Do Not Die Before Friday (2)

"Yellow paper and a red pen" that's what she said. "Write with a pencil," he said, "it's smoother on paper." Write what comes to mind as it comes to mind, that's what I imagine Virginia would've said. A stream of consciousness is sometimes what is there for you to see, and to document your hell of a sight. 

Moon, I'm back to writing.

Take it all but bring me back my language. Write dozens of letters to Darwish, and you shall never find your words. Till, one day, you meet a complete stranger and perhaps their entire role in your life was to bring you your language back, and hug you so tight on that hell of a night. 

Moon, I'm back to writing. 

I write about people,
Portraits are drawn
Not so different from that one you drew of me last night. 
I take out my 20-color pack 
and on a recycled piece of paper, I draw 
a soul that is a reflection of your thoughts. 
My features shift and change 
with every mind 
and my bones bring me back to the ground. 
A reminder of the past 
and the nostalgia that gets you every now and then. 
Identities shift and change 
with every thought
and mine 
gets lost in their abyss. 

Moon, I'm back to writing

I have waited so long. Worrying for the wait and waiting about the worry. Events have got mixed up, time stood still, and I am only waiting for the clock to strike eleven. 

Moon, I'm back to writing

An hour late to the agreed-upon 24.
Mirroring one's actions to suit one's view of self.
Two hours late to the 24.
One acts to their day, and I say: a day is a choice.
Seven hours late to the 24.
It takes a lot to know a man,
from another.
Nine and a half hours late to the 24. 

Moon, I'm back to writing 

For writing has never left you. Objects, people are perceived as letters scattered on random pieces of paper. Words float over each other governing the whole pathway to vision. Senses are blinded by language, that it becomes the only reality. That's why you write to Darwish; that's why Darwish begged for his language; that's why the moon is the only witness to your language revival: what else but the loudest reflection? 

Moon, 

Our lives are intertwined in the most serene of ways. I am not trying to beautify this for it is already too beautiful. You are what you are, and I am what I am. And I'll always have my wise voice with me when I am nearby. You want it, you demand it. I am the free and wise; the eye of your blindness. Yet, I stumble upon rock after rock every time I walk. I myself am, as well, blind. 

Moon, 

"I feel pain in death
and life." 

Moon, leave it to Saturday,  


Recommended song(s): 
Iris, The Goo Goo Dolls 


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Your Guide to Going Through All the Stages of Grief in Two Days

Can’t take more than two days off work? Still want to stay in alignment with this modern world’s obsession with healing, growth, and emotional maturity? This guide is for you. 1. Go with the flow. Listen to yourself in the moment. You’ll be surprised. I was pretty sure I’d fight. If you asked me two minutes before the monologue I launched into, you'd find me mentally clinging to this. But two minutes later? A surge of unprecedented serenity. And I let go. 2. Ritualize your meltdown. a.  Go home. Shower. Pray. Remind yourself of your nothingness in the grand scheme of things. “I don’t know. But You do. So, alhamdulilah—even though I don’t know or understand.” b.  Put on your comfiest clothes. Choose the filthy habit you’ll drown your sadness in. Then get back to work, because we cannot help but Sisyphus our way through this life. 3. Be honest. Be open. Be a little unhinged. Sprinkle vulnerability with sarcasm (because is it even worth it if you're not making fun of it?): "S...
Read more

-4- On Peace, Grief and Chaos

 “Yellow paper and a red pen.” That’s what she said. “Write with a pencil,” he said, “it’s smoother on paper.” Write what comes to mind as it comes to mind, that’s what I imagine Virginia would’ve said. A stream of consciousness is what is there for you to see, to know, to understand perhaps. Hills or oceans it doesn’t matter. Life changes in the instant, the ordinary instant. “Why be tormented?” I asked, and followed that question all way long, all our way long. Here I am in a city that used to be ours. Here or there, the nights were ours; we always found our way around the sleeping city. Wandered around the streets of chaos and coldness, searching for warmth and companionship. One is searching for what one feels they’re ought to find. But, also, as much as one loves this city, they know they would never stay. I am here now to question my so-called peace amid chaos itself. Looking for scraps of what is left of hope, serenity and wisdom. Roaming the streets at day, searching f...
Read more

If I Met You Two Years Ago, I Would Have Loved You

Yellow paper and a red pen. A greyish-black laptop. A screen too bright. Anything to write— And what for? he asked, while my Virginia gently wept. A block of value actualization— "That’s not a poetic word!" he screamed. A block of rhythm— "Better." A block of a sort— any sort every sort. "God! Do better." Read that paper. Study that course. Ditch sleep. Aching body? Ruin it even more. We’re getting old. We need sleep. And then it plays, in the most cliché of ways: "Ain’t no rest for the wicked." My life is a long series of plots— invented, prolonged, structures thrown upon every little act. And what can I do but push through until the last applause? What am I but a mere man with too many voices in his head, not so different from those around? Titles, paragraphs, well-articulated sentences, rhythmic prose— all play simultaneously in my skull, a beat more familiar than my own self. "Words, words, words— nothi...
Read more