my scribbled world

a shape which lost it’s shapeness , a dream with no vividness , a sky that is skyless, a right that is not so right. it’s unusual but is it wrong ?

i like things and objects when it’s quite unshaped or out of shape. when the uneven sharp edges dents the surface of my hands when i don’t dream but recreate a reality out of a vision, when i look into the sky and it has no clouds but it’s limitless, raw and uncovered. i like the wrong that’s of value, despise the right that’s said to be so.

i scribble the straight lines into a chaos of endless motion and an origin with no start, a scribble that is different among the many of people.

and i don’t quite like to call people ”people” but there is just no other word that is palpable, they are herds of seamless thinking. ripples of ignorance in continuum, who will break the vibration?, the transmittance?. and who threw the rock?

i have been busy with the world, observing those vibrations. sitting in any empty space within sight with my cup of coffee whether at home or outside, my feet drifts me towards emptiness only just so i can travel to another world, to break the continuum, to detach from the world’s essence, to travel to another world, a world with no sky nor ground, to be suspended in mid air feeling nothing. a complete numbness is what i desire. every step i take in this world is heavy. my feet are light and i walk abnormally fast that most of my friends complain of not being able to catch up to me thus my feet are not heavy  what’s heavy is my mind so i thought. my mind felt heavy i begged through my eyes for someone to understand the torment in such peculiarity. there were cords connected to every part of my body bringing the world to me. to feel the whole world inside of me, every little aspect of every little thing is continuously being processed. the wind it’s speed and texture, how the leaves changes as the winds does, the falling dead leaves and flowers, the crawling endless variety of bugs and insects. how can a such world exists separate from us, yet so connected to the point our daily activity and life choices effects them and to the worse odds end them. this stream of thoughts goes on until a weird form of life in flesh and bones shows up as the faces of creatures called humans and blocks that image. then instantly their eyes start speaking before their mouths, the wrinkles their lips make through their faces as they move, how their hands lifts up jumping right and left in completion to what the mouth speaks and what the eyes hide. but at that very moment the two images fuses into one. the two worlds shapes a single gigantic jigsaw. all the data is fed into me all at once. so a single encounter of a friend or stranger can keep my cords hooked in alert, in such connection that the winds and the trees doesn’t fall far from the humans in front of me.

these two worlds made into one inside of me keeps my head heavy, i keep walking fast head down trying shutting everything out yet failing. i have been angry at the world needing to split the connection. so focused on filling every minute of my day, when i realized that everything is connected to my soul rather than my brain and there is no way to split and travel to any other imaginative world no matter how bad i long for it. because this connection will always be within my soul. what i carried as a burden god meant for it to be a gift. an illustration of gods presence within each one of us. the strength to lift my heavy soul and raise my head up, to take in all the worlds there in i’m afraid is not given by god, because if it was it will never be realized. it can only be gained through pain and suffering so much that you have no choice but to sit and understand it, embrace it and instead of rising up to it, let pain be your best friend. let pain lift your character to the level of your gift. because failure is disguised as a gift with no character.

 

My strain is one of the wild daisies

I am a pessimistic in the eyes of those who know my view on all matters of life. It’s true I am! What I can’t fathom about myself is my strong attachment to hope; I hold on to hope as it slips with the very tips of my fingers as if I was hanging from the cliff of Ronda of Spain that as much as I enjoy the view I am not very keen on letting go. This kind of attachment shouldn’t be naturally attributed within a pessimistic person. So what am I? Am I a hopeful pessimistic? Or am I an optimistic in disguise?

I don’t think there should be a single definition of pessimism, in fact it should be sub-defined into structured pessimism and pure pessimism.

Pure pessimism is where sadness and disappointment over wins the soul in whole. Which makes the body follows and stop moving for anything and for anyone and when I say the body I include the heart and lungs too, where your whole chest feels empty and heavy at the same time.

Structured pessimism is all what said about the pure one but applies to those who have learned to live with a soul over won by sadness. Those who adapted to moving with heavy yet empty chest, who sufficed to breathing shallow and to hearts beating too much and too rapidly for their own capacity. Those who are content to laughing partially and to enjoying only to their extent.

Only so they can still cling to hope, because on the contrary to what they lost, hope is the only entity still not over won; a seed that spread too much into soil it can never be fully cut out.

A pessimistic person who has structured his sadness is one who builds a virtue out of a sin but can’t tell the difference.

