Just…Stop Talking!

Since I started this blog, many of my posts—I’ve come to realize—have a part in which I complain about the superficiality of humans. And listening to Lorde‘s A World Alone, I thought Yes, people do talk too much.

So, I aked myself ,why can’t people shut up about themselves or other people?

Because, humans feed on self-appreciation, earned or supposed. They either talk about their achievements only—you don’t see a man talking about how he lost his job or his wife—or they talk about other people’s failures.

Yes, I don’t like humans. And I unfortunately am like any other human. I like to talk about my ups, not my downs. But I’ve been working on embracing my mistakes and flaws.

Humans look at everything from a wrong angle. People have been dreaming of world peace since forever. They say they want to end wars and unite the world.

Tell me again, HOW THE HELL are you supposed to stop wars while brothers are mocking each other ‘s miss-achievements and mistakes. And for what? Just to feel better about themselves.

I resent us humans. Therefore, I’ve decided that next Monday, I’m going to start my very own first Day of Silence. A day for me to talk with me, about me.

Paradox #2: All The Time In The World

No time.

I run down the stairs, and storm through the door. Mom calls on me, but I don’t look back; I haven’t got anytime to waste.

Besides, She probably wants me to have breakfast with that fat hairy creep she calls her husband. As if!

I sprint on the side walk, my heels clicking against the pavement. I can still make it in time. I slip on a little puddle, but I grab the neighbors fence for support. Dirty water splatters my skirt.

Shit! I whisper.

Something catches my sight, a paper, a sketch half dipped in the puddle. Someone had sketched a beautiful fairy, sitting on a rock in a river. I don’t why but I tuck it inside my Burberry tote, and pick up my pace.

The steps to the school’s door are wet with man boot prints. I walk up them and I leave a similar trail.

In the hall, all the boys look at me. As usual. And all the girls envy me.

And I realize, I just can’t be late; I’m the diva of this school, and I’ve got all the time in world.

“Oh my God Izzy! What happened to your skirt?” Stacy Brown. My closest friend says as she syncs with my pace.

“What?” I look down at my skirt. I remember the splash when I see the brown smudge on it. “Puddle! I’ll go wash it of.”

“But class starts in a minute, you’ll be late!”

“So what? I’ve got all the time in the world.” I say matter-of-factly. And give her a smirk and a wink.

Storming through the bathroom door while looking at my skirt, the last thing I was expecting was the sight of a boy surrounded by shards of glass and with a bloody hand. But it was exactly what I saw.

 

 

Well That’s One Missed Up Pair

Me being me, couldn’t just let it rest. I had to dial his number, and talk about it.

He picked up after three rings.

“Hello?”

“Hey it’s me.” I said, although I knew he knew that it was me; he had assigned a specific ringtone on his home number for mine.

“I know.” He says knowingly.

“Then why did you ask?” I asked. And again I knew why; because he’s pissed at me.

“What do you want?”

“Well, I’m not saying I’m wrong-which I’m not-but I don’t like to sleep on bad terms.” I replied.

“What makes you so sure you’re not?” He asks. Sounding annoyed.

“Because I know.”

“Yeah well I think I’m right.” He said. “have you ever considered looking from my POV?”

“Of course I did.” I said matter-of-factly. “And I found I was right.”

“You’re just. So. Arrogant!” He said.

“I’m not arrogant. I’m just practical.”

“We’ve been friends for years now,” He said. I rolled my eyes. “And I’m telling you, you have issues with not being right.”

“Well, you have issues with taking critique.”

“You should have let it rest.” He said.

“You know I can’t do that.” I replied.

“See you tomorrow.” He said. “Bye.”

“Bye bye.” I waited.

“Bye.” His voice came to life.

“Bye.” I laughed. And I hung up.

I really don’t know how can we be best friends.

Stumbling Upon Myself

I haven’t really met anyone special year.

But on the course of the last and this year,  I’ve met someone who became a huge part of my life. Actually, he became all of me, and my life.

I met me.

There were a lot of changes in my life in the past couple of years. I don’t what it was, but I think I’ve grown, not the occasional teenager growth, something else.

