Indications of life

She entered the room and the thickness of the air was all she was able to take into account at that moment.
Not the blood-stained walls, nor the knee-high dust on the floor. None of this struck her, because she was used to it. She had grown up in a place where death was the only familiarity, the only regular incident. A place nobody knew better than the angel of death; your very last companion.
She had long before forgotten what it felt like to have a family, a house or simply a life. She had burried herself underneath a solemn body and a dead soul in order to stay alive until the day she was destined to follow her ancestors to the world of mystery.
But at that moment she was able to feel life run through her veins...through the smell of death. Never before had she been so close to life; the mystery that scares her more than the moment a child is born beneath the foggy sky of her country, oblivious of its destiny. It was not the fear, but the foreignness of life that creeped under her untidy shirt like a rapist who was just about to deprive his victim of her only possession; the only thing she was able to call hers; dignity.
The sound of the wind that blew through the old, squealing windows screaming for freedom interrupted her stream of thoughts. She was once again brought back to the cruel reality she was obliged to endure like a prisoner...a prisoner waiting for his death sentence.
Why wasn't she able to escape? Why didn't life ever offer her indemnity? Wasn't she even worth a compensation?
It was pointless and no longer even usual to grieve over the dead, that she knew very well by now. The devastated girl with unkempt hair therefore decided to let the air remind her of what she was stripped of; life.
Not a fairytale of carefree nights and relaxing mornings, but instead a life where there are various indications of life other than a beating heart and functioning lungs.

The mother.

Rage. Damage. Screams. Hatred. All silent and silently evolving. All locked up. All hidden inside. Hidden from the outer world. From the fuming, noisy world. From the angry world of busy people. All stacked up into piles in the corners of a round and curvy body. All neatly stocked for a never-ending season of anger. All nurtured by the dullness of a life of deadly routines. All covered up by colourful, fragrant chemicals. All perfectly shaped and arranged into what this world calls a woman.
A woman that boils on the inside, but smiles on the outside. A woman whose soul was sliced into pieces and eaten up. A hollow body whose heartbeat was forcefully replaced by silent screams of suffocating.
A dead yet breathing ghost of a long lost mother.

And she hit the ground.

A push. She was flying. She did not know if it was a dream or if she was really floating in the night sky. But she felt the cold hands on her back, the abrupt push, could hear the screams, feel the dizzyness all over again. And she was flying now for what seemed like eternity. Was she going to die? Was she already dead? Had she ever really lived? She did not know. Her entire life was shattered into pieces. Into tiny slivers of unmatching scenes. Who pushed her down the balcony? Who betrayed her in this very coldhearted way?  Why didn't he confront her? She knew she was going to die now. She knew she would soon hit the ground and turn into a bundle of flesh and broken bones. She knew she was worth nothing, but a headline in some newspaper and an unjust verdict in a corrupt court, now. She knew what they were going to say; that she committed suicide. People are going to judge her. Not even a dead person can rest in this society, she thought. They are going to bury her with enough rumors to keep her awake, even in her grave. She foresaw her social as well as her physical death and was not able to change it. Her mind -crowded with thoughts- said his last farewells to her. She will never be able to finish reading her book again. She will never be able to hug her son again. She was worth nothing, but a memory. And she hit the ground.

I will wait

I will stand alone in the darkness waiting for a sign of a long gone existence. For a dim light that conveys life. I will wait for that split second of breathing. I will wait across the road for any proof of acceptance. For my heartbeat to be acknowledged. I will patiently wait for my thoughts to cling to yours. For my outline to perfectly blend into the night. I will wait for a sparkle of recognition as I cross to the other side. Standing in perfect posture, I will wait for a flicker of tolerance. Just a distant blurry indication of a wish already forgotten. From afar, I will wait for miraculous understanding. For hidden clues. For forewarnings I might have overlooked. I will wait for my declaration of identity; for a yielding agreement on unalienable rights. I will wait for your approach and for your consideration. I will wait for you. Or myself. In the stillness of the night, I will wait for the memory of my abolished self to embed itself into reality.

