sad La2ana y3ny, you'd think that you'd be cared about, bess inna la2, I don't feel it.

O I'm sad la2ana there is nobody that I really care about right now, nobody to share my emotions with. Just this blog and the occasional, although starting to be the rather frequent ciggy.

Such a liberating feeling to be able to write all of the random none sense that predecessed this sentence on a laptop's keyboard. And it doesn't require any energy at all, but a few minutes of worthless, misused minutes.

Till another, date-unknown, post, Tata.

Starbucks 8

*Warning* - Unethical content in this post.

Infatuation was the prime sense that seized Yousef's mind, heart and soul. He was intoxicated by that powering feeling, yet he did not resist its presence. He welcomed it and embraced its existence in his system, in his life.

A while went by, after that acquaintance, before he remembered that he noticed something different in Dalal's appearance. He recalled that he loved that variance in her, but it tormented him that he could not pin-point that change. It was absolutely excruciating on Yousef.

He sat there, at the same Starbucks, at the same green table, where he met Dalal the second time, on a beautiful Monday morning. Yousef convinced himself that he was there, again, to wait for 5aled to wake up, after a another partying night in Dubai, yet he could not take away the idea that he might meet her again and witness that beauty before his eyes.

As he sipped his regular white mocha, Yousef tried hard to relive those 5 minutes of his life. He thought to himself, as he realized how enchanted he was by her, about how ridiculously fast was the time for him to fall in her charm.

He sat waiting, and imagining for two long hours.

7amad was enjoying his last free day in Kuwait, before he goes back to the army's training camp on Monday. Sitting in the Derwaza Cafe, smoking the grape flavor which he always loved and eating a shitty burger for breakfast made by the lousy morning staff at the cafe, he fondly remembered how much he missed his friends' presence there.

7amad, although a failed graduate from a private English school, never forgot his bedouin heritage. But on the contrary, he tried to make it a part of his life. His love for camels and the desert never left him, and he was exceptionally extraordinary in poetry. 7amad always entertained 5aled and Yousef with his poems that were brilliant, and could compete with the best of poets, despite his young age, however, his military duties compelled him and his poetry to never see the daylight of publicity.

After finishing his meal, he decided to call Yousef.

.

.

.

.

28/12/2009 12:32 pm

Yousef was startled by his loud blackberry indicating to him that he had a phone call. "Aloo?"

"Hala BuYa3goub, kaif el 7al?"

"7maid? 3ash men sema3 hal 9ot, walla b5air 6al 3umrekk, Ent shlonekk, shemsawyy?"

"Wallah b5air, yserrik el 7al? Shfeeh 9otek ya 5ooy? 3asa ma shar?" 7amad noticed a difference in Yousef's voice.

"Ma shar, ya 5ouk, ma shar, bess tadry, Eddenya o balaweehaa" Yousef, although rarely spoke out his feelings, wanted to disclose some of the emotions in him.

"Esma3 wana o5ouk, goully shelly m'9aygekk o Inshallah, el 7al 3endy." 7amad pounced on the opportunity to glance inside Yousef's heart.

"Ya 7amad, tara shakly 6e7t eb mushkelat 7ub." Yousef exhaled in comfort whilst confessing that fact to 7amad.

As he heard that sentence, 7amad exclaimed, "Wana o5uu Lulwa, Yousef yenjeber?"

"Ee wallah ya 7amad, sheft shlon?"

7amad never believed in love and before letting Yousef continue he said, "Esma3 ya Yousef, hal 7mara elly 5aletek mahmoum ketha ma teswa. O esma3 hal baitain elly thekart-hum, wana asma3 saleftek ya Bu ya3goub."

7amad started reciting on the phone,

تكفى يا بو يعقا ترا خاطري ضاق .. ما عاد به ناس تصون المحبه ..

كل ما عشقت, الوقت يعطيني طراق .. يقوللي صحصح؟ علامك؟ تنبه؟ ..

إنت بزمن ما فيه عاشق و عشاق .. هذيك تفرك كسها و ذاك زبه ..

أبي لي حب عذري مثل شمس الاشراق .. حب الذي في دنيته خاف ربه ..

ما يهمني لو آخره يآتي فراق .. الحب جرح القلب و الخل طبه ..

"9a7 lsanekk ya 7amad." Yousef was amazed by how related he was with that poem.

"9a7 bdenek ya 5ouy, o 9addegny taraha ma testahlek ya BuYa3goub." 7amad still did not understand Yousef's situation.

"7abeeb alby ya 7amad, mashkourr Yal '3aly."

"elmohem, el dector janbekk?"

"La walla, Lail7een bel fende8, shaklaa nayem."

"Zain zain, el wekad ana asta2then al7een ya 5ouy, O tredd bel salama, wala tkadder 5a6rekk."

"7abeeby, mashkour, o allah ysalmek men kel shar, bye." Yousef teased

"Shno bye, esta7, Ma3a El salama."

Yousef smiled at how 7amad never forgot his culture. He was satisfied by 7amad's call and thanked God for his presence as a friend.

7amad used the opportunity of 5aled's seclusion from Yousef and gave the med student a call. 5aled was asleep.

"Aloo," 5aled grunted, disturbed by the phone call.

"Hala Buwaleed, Kaif el 7al?"

"Minu?, 7amad?"

"3ajal minu? Ga7betek?"

"Hala bel zain, shlonekk yal 5ewee?" 5aled still has last night's wild effects in his system.

"3alamek mraffe33? Shsawait el bare7?"