I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have seen things like I do now two years ago. And that’s normal. But, awkwardly, I’ve tried new things. I thinkI was always the Comfort Zone guy. I don’t really remember myself two years ago, which makes me think of how easy it is for us-humans-to change in the light of a few minor occasions. Or maybe they only seem minor.

Through the course of the last two years, many events occurred to me. They seemed minor at the time, but now, looking back, they seem to be some of the most influential things that happen to a person in a life time.

For one, my oldest sister got married. I was diagnosed with Panic Disorder, I started reading passionately, I started writing, I started to see people for real, and to perceive people. My sister had a son. And I learned that sometimes being the better-man isn’t good enough.

I started to be different, from the person I was and from every body else around me. But it’s just who I am. Even though it bothers some people. It’s just me.

And as hard as it was, I actually realized, that sticking with your ethics is very important to be a good person. But what about being a respected person? Unfortunately, nowadays, not replying a curse with another is a sign of weakness. But I’ve made a deal with myself, that I would never give in to the retardedness of the community. (Yes. I know that’s not a real word.)

Yes I’ve met me. And I’m still getting to know me. And I think I will never finish. There would never be enough time for me to learn all the aspects of me.

The Killer In The Crowd

Rain’s making my nose runny, my shirt is stuck to my body and has become transparent in some awkward spots on my body.

I listen to my vintage black and white Wingtip shoes clicking against the paved road. I can’ stop thinking of him. I’d met him when we were six, and since then, we were inseparable. And then I killed him.

My tears are almost indistinguishable from the rain. I killed him with my bare hands, and walked in his funeral. I hugged his mother, and she told me that I was her second son.

I killed him. Why did I kill him?

The red and blue lights are blinding me.

The Horrible, Sad, Overdramatically Told yet Lesson Teaching, Wisening Stories Of Death In My Not So Miserable Life #1

So hard to not cry, I wasn’t even there, he just died on me! I hated him for it. But I couldn’t stop crying.

On the way home, I changed my phone’s wallpaper to a photo of him, laying in the bed, extending his hands like his dead. He is now.

I’d edited the words “Shh, an angel sleeping” onto the photo in pale pink font, my sister looked over my shoulder, and saw I was passing my thumb over the screen, itching to touch him. She told me to stop. She acted like she wasn’t sad, but she’d already cried with me earlier.

I hated myself more that I hated the whole thing, back then. Because, while I was in another city, eating in Hardee’s, taking walks. He just got poisoned and died. Not entirely alone, but still, he was alone, he was dying.

And I was probably having fun. When he spent the whole night choking on the disinfectant. Why did he do that?

All of my family cried, my eldest sister cried all night, while we were asleep, my mom wept a little, and I went in a wailing spree in the morning, I knew he was going to die; we’d got the news late in the night before, but I prayed to God he wouldn’t. And when he did, I acted like it wasn’t that big of a deal for the first 2 minutes, but the following 20 minutes were an undisturbed series of maniac howling noises. And my other sister cried too. I even bet my brother did, he was with him when it happened. But we never talked about it.

I wanted to know where he was buried, but they wouldn’t tell me. I picked a nice place under the shade of some bushes and claimed this was where he was buried though. It was in front of my house so I could visit him daily. I don’t anymore.

When we reached home, I ran to his sister, and I just hugged her and kissed her. I ran my hands through her dark, short fur. and squeezed her to my chest, hearing her rapid heart beat. Not caring about her claws digging into my arms. I scratched behind her ears and she purred, and I promised I’d never let her go. I never did.

Now, I’ve got a new cat with the sister. And they’re very happy together. And I learned that what ever happens, is already written, and we just can’t OCD our loved ones into a padded room and hug them safe. I still fear the loss of my beloved Victoria. But I know I must live my life.

No Sophisticated Words, Just LAME

I just marvel at the lameness (couldn’t find a better word to describe this actually) of the human race.

It has been almost a week since I came back home from Alexandria. And I returned to the vagueness of an internet-free life; the internet had been down for the while I’ve been away-hardware malfunctions-and it was only today that I managed to fix the problem.