One who enjoys the drop of rain and the sting of the sun just the same but still thinks the sun is only there because of the rain not the opposite.

A one who never fails to remind oneself that battles of self are fought alone. Battles of self are won alone. Battles of self are in fact self-created and self-realized and so no one and nothing can interfere and nothing can be done but to hope and build a rose out of the little wet soil at the side of the road nurtured by the tears of sky and hoped by the sun that dry.

A structured pessimist is one of the strain of the wild daisies. In the eyes of that pessimist is not so strange that spring comes after winter and is not strange that he enjoys both just the same.

Only those who enjoys the rain can see the beauty of a wild rose at the side of the road.

so what am i? i am a structured pessimist.

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A person with no title. 

In what do people find their motives? in what do people find logic? where do they find meaning?… At the end of each day i wonder this same thing. But i find that most people don’t look for logic in life, but follow an ordered spontaneity like a preset of what life is supposed to be. A terrace of how it should be. In the midst of all this i find my self hollow wondering why am i so different, finding a hard time accepting that this what we have here and what we live by is what logic supposed to be. 

The books on philosophy all join in at that to be irrelatable to the common understandings of your community is to be mad. A wack! A fault in design! But i believe that god created me and those who suffer the same as me like car makers making a limited design to show that this world is an endless continuum. It’s variations run through us not for us.


Logic is not hard to find, what is hard is the truth it unhides when found. The search for logic generates more and more questions and to answer them and find your own understanding, is to be ready for the next question to set sail. 

I do understand what this world is about, what people is about and that is the original problem i believe. To understand! This world is not made to be understood, it is too complex for us just so we don’t get Lost. It’s easier to get lost in the meaning than the question. It’s easier to understand the purpose of a normal maze with one exit than a maze with all doors open.

For Those of you who run hollow; have no base structure. Your maze is all open and the search is endless. 

My search is endless! 

The girl with no footsteps 

​Today i would like to write about my pink pin, and the fine line drawn by it’s 0.4 mm tip, it’s a radiant pastel pink – just like me that combination is hard to believe it could exist in one. the tip pigments the paper so smoothly as the round tip flows over the white paper extracting it’s motion from my fingers. i hate my fingers they are and unlike my body so thin and slender, skin is so transparent that you can easily count the veins on them – that’s not so bad really people showed admiration of that transparency and of My personality quite the same, a transparent one that draws admiration but hardly left in peace – I’m neither frightened nor okay with the situations i find my personality simultaneously creating for me as i live day by day – I’m in transcendent realm of thoughts – i haven’t been before, i don’t know which is which, what is bad n what is good, what is a rational human behavior and what’s query.

As i lay my head on the table, the pink strokes came into focus and and at the end of the line what i know is that i am a delicate soul. A fragile leaf drifting where ever the winds may take. A lone survivor of my own ship reck and i have lived to tell the tale. The tale of a girl with no footsteps.

I used to write with black pens only then i discovered colors. And then i hated colors  because they were too over rated so i got back to using only black pens and once in a while i pick up this pink one and it is not so over rated in fact it brings uniqueness, new vision and contrast to the black. This is in the same way how the stars only shines it’s uniqueness fully when the sky is
 deep in black. When there is no lights on the streets but the stars. Have you ever seen the stars on a black out night? No need for the words of a poet for the stars become the peot and the poem. simply breathtaking. Like the pink and black and like the stars on a black out night. We need something or someone of our own to contrast our uniqueness and overcast our flaws. And that can only be designed for us it could be derived from within us or from the world but it has to be for the individual for the sole and true person we are. Otherwise we will live delusional and misguided.

What it means to be mad?

The weight of my mind bares me down, it tangles up the stream of thoughts, the waves of emotions and my line of life all into one imbalanced point, a fine thread between being normal and being mad.
I can’t even see or feel that thread anymore, i neither know whether I’m normal or mad, I’m normal because i say I’m mad, (mad people often see themselves normal) i know I’m not normal because nothing on or in this earth is the way for me, but if i say I’m normal then I’m mad, and if i think in this pattern that must mean I’m mad.
I guess i lost that fine thread the moment i visualized it.
It appears to me in my friend’s smile, in my little brothers satisfaction, in my goals and in my efforts, it appears to me in myself, it appears in parallel, and in pyramidal distinction, it’s a fine thread but it’s the only thing that connects me to reality, to thinking, and to rationality but only in skepticism to all of what’s just said,  skepticism is a black line that approximates the fine thread of madness or in contrast of normality, it margins the madness when skepticism is in the fine law of existing, and the normality when skepticism in the queries of humanity is denied.
The stars are beautiful but they are the reck of something, they are still beautiful though the energy it holds, the distance it travels, it’s marvelous in the dreams they shed upon the eyes of the hopeless, is there any skepticism in those dreams?  But are there any laws that govern them? There is freedom in thought, there is freedom in skepticism, there is no law and normality is to deny what you can’t acquire, madness is to acquire what others skepticise.