"Masawait shay, la tsaweelna suwalef."

"Elmohem ya Dector, 5eweeyekk Yousef kalamta gabel shway, kan metkadder. Abeek, wana o5ouk, traffe3 men jawwa shway. 5allah yestanes shway b-hal safra. Fahem Shagoulek?"

5aled almost fell in a snooze, listening to 7amad. "Ee, Ee weyyak."

"Ee, waddah hal 7aflat, o eshbeka ma3a wa7da, la t5alleeh brou7ah."

"7a9'er, Taamer Amer Yal 5ewee."

"Yalla, Ma Tshouf Shar, salaam."

After hanging up with his friend, 5aled contemplated that idea. He liked it, and planned on making it happen. "It is gonna be a wild fuckin week in fuckin DUBAI." He thought to himself. Smiling.

Starbucks 7

Regret began to infiltrate Yousef. The past two nights of drinking started to build up guilt in Yousef's conscience.

The reason why he drank was also cracking into him.

He drank because he thought of a girl that bewildered him. A girl that he saw just once, and could not take her off his mind. How could he do that? Why would he do that?

And now, here she was, heading towards him with a white paper cup, looking ever so fascinating. He met her again, at another Starbucks in another city, yet the effect was exactly the same.

Mesmerizment.

Hatred was the other aspect of his feelings. He hated the bars, he hated his mentality, he hated his lack of faith. He realized how big of a mistake drinking was. Not only to him, but the shame that would be bought to his family, if anybody knew.

He hated how he honored his late mother. He honored her by getting wasted.

The girl that made his heart beat faster with each step she takes to approach him shouldn't be forgotten through drinking. The girl that thrived with confidence, as she strides through the cafe, should be remembered. That girl, thought Yousef, should be loved.

.

.

.

.

27/12/2009 9:12

"Shfeek?" Said the girl, as she seated herself opposite of Yousef and noticed the different, grim expression on his face.

Yousef quickly adjusted his mindset and offered a genuine smile to her direction, "Mafeeny shay, 6al 3umrech, bess kent ga3ed afakker bsha'3la." Replied Yousef truthfully.

"Ahaa, my name is Dalal by the way." Said Dalal, as she returned the smile to Yousef.

Dalal & Yousef

"3ashat el asamy Dalal," he replied, "Wana esmy Yousef."

"O ne3m a5 Yousef."

"Allah yen3am b7alech, 6al 3umrech."

"Ee, O Shga3ed tsawy B-Dbay Mr. Yousef." Said Dalal with a playful smile, to try to break the ice.

"Walla, just partying out the engineering stress with a friend."

That innocent beauty.

That excruciatingly pretty smile.

Those eyes. Those indescribable eyes.

"Yousef, Yousef." Dalal called, interrupting his thoughts.

"Hala, 6al 3umrech, aamray." Yousef noticed that she was talking to him whilst he stared blatantly, straight at her eyes.

"Wain sera7t?" Although that was the second time she ever saw him, she felt comfortable asking him that question.

"Haa, laa walla, bess y3ny don't get me wrong, your eyes mashallah, wayed 7elween."

A blush escaped Dalal's cheeks. "Thanks." The reply was formal, yet that wasn't what she was feeling.

Before saying anything else to regain himself, Dalal continued, "El mohem, I got to go, 9ar akthar men 5 minutes, o a5af my cousins y7atouny, nice chatting with you Yousef, o hope to see you soon."

As she started to stand up from her seat, Yousef looked up and asked confidently, "And how will that happen, if I know nothing about you but your first name?"

"I'm sure I will," returned Dalal with the same confidence. "There are a lot of Starbuckses in this world."

A smile followed.

Understanding that particular remark, "Bye Dalal." Said Yousef with a grin overwhelming his face.

"Bye Yousef."

Butterflies never escaped their tummies, that day.

Starbucks 6

Those brown eyes never left his mind. He kept thinking about them, endlessly. Yousef thanked his memory for remembering them so vividly.

He longed for more, he wanted to know more. What did she like? What did she hate? Was what he looked that day good? Good for her?

Who was she?

What's her name?

Yousef was waiting for 5aled to wake up after his long, eventful night out. Morning was Yousef's time, he loved the early, fresh breeze and thought that he could think much better in his mornings. Sipping his usual white mocha, with extra espresso shots to erase last night's heavy ingestion of Jin and watched people commute in and out the cafe.

Preferring the seat outside, to smoke his cig, Yousef let his mind wander. He let his mind wander into the details of her eyes.

.

.

.

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28/12/2009, 9PM

"Oh it's you again?"

Startled, Yousef replied, "5air?" The face wasn't strange, thought Yousef. He knew those details, more than expected. A Deja Vu, he concluded hastily.

"Enta, the engineering guy, elly kent eb Mishref. Ee Enta."

Suddenly, the eyes began to sink into Yousef's system. She was her. "Entay." Yousef replied stupidly.

Glad he recognized her, "7asafa, there are no notes I can peek into this time," she replied with a fake frown.

Regaining his composure, he said, "Ma ye7taj yuba, a coffee is more than enough for you to have a seat, 6al 3umrech." He could not believe his own eyes.

"La, you seem to be enjoying yourself alone, I don't want to intrude, I just wanted to say 'hi'."

"Believe me, company is something very welcome with me."

"Ok, just for 5 minutes la2ana my cousins na6reeny in the hotel room, bess 5al aa5eth a mocha o ayee."

"7ayyach Allah."

Was this a start of something, wondered Yousef, as he watched her ordering from the barista?