During this week, I slept till noon, ate, read, ate, watched TV, stuck some wallpaper to the wall; renovations, ate. And that was that.

But when the internet came back tonight, my sister asked a question, which lead to the first line in this post:

What would we do if we they hadn’t invented computers?

And I answered:

Nothing. We wouldn’t feel like anything’s missing; cuz there wouldn’t have been any PCs in the first place.

And then I thought, computers, laptops, phones and the internet are considered luxuries, and not only if you’re a Maslow’s hierarchy of needs kind of person. Abraham Maslow sounds like a really bland guy. I think that this whole hierarchy is utter horse-crap; he never-to me-kept in mind that time changes, people differ, and that people are humans, they’re in a compulsive way attracted to “shiny” objects. whether it’s a phone, a PC, a book. Humans consist of the things stated in the hierarchy. They can’t simply leave some and take some. Cavemen always fought over land and females, and that’s way at the top the pyramid.

But, on the other hand, some people can’t afford these luxuries. In fact, there are people who consider a proper toilet as a luxury. And more and more.

And it’s impossible to end world hunger. And it’s impossible to fix every tiny thing in the world. We’re just humans and we’re simply lame. Because I almost grew a beard-haven’t even started shaving yet-because there wasn’t any internet for a week.

Humans are lame in many ways, we just keep surprising me with our lameness everyday.

Nostalgia? Not Quite

My father was always doing everything he could to make us happy. And I was always grateful.

But now, my father has passed. It has been six-years since I’d seen in him in that hospital room. They’d shaved his moustache; for the nasal cannula. I was eight then and the first thing I felt once I saw that, was that they took away something precious, something I thought was untouchable. He was-to me that is-a lion that had his mane shaved, involuntarily.

He died there, in his coma. He didn’t feel a thing. I cried, a lot. Just once; I never cry more than once over a dead person.

But honestly, I don’t remember him anymore. Not his face though, I know that. And not only from photos. But no specific events, just his halo, his presence.

He wasn’t always around; he was usually travelling for his job. He was as a Chief Steward in the hotel Le Meridian Makadi Bay formerly. Now it’s Tia Heights Makadi Bay.

There wasn’t a year we hadn’t spent at least a month there. I’d spend the whole day by the pool; the warm water enveloping me, the sun landing on my slightly burned skin, Watching people’s legs moving in slow motion in shades of blue underwater. We had  this secret place ̶ that wasn’t really secret ̶ under the little wooden bridge connecting the edges of the pool, where me and my sister would stand, and watch ̶ At least I would ̶ the reflections of the sun’s light on the water, on the bridge’s damp insides. Making all these beautiful light blue shapes. Like tens of shards of blue mosaic glass.

And then we’d go home before at about sunset. Passing the lobby, and the wide green garden, where the owner’s dog almost caused me a heart attack. And passing by the many complexes and the gardens in front of them.

There was this one spot, a few complexes after the one our room was in, which had a little swing set, and a little pool, and a striped shezlong. No matter what the season was, the huge tree casting the cool shadow overhead was always shedding yellowish, crunchy leaves. I would beg my sister every day to let us play there before going to the pool. And she occasionally agreed. I never actually found out who this belonged to, it was always deserted. Except for once. when a half naked old man was perched on the shezlong. Weird.

The lobby at night was majestic, its off-white color brought out by the yellow little lights. Turning heads with its round top against the purple sky. The inside was no less attractive; a pianist was always there, moving his fingers swiftly on the keys, like he owned them; the marble setting; the curved stairs. Everything about it screamed: Look at me, I’m marvelous. And you can’t dare leave.

We had friends, and everything, but the thing about that place, what made it special, was that it was special. It was our place. And I loved it. It was a part of my life. But it hasn’t been for six years now.

I’d like to go there now, go to underneath the bridge, and marvel at the patterns. And look at the sun from under the water. I want to go there, and go to our bathroom there, and take an hour long bubble bath. And I want to go there and stand under the lobby’s curved marble stairs, in the shadow, close to the pianist, but enough for him to see me, I wouldn’t want him to see me; he was something bigger than, he had to be; he produced such beautiful melodies, he had to be.

