The red fever

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“I love your whole look, the red hair, and makeup

beautiful, where did you get it done?” she asked me

“oh thank you, but it is all me” i answered

sourly she drew a smile and walked silently beside me to dance

the dance hall was filled with girls, full makeup yet dresses short on fabric, my best friend came, took me by the hand and started dancing, we danced amidst our friends from college,

they got used to me in a certain image, from library to lecture halls to the small coffee shop not so far from the library, running here and there, lab sessions and due dates, and to see me in a peachy gown, hair loose, smokey eyes has plundered their faces of color and their eyes of perception, my only explanation to this, is that one don’t believe in virtuosity of self unless if it was of it’s own.

meritoriously i turned a blind eye to them all, and joyfully with all the strength i had in me i danced, my heels ached and i kept dancing, they could’v never guessed the source of my joy, their piercing eye protruded my body, a shabby try to bewilder me into self-abasement.

i still remember back from my childhood when i used to cheer for the weird kid in the movies, for i always believed in exceptional characters, in diversity, and in the right of one to do what ever one desires with his life, i never comprehended the concept of war, or why would anyone want power over another’s life, isn’t it troublesome enough for one to have power over self.

for that same believe, the emanation of my first act of rebellion over society took hold, rock music, and black makeup, as i grew up, my rebellion grew to a more of an intellectual act, just to know more, learn more, enrich my soul with more than just what people like to say or hear, to be more than just a mere entity, more than just to live and dye, but to live superior in my thoughts and believes, though that shaped me into what i exactly intended to be, yet made me inferior to any social skills, that i was secretly proud of.

my second act of rebellion was turning redhead, a rebel has to own the look now doesn’t she, i dyed it once, twice, trice, till i lost count, and the red hair became a part of me, as my intellectual needs and lack of communication skills has. there must be a reason i used to and still say, there must be a reason why i am here, there must be a reason why we were created differently.

those who relish in their differences attract me, those who clasp their differences warms me, and those who leverage them fascinate me.

and i will always be that friend with the red hair who spends her days off reading.

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let’s end it for a start

Tiffany in the arms of Pat, on a Sunday evening

the sun creeping in from the windows

surrounded by family and friends.

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that was the ending of the silver lining book, a movie based on a Mathew Quick novel, at the start Tiffany and Pat seemed too irreconcilable for each other, on the contrary to what one might think, they grew in love with that, and that ending was merely their start.

this was my third time watching this movie, it was a weird kind of romance, something i’m fond of, this time it was the inimical ending, that so intricately captured my mind, it had me wondering, when will my life stop being so stagnant, when will this pain end for a start to see light in my way.

i have always wanted to do more, be more, to evolve, to be better, everyone has it’s own image of what a better person is, in my eyes, is a person who experienced as much as someone can, both what’s wrong and right, what’s forbidden and what’s allowed, only then i can be better, because that’s when one can truly know himself. yet something always held me down, something so oppressive, and too clamorous to be ignored, is that them, or is it just me? is life going the wrong way, or have i been choosing the wrong path?

for 30 minutes after the movie has ended, i sat feeble mumbling to myself, what is it like to progress, to move on, to be going somewhere, rather than to be lost in a maze, rewinding the same routes over and over, building a fantasy of how the world is outside that maze, i refuse to loose hope of what’s in hand, still i refuse to loose hope of ever finding a way out, a lost hope i’m clinging to!

