There’s no room.
There’s no room for love;
There’s no room.
There’s no room for passion;
There’s just no room.
For a very long time, I’ve been living in this country because I basically haven’t another option. I wouldn’t even call it living, I was just a mortal entity that had a place to rest his head. A place to live with no room for love and passion.
I got used to it. It took quite some time, but I eventually did give in. However, one cannot belittle the significance of family and friends and they only exist on the same ground that practically owns your ethnicity and nationality. They’re just not enough, though. So you start to be as bitter as your favourite writers, except living in Egypt you can’t really go to a close park and drink your “birse” away like most of them do. Nonetheless, you get narcissistic and you start to resort to writing. Not much fun, I’d have preferred drinking/ smoking it away, but it’s all I’ve got really. Frankly, I’m not even good, but it’s taming and curing for one’s soul.
Maybe this post is pointless. It is pointless. But I’m enraged and it isn’t pointless to me.
So I write. I write about how I can’t live here and how I can’t leave either. I write about the things I cannot have because through my writings I get to possess the thought of owning them. I write about a fantasy that does not exist. I write about a God that is so elusive to me, yet very certainly out there. I write about chimeras. About people. About life.
I wonder whether I’m as luring to death as it is to me. It’s funny because when you’re put near death, and when you walk upon the dead, you realise that this isn’t -also- what you need at the moment. It is more often than not that I have envied the dead. But that was foolish of me. However, It’s not another -wake me up when my issues end- because issues are as mortal as we are. We all know that things only get worse by time and we all shut our destructive thoughts up by lying to ourselves that we’re only destined to get tougher too. But we don’t. How insanely stupid of us. What a ridiculous lie. Time means scars. And more time means more scars. And more scars means pain. And pain means weakness. That’s what it is. We grow older, we become weaker and we become more liable to fall. Fall permanently and irreversibly. And that’s basically what life’s about.
And there’s no room for me to live in such a life.