My Quantum entanglement

He is a slender tall man, solemnly shaken by his own mind, as a willow tree shaken by her own branches.
Today he talks to me and smiles, blocking the sun as he stands, happy that finally his mind surrendered to his soul, ” i had thoughts and i let them play out for two hours and a half and it felt like watching a movie” he says.
Aren’t our lives a one gigantic
movie where we play lead parts on how the events play out, there is  always a plot and a scenario to how things ends up.
It’s often stated that we can’t change these plots, but it’s also often we forget it’s made through us as we are made through it.
If we cease to exist the movie stops, we own it’s existence, why don’t we start owning it’s plots.
It’s funny to think that with only what he said i got to play another movie of my own.
A background to the history of where we start is the future to where we exist.
We fail to comprehend the truth in front of us sometimes, well  (for me it’s most of the time) , i just fail to see why would the thing i feel is real, why would it be a hint of what’s coming, i always doubted what i felt, and needed confirmation from my sister or a friend that what I’m feeling is true or sain enough to be believed, but i know now after having to take a very difficult decision that will probably affect my life for ever , that i don’t need a prove to my feelings from anyone, it’s only a matter of time, till i say deep down “if only i listened to myself”, it’s just ironic but most logical having to be your least self to really know who is yourself, having to get to the most shattered state to believe that your whole, having to brake yourself to build it up again the right way, only know i understand, only know i know why this line: “i was not,i was nothing, and that seemed to me quite marvelous” was kept by me as a note which i set to be reminded of every other day.
“i believe i was nothing, but as weird as it seems it felt most peaceful”
The 1st line was by Paulo Coelho, the 2nd was by a one tall slender man, my friend, my brother my Quantum entanglement, who is to me the most generous in soul and heart but he too still searching for a prove to his own sanity.

All sorts of all

You were fought off your existence, since the day you were born, your fought by the closest people to you, and that’s all you know about life.
You were given an incredible ability to love everyone, to cherish every human soul, and to give when ever you can, even when your running low yourself!
That love is often rejected, used, misunderstood or even drained and misplaced, you go by everyday with something missing, with a void you keep on filling with meaningless objects and tainted smiles.

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You manage to renew your faith in humanity and keep on giving and it’s a circle all over again.
I walk beaten in soul, and i try with every breath i can to find the patience and the courage to still give, because i still believe that somewhere someplace there are people who deserve even a little of what i got to give, i believe that these people are the reason why I’m still fighting for the real me, for the virtues i was born with.
I’m the kind of person who wears her feelings upon her face, i struggle to laugh through the swirling emotions inside, just so people won’t ask what’s wrong? This question is just a useless remark by someone who is just forced by  the sight of your misery to ask it.
I go by everyday with a moment where i look at the wall of the library where i study and feel the urge to let go and just cry, to admit the big ball of sadness, anger and despite i am!
I look around and i know there is no one who’s worth it enough to see that side of me.
I get up and look around for something to restore peace to my soul just enough so i can hold it all together
Usually that 1st person would be Awad, Awad is the godfather of the library, he is big guy with a slender soul, a boldy who constantly wears a smile so big it says I’m too strong for this world and eyes that holds a great ocean of sadness i can’t figure out, i grew fund of him over the days, i can spill gibberish and he would still understand and comment on, he gives at moments when he is in the most need to receive.

I have learned that pain is of all sorts, the soundless pain, the pain the leaches on, the pain that is not worn apparently but is always there, see the problem is not in feeling pained, the problem is in the sort of pain that’s so strong it can’t be felt, it’s a plague of human interaction, it spreads and detaches you from the ground you set your feet on so much that you can’t feel it’s presence, so the real problem is NOT feeling pained.
Your judgment is impaired and your emotions are as useless as that one shirt in the closet you never wear!