Pat was bipolar, lost in his mood swings and believes that the past can still be his future, in between Tiffany made his present a progression to a different future with the same past, she thought him acceptance, when he finally accepted himself as the mess he was, he opened his eyes to a new potential with the only person who ever accepted his flaws and turned them virtuous.

only then, i knew that i shall not let my life wither just because my future isn’t as familiar as my past.

only now as i am writing my ending to this, my eyes are open to him.

the slender woman from the bookshop

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in the car with the burning sun of August in my face

my mind lost in the drear streets,

my father talked, i barely listened.

i knew he either did something regretful , or he was about to, for my father is the kind of man who only talks out of guilt, he has a kind soul, a restless mind, and a heart that clasps the world if it ever needed to.

we were heading for a bookshop, thirty minutes away from home, i wasn’t aware of the disappointment i’m heading to, but in our country we don’t have that many bookshops to choose from, my father always saw me reading books on vacations, but he never knew my story with books, writing and literacy, he loved the idea of having a child who is interested in reading and education, i am not sure though whether being a girl added to his pride, or to the indefinite complexity of life.

i admit of not being an easy child, stubborn and hard headed, always focused on my perspective, hardly taking in his or anyone’s perspective for that matter, i was and i am always convinced that to remain who you are, to stay true to your identity in a world that’s ought to get you lost in one of it’s crooks here or there, you have to build some kind of fortress around your thoughts and also your heart, but the world wasn’t what drove me to be an impregnable personality, growing up i never hesitated to take initiative, i never second guess any of my activities, i didn’t fear people or society, on the contrast, i apposed the narratives, the rules, and all the traditions and the stereotypes constructed by our pilfering society, what was it then that drove me to live inside a fortress?, it was someone rather small, much smaller than the world or society.

i was distorted from those thoughts by my father’s alarming advice he was giving me, he never contrived my way of acting, and it always seemed peculiar to me how i never contrived his, he wants to protect me even from the speck of a dust, he knows i would go on exploring that speck of dust, not gaining anything but a sneeze,  because it was too small to explore anyway, but i was never afraid to sneeze if it meant a new adventure.

inside the bookshop, there was a slender woman trying too hard to sell off a book to a customer, as it seems to me neither the customer nor the bookshop woman knew anything about books, me and my father went in different directions, i guess i intrigued his old habits of long reads, old habits die hard they say, if he could just take a moment, forget his job, the war and all the troubles, and just remember who he is, it is such a queer thing what hardship can make of a man.

Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance, the color of  memory and a pocket art of Micheal Angelo’s paintings were in my hands, i embraced those books as if they were my first and last hope, i came up to the slender woman at the cashier, and handed her the books, “oh you like artists i see”  i nodded my approval, i just wanted to pay and get out of her sight for her sight wasn’t that reassuring, me and my father stepped out of the bookshop with the books in my hand, i looked at him and said ” you know, right now i’m the happiest person on earth”, he turned to me with wondering eyes and said ” being the happiest person on earth is quit the statement, now why are you? ” , true-hearted i answered ,” because books are what makes me this happy” , finally he answered

” if i ever knew that i would have filled you up with books”

My very own Elsa

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two cups of coffee, a shabby song playing, we didn’t pay much attention to that tough, we were too busy talking, as she streamed the details about her day, what did i do? i just stared to try to comprehend her inextricable words.

“i really thought that he was the one” she said to me, as i stared into her eyes in the candle lights ( the lights were cut off our area, part of our daily capitalism) i saw a golden soul being discarded for silver, see my darling don’t listen to what they told you, who you are inside is the only judge and jury of your actions, it is not the hardship that stroke you, but how you bend them.

“he made me live, anticipate and dream again, rethink marriage, maybe a family, he rebuilt my self-trust, he renovated my slenderness, rejuvenated my youth” ,  her youth,like a pale winter rose, ever so beautiful through it’s own virtuosity, laid with the speckles of November rain.

it is hard not to loose yourself when you plug to someone else’s , and still try not wander too far, why do we always follow the rabbit, why does enchanting souls has to get lost in a wonderland, before they can ever discover who they really are?