I want to linger on the little things, the ticks, the things that last in my head, and make their little imprint in my brain. The memories that are inactive for the longest of times until they’re triggered by distinctive smells and tastes, even sights.

Those are the things I want to remember. Those are the things I want grasp again. If just for a little while.

I don’t believe in yesterday. I only believe in tomorrow and today. But I amhuman, I still sometimes look back. Just for the heck of it. 

18 Minutes Of Thoughts. On A Bus

Enrolling to the Daily Post’s Blogging University was a very easy thing. Just type you’re E-mail address, your name and press join/apply/I really don’t remember.

But now, today’s assignment is about writing your thoughts stream. As don’t think, don’t draft, don’t plan. Simply type, and then publish.

But honestly, I don’t usually plan my posts. But I still have an idea or a little blurry figure figured out. But today, I decided not to have an idea; I’m trying to stop my mind from thinking. This is harder than it sounds, especially when you’re an overthinking teenager who thinks in his sleep.

I decided to make a blog, because I like to write. I’m not sure if I’m an amazing writer, or even a good one, I just liketo write.

I as all humans have always wanted to be known, I wouldn’t like to go by life and not do something. Life’s not about being noticed though, but since I’m here, I can do something with it-it being life-at least.  As long as I don’t overlook my duties towards God and my family, Why not do the things I love, and maybe get something out of doing them as well.

But really, I don’t think money can’t buy you happiness; it can buy happiness alright, but what kind of happiness? The real happiness, the one that lasts even after you’re broke or dead. Or the happiness that fades away once your net worth drops.

In the end, People go on with their lives, each on his own way. But when it’s all over, there will be no difference between us. We will all be one thing, mere humans. Only what you chose to do with your life is what will make you more than that.

Pray for me, as I do for you. And may the odds be ever in your favor.

From The Aftermath

When you’re sitting calmly in the safety of God. And shouting sounds storm from out your window. That’s when you’re heart beats a little rapidly.

But when you go to see what’s happening, and find your neighbors  running barefoot, holding their babies in their hands. And find that an apartment in the complex in front of yours is on fire. And no one was inside. That’s when you’re heart falls to your feet.

That just happened to me about fifteen minutes ago. The shock itself is very paralyzing. But then, even if I live in this functionally retarded country, my first instinct was to call the Fire Fighters. Which I did. And it took me at least a minute for someone to pick up, after I’d already called the emergency number, and cold voiced man told me in the most bland way “Fire Fighter’s number is 180”. I almost exploded.

My sister was running around frantically with her baby on her hand, putting clothes on and wearing her Hijab. Packing the laptops, mobiles and all her baby’s stuff in one bag, ready to run down the stairs anytime. We didn’t.
I thought of how two years ago, she probably wouldn’t have thought of gathering all those things and making all these arrangements. I was amazed by how much having a baby could change you.

Although the Adrenaline kept me walking, I wasn’t quite sure of my movements. But I helped as much as I could. And in the midst of the shouts, and the smoke clouds, someone broke down the flaming apartment’s door and put out the fire.  A neighbor; the Force wasn’t there yet.

Now, what we all thought was very irritating to me. And I was quite hurt by it. We all thought immediately, if we should cancel the report. What if they came and found no fire. Would they accuse us of claiming a fake fire? Would they make us pay a fine? How much trouble would we be in?

All these questions were asked, and I asked myself, why didn’t anyone else call the Force? And I realized, people just lost their faith. Or they didn’t have a phone on them. Or they were just too dumbstruck.

But in all cases, no one did.

The neighbors told us they put off the fire with an extinguisher. They also said that it was a candle that started the fire. They probably lit it because the electricity was off for about an hour earlier, because the relationship between citizens and electricity is an off-again-on-again relationship.

They told us to kill the report, too.

We tried to call, they didn’t answer. But they came, and I have to say I was pretty surprised, because they came somewhat fast, in comparison to when they never showed up. And we weren’t questioned.

But you’ve got to give it to them, they went to the apartment and checked things out, and left.

But, a question, when will we ever feel safe again? Because I haven’t felt safe, like really safe, in almost two years now.

Pray for me. And may the odds be ever in your favor.