Their bond

They were always close in location but never in heart. They had built a union of disagreements. They had based a life on mutual distaste. They were unidentical copies of each other yet people could only point out their similarities. They seemingly had everything yet actually had nothing at all. They resembled each other in every way possible but had nothing in common. They were two people that tended to be one person; a person with severe dilemmas. They had built a shell in which they pretended to be happy. They had the same opinion yet never agreed on it. They liked yet hated each other. They were yet weren't together. They had yet hadn't the courage to confront each other. They did yet didn't know each other. They were perfectly forged with hatred and misinterpretation but it was impossible to break that bond.

Meet fear

You were flickering in front of my eyes. I saw you, but nevertheless couldn't look you in the eyes. I was angry, not sure if at you, the world or myself. But I knew I was angry. And you were there. Or only the feeling that I was being observed was clearly there. I knew you existed, but I could not recognize you. You were watching me, but I couldn't see your lineaments. Your mysterious identity -perfectly hidden behind your flickering figure- was overwhelming. Yet everyone knew who you were. Everyone, but my very own self. You were an idea, a flickering spark of a long gone idea. Out of focus, blurred out to an irritating extent yet present. Present and authoritative. You were the spark of my fears, the flicker of my hidden dark imaginings and the igniting light of my imagination. You were in everyone. You were always present, but never really there. You were like a flame, a flame that was impossible to extinguish. You were fear.

Your polite marionette

You insulted me out of delusive love so I beared it out of naïve politeness.
You tricked me with your hypocrisy, so I let you exterminate my character out of politeness.
You expressed physical affection so I let you eat into my self esteem out of politeness.
You denied me the right of identity claiming it was for my own sake so I remained silent out of politeness.
You expressed artificial feelings of concern so I listened to your unjustified, superior admonition without a single complaint out of politeness.
You gave yourself authority you had never earned so I let you control me out of politeness.
You exposed a nonexistent wise side of yourself so I chose to endure your disgracing speeches out of respectful politeness.

In other words, you prohibited my individuality. Except I let you do it out of helpless politeness.
But then again I'll let you die of your condescendence. However, out of pure revengeful politeness.

And that would be the perfect illustration: http://emrasheed.blogspot.com/2013/09/foolishly-polite.html?m=1

Is this thought mine?

These are my words. Words I've written. Words I saw written on papers, but could never read myself. Words you could never understand. Words that are trapped in my mind. Words that I could not quite express. Words you didn't want to hear. Words that will eventually be used against me. Words that summarize who I've been, who I am and who I might become. Words that might mention you or others or no one at all. Words that might hurt you. Or teach you. Words that might humiliate you. Or please you. Just words that might be mine or nobody's at all, because how can I claim they're mine if I know someone out there definitely wrote these words before?

My train station

Dear stranger,
I wonder what has taken you so long to randomly show up at a train station and wave at me. You probably don't know who I am, which doesn't really matter because it's just another thing you'll never get to know, but let us stick to this: I'm someone you don't know, and you're someone I don't know, except I've been looking forward to meeting you. I've been waiting for you to let me talk to you, to tell you my complete version of the story. I've been waiting for you or someone or anyone to just aimlessly listen to my irrelevant stories and immediately forget them afterwards. I've been intending to talk without worrying about any kind of response or judgement. I've been wanting you to calmly watch tears fall down my face and actually not ask why they're falling. I've been looking forward to a pointless, random conversation. I've been waiting for you. Except you don't really exist.

Yours,
Someone who is waiting for you to miraculously show up. At a train station.

P.S. Except I hate train stations.

