You know that feeling when you just -for one day- want to cease from existing? All you want to do is vanish. Accept the fact that you are weak, and give in to your fine portion of poltroonery and run away. The worst part of life is when you aren’t sure whether you are living or dead; you aren’t sure whether the diminished sparkles in your eyes have been opaqued by the nothingness or the pain. What I do know is that pain can take you to a standing point where you are tingling in numbness. You lose balance. And you fall. You fall into a pitch black hole. And you think it’s over. You think that you’ll never have to wake up to the given fact that you are a living disappointment again. It feels nice. The darkness feels nice because it feels like you have finally dematerialised. And that all that’ll be left of you is a finely quoted obituary and the soul of your immortal shadows. They’ll foolishly bring up your name with a tear, a wasted sorrow. It’s nice. But then you wake up, and you start seeing everything that hurts again, and you start hearing everything that bruises again. And you wake up, you see your well structured body hiding away a dead soul. And you wake up and you don’t see the sparkles no more. You don’t see a life anymore. And you stay awake until you’re back to the darkness to catch your breath again.
things can come in all forms and colours.
They can both dazzle and confuse you. They can lift you to a point of question which could keep you lingered for a lifetime.
A lifetime of lingering may sound absurd, but each and every one of us is truly nothing but dust, dust scattered in a beam of -what seems to us as- light.
We do not know why we float so irrationally in this multidimensional, often illuminated world.
We’re just here for now.
Surrounded by the similar lost and the similar in question,
we gallop the sense of belongingness and comfort. The pseudo-belongingness.
We are all lost.
We are a cliff-hanger.
We are walking question marks.
We are the certainties of the uncertainty of this lifetime.
We exist to make a meaning for ourselves, that eventually defines us. Ill-defines us.
We are dried words that were once callings.
We are nothing.
Dear Mr President,
I’m writing to you because I’ve been quiet for quite some time now. I’ve been trying to refrain myself from writing to you before because I fairly know you haven’t been given much time to imply any change and that you’ve been trying so hard to parade your busy-ness with the improvement of this country to keep us all placid. I’m very sorry though, but bullshit. What is happening to Egypt right now is bullshit. And I don’t think you realise how hard it is to live your day away knowing that people have actually died, and mothers actually -to this very day- cry their nights away over the constant downfall of hope in this country.
Yes, surprisingly enough, you, Mr President, were our hope. We confided in you, because there was no one else to confide in but you. You let us down. And in this mere moment as I type you this letter on my charged smartphone with pre-paid cellular internet connection in a pitch dark room because of your generous givings of constant power cuts, I am crying out to you that you let me down.
When we were kids, Mr President, teachers would ask “What do you want to be when you grow older?”. The commonest reply would be “The President”. But as we actually gained a few heights above the ground, and as our minds buffed up, we realised that it isn’t that easy as our juvenile minds fooled us to believe. That when you wish to be president, you must be capable of satisfying a whole population, you must be capable of taking up a responsibility knowing that letting your people down isn’t an option. Being a president is a liability and it isn’t anywhere comfy and glorious.
But you, Mr President, stood up and spoke out to a crowd of 80 million people that you are qualified enough to own our trust. When you weren’t. And the majority believed you. They believed your fake promises and your lies. They believed you because you spoke out to them when they were most vulnerable. A very nobel and honourable move, Mr President.
Today, I witness supermarket owners on the road protesting because their goods in refrigerators have to be rubbished because of the frequent power cuts. Yesterday, I witnessed unemployed youth asking for their promised employments. Before that, I witnessed mourners asking for the rights of their murdered children. Before that, I witnessed an economic crisis of, what was once, one of the most economically stable in the world. Before that, I witnessed sectarianism and religious intolerance. Should I go on, Mr President?
I’m just very curious, what more surprises have you got packaged for us? What more have you got sealed underneath your well varnished pseudo-promises. I’m very afraid, to be honest. I’m afraid because you’re sucking out the life in me and in everyone around me! And I’m sorry that I put wasted expectations in you. I’m sorry for trusting you. I’m sorry that a president who is, supposedly, the leader of over 80 million people doesn’t quite value the weight of his words and actions. I’m sorry.
A humiliated citizen
Note to self: Everyone’s talking about what they deserve and what they deserve more; what life has given them and what life hasn’t given them enough. Everyone is too concerned with the fact that it’s a give-take situation here and it’s as fair as it could get. Everyone is wrong. You don’t get what you deserve because you simply have no idea what it is you should be taking in return. You simply have no idea about the quantity of your givings because you’re too busy counting them incorrectly like a mathematically dysfunctional cashier. Stop bloody counting what you think you deserve, because what you deserve is the miracle of a life, and that’s exactly what you have right now. Choices make a person, whether bad or good, you’re still being manufactured by your own experiences and past events. Your life is waiting for you at every ignored corner that you free-willingly miss because you’re too busy looking for some mythical treasure at the end of a rainbow. A rainbow is just a spectrum of light that managed to make its way through a rainy day. There’s nothing magical about that. So if you want to live, you better dust off your lantern knowing no genie will pop up with a bunch of free wishes on the end of his sleeve. Wake up and realise that living is all you’ve got, and there are no promises after that. You were never promised a good life. You were only promised a life and a healthy brain to smartly live your days away.
It’s funny. Why would they? Why would they believe in a proceeding life. What is ever so aesthetic about it anyway? It’s not a bank. You shouldn’t save your happy moments for something so uncertain. If you have a moment to live, why not just live it? Why must you be pulled back by stories upon stories of whom couldn’t make it to that “sacred paradise” just because they “sinfully” chose to “live the moment”?
It’s very confusing when you walk on beautiful lands. It’s confusing because you want to confide in the earth and not in anything else. You want to confide in the harmony that is a given fact, nothing more. Nothing out of the usual. Nothing that takes a leap of faith you’re not willing to reach. All you want to do is feel the breeze regardless whether a west or east breeze. It shouldn’t matter as long as it felt good. As long as your hair felt the orgasm of every stroke of wind. Nothing should matter as long as it felt real. You don’t need to be “good” to feel the breeze, you felt it anyway.
The art of feeling alive is only established by liberation. The liberation that is dormant when you confide in so many uncertainties. The uncertainties that pull you back, that suck your flesh without a definite reason, without anything but a sole “because”.
I can hear the sound of people. They sound real. They laugh. And I hate them all. I hate them all for laughing, for giggling while they foolishly aim their empty cans of beer at some trash can. I hate them.
I hate them because they’re happy.
Right now I’m on a train to a destination. A destination that is not so different from the “sacred paradise”. It’s got rivers, boats, art, homes, women, and alcohol. It’s real. And I write this in liberation. I don’t hate them no more. Because I’m happy for now. I’m happy,
and it’s real.