“i felt him leave, he didn’t leave yet, but i felt his heart forget mine, i felt him betray the touch of my hand” , when you meet someone, betrayal for most us includes physical contact, yet betrayal starts with the slightest thought of a foreign body.

i believe in that winter rose, that golden soul, i believe she will find her way, and if she doesn’t on her own, i will always be there to show her the way, and when i have none, i’ll guide her home.

who is that winter rose?

she is onto which i lean , my frozen love, my sister, my very own Elsa.

Within a memory

1984 the novel by George Orwell

“she knew charged with a sort of happy melancholy” (page 125)


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as i read the word melancholy, it all came back to me, like the beginning of summer, like the posture of him, it’s the sanguine face again,”sanguine face” the nickname i gave to my former crush, he never knew the meaning of it, which delighted me even more than the moment i learned it in.

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melancholy is the word he used to describe my short writings, it took no second guessing to approach him, i had all the courage, all the swift, that my friends thought to be so over rated, i think they were too annoyed by that virtue, the approach was for mutual friend to set a day where he delivers a book, it all started with a book, and ended with a book, Monday it was when we first shook hands, we talked for 20 minutes, then he had to leave, it didn’t matter to me who he was on the inside or where he came from, neither did that matter to him, i will never forget the day i sent him one of my short writings, nor will i forget my anticipation for his reply on what he thought of it.

early morning 7:30 maybe, when i read his reply, i was awake preparing for my lab session,’forget the lab coat and the goggles check your inbox’ i said to myself “really good, but too melancholic for me” he replied, see he was an optimistic man, who rendered me pessimistic, he was a med student, an interpreter and an English teacher part time, see the petty future of our country had us on our knees, he was using his skills to the most, a handy man, that made me dwell in the thought of him even more, see i’m not your typical individual, who goes living with idealism while within is lacking, i never put up a list of standards, think of it, if i ever did i wouldn’t have let myself near him.

“he isn’t Libyan, he is Syrian i think” my friend said to me, i looked at him with a dingy smile, “you bloody rot”  i so failed to reply, it’s not anybody’s right to denounce anyone of his identity, yet you couldn’t change what anyone thinks nowadays.

our conversations were always short, at the library, noisy full of people, that seemed to fade as soon as he started talking, and oh he was a talker, i mostly just pierced him with my eyes, with occasional side comments.

i had him read many of my writings, which were merely a trap, a path i wrote for him to follow, for more to indoctrinate him with the amount of affection i had for him day by day i taunted myself , “he won’t see, he will never see, he don’t want to see through my words”.

and finally one day he decided to put an end to my state of lassitude, he texted for us to meet, he either was going the enunciate his affection back to me, or decline it, as i went down the stairs of the library, i wished for the best, but it was actually more than i ever dreaded, he started talking while i was still grasping his presence,” so the passed few weeks i felt like you’ve been trying to deliver something with your words and writings, so I’ve been meaning to ask you”, YES, what? ever so triumphantly i replied, ” do you like me?” he asked, i smiled vaguely and he prosaically answered: “yes”, “but i liked you as a friend, and i hope this doesn’t effect us as so” , i never expected that to be the end of my story, at once i felt how painful it is for someone to conceive such an end ” you retard piece of meat, of curse it will effect us so,” i wanted to reply, why do they have to add a lie in between when they can just leave it be “of curse it won’t effect us” that was my real reply, after that, we never exchanged anything but hey and hi.

every time i saw him, i was reminded by the amount of energy that was consumed by him, walking about so benevolent, with his calm features and again his sanguine face, i’ll never really know him, and he will never really know me.

Hello, this is Me!

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Writing was and is never going to be a dream to be followed, nor will it ever be a path to dwell on, but why am i trying so hard to write something, not just something, but something to be appreciated, something that serves my thoughts well, something to represent who i am, as you can see by now, writing has already invaded my body, and became the sole intiative to my everyday, i write to be free, i write to free, i write to be an indivisual on this earth, to clasp the real meaning of who and why i am here, but that just made me more lost, answers lead to more questions to other answers and so on, but i guess this is me for now

M.A WordPress