The split of a second

The minute we line up for the same cashier at the supermarket. The split of a second our eyes meet and you smile at me is when I start thinking. That's when I first try to figure you out, to sort you into my list, to find a suitable category for you in my mind. Yes, I have everyone put into his own category in my mind. I ask myself if you do the same. I wonder if you'd ever think of something as vague as my love for tea. I wonder if you'd relate to the fact that I prefer books to movies because they don't show you the cruel truth but let you imagine it youself. They leave the level of brutality, cruelty and ugliness as well as beauty up to you. I try to hate this shallow world, but whenever I try too hard I come across a reason why I shouldn't. I even try to hate people like you but then again I end up envying you for being so damn carefree. I know that you're probably not, but still I'd like to believe that so I'd be able to find a reason to hate you later on. I love guys who crack jokes all the time yet I can't help but feel some kind of awe for those who know how to be serious and act all mature. I think lies are why the world is still standing on its feet. I think ignorance can kill you. I'd like to believe injustice is why I want to hate the world. I don't know why we think we're different  from animals. And I think the reason why we were born is just as insignificant as that polite smile of yours that brought this whole thing up.

My story

Their disagreement. Your explanation. Their complaints. Your adjustment. Their inability to understand you. Your numerous attempts to change. Their disregard. Your surrender. Their reproach. Your withdrawal. Their questions. Your self-protection. Their disapproval. Your confrontation. Their criticism. Your hatred. Their self-righteousness. Your fault. Their oblivion. Your regrets. My story.

اعطنى نفسك

اعطنى مساحة كافية لأكتب. اعطنى ورقا لأملأه بكلماتى التى لا معنى لها. اعطنى رؤوسا لأوترها و أقنعها بما هو غير حقيقى، لأضلها عن الطريق الصحيح. اعطنى فرصة لأشرح لك ما لا أصدقه. اعطنى وقتا لأطلعك على ما قد لا تعلمه من الأكاذيب و أقنعك به. اعطنى ورقة لأزور لك قصيدة حب تفقدك عقلك. اعطنى قلما لأسلب منك كل ما تمتلكه لسانك من قوة. اعطنى مهلة كى أغويك و أتلاعب بأفكارك. اعطنى برهانا يثبت أننى موجودة و أنك لم تختلقنى فى مخك. اعطنى سببا لبقائك على قيد الحياة. اعطنى كل ما تمتلك لأقنعك بأنك لا تمتلك شيئا على الإطلاق. فقط اعطنى نفسك لأمتلكك. هذا ما يسمونه بالحب. فاعطنى الحب اعطيك التملك و أوهمك بعظمته.

الكهل الذى بداخلك.

فلتنتظر. فلتنتظر نهايتك. فلتنتظر قضاء العالم عليك. فلتنتظر تآكل عظامك و تحولك البطىء إلى تراب. فلتنتظر زوال كل شئ. فلتنتظر إختفاء كل من حولك. فلتنتظر الوحدة الأبدية. فلتنتظر الحب الذى لم يكن يوما له وجود فى حياتك. فلتنتظر تحولك التدريجى إلى الكهل الذى كنت حتى فى شبابك تتحلى بسماته. فلتنتظر النسيان. فلتنتظر مسامحة الناس لك. فلتنتظر ما ليس له وجود. فلتنتظر الاهتمام الذى لم تعطيه لأحد من قبل. فلتنتظر العطاء الذى لم تعرفه أبدا. فلتنتظر بكاء أو عدم بكاء من حولك عليك. فلتنتظر الشفقة. فلتنتظر الرضا الداخلى. فلتنتظر الراحة النفسية. و السكون الأبدى. فلتنتظر التصالح مع نفسك و مع غيرك ممن يكرهوك. فلتنتظر ما يمكن أن يحدث لك فى حالة عدم وجود إماكنية التصالح. فلتنتظر نهايتك.

لا وجود لك.

هل لاحظت نظرتهم لى؟ هل لاحظت كم يكرهوننى؟ هل لاحظت اضطهادهم لى و لمن معى؟ هل لاحظت تواطأهم على؟ هل لاحظت الحقد الواضح فى أعينهم؟ هل لاحظت تجنبهم لى؟ هل لاحظت كم يقللون من شأنى؟ هل لاحظت عدم اهتمامهم بوجودى؟ هل لاحظت سوء المعاملة؟ هل لاحظت الغرور المسيطر على كيانهم؟ هل لاحظت أحكامهم السطحية؟ كلامهم السافه؟ و اعتراضهم المبتذل؟ و لكن قل لى، هل لاحظت عدم وجودهم؟ و اختلاقى لهم؟ و اختلاقى لك و لأغلب من أحاور؟ فلما ألاحظ كرههم لى و لا ألاحظ أنه لا وجود لك؟

Just someone

I thought I liked you, but then I realized I'm in love with someone you're not; with an idea. Someone you might one day be. Someone you cannot see. Someone who -I believed- cannot be replaced. Someone I used as an excuse to dislike you. Just someone I cannot see in you or in me or in anyone. But then again, it's someone I only said I liked, because I wanted to get rid of you. Because really, who are you? And what is love? And why would you like me?

حلم

تعبنا فهرمنا فشربنا؛ شربنا نخب يوم لم يأتى بعد، نخب حياة لم تبدأ بعد، نخب شخص لم يولد بعد، نخب فكرة لم تطبق بعد، نخب حرية لابد من مجيئها، نخب مستقبل ملامحه غير واضحة، نخب عدل حتما سيعم، نخب تغيير لم يأتى بعد، فسكرنا و انتقلنا إلى عالم لا يهتم إلا بما لم يحدث بعد، فحلمنا بحودثه، فاستيقذنا، فوجدنا أنفسنا فى عالم لا يهتم على الإطلاق؛ سواء كان الماضى أم الحاضر ما نتكلم عنه.

You think I do.

The note you left under my doormat made me furious. "How could you?", I thought to myself. You think I care enough to understand your reasons? Never. You think I'm considerate enough to grant you some peace? Never. You think I'm bright enough to realize you're tired? Never. You think I'm wise enough to ask? Never. You think I'll ever look at it from your point of view? Never. You think I'm rational enough to reconsider it? Never. You think I like you enough to even care? Never. You really think I'd bother to even listen to you? Never. We'll meet again and I'll look at you and remember what you've done, but I won't care. Because I don't. Or at least that's what I say. Or what I'm supposed to say. Or what I want to believe. I don't know. However, the note you left under my doormat made me furious.

They came to leave

They had never seen you before. They meet you. They come in. They look at you. They look closer. Pause. Your mind drifts away. You ask yourself why you let them in in the first place. The world is moving again. They sit down. They start talking. You're not interested. Tense atmosphere. They ask you something. You don't notice it was a question. You don't answer. They're offended. They ignore you. You don't seem to care. You sit in silence. They look at you again. You notice their stare. It makes you feel uncomfortable. Tension again. Pause. Who are these people? You don't even know them. Can you possibly say you know them? How vague or intimate is your relationship with them? They notice you're not mentally present. Your mind is somewhere else. You look at them. They look at you. You look into each other's eyes. Based on your very shallow judgement, they look very happy. You look away. Pause. There's a mirror in front of you. You notice you seem happy as well. It depresses you. Are you happy? You talk to them. Small talk. Why are they here? What exactly do they want? Questions occur. You keep asking yourself. Unanswered questions. It doesn't matter. Period.

The stranger

I want to meet a stranger at a train station, let him know my story, tell him all my secrets, walk away and never see him again. Maybe he'll understand.

Your circle, my circle.

You're sitting in a circle. You're in the middle of it, you can see them all. You try so hard to maintain a fluent conversation with everyone. You run out of things to say and you're no longer interested. It shows on your face. You're trapped. You feel like you're trapped. You no longer want to be in the middle of this circle, but you're too cowardly to admit that. So you fall asleep.