Fractions

DISCLAIMER: The quotes inserted are written by my friend Rou'a Nafea. This piece is dedicated to her and to all of those who has lost loved ones.

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"الالم و الجرح و الوجع و الحنين و الشوق و حاجات تانيه كتير فوق بعض بتبان و تجرح في القلب لما الناس تنام و تفشل محاولات الصبر!"

The pain, the nostalgia, the yearning, and so many other things, hurt in the heart and manifest when people go to sleep. That's when all trials to be patient seem to fail!

Every night is a fight now; it is a war. I am afraid to go to sleep that I’d die out of desperation. Every breath I take, every move I make is just another blow from my gun towards oblivion; towards me. The thing is; this war, my war, can never end until I die. You cannot survive without your mind and you cannot keep fighting it unless you lose; the mind never loses. I know what my dreams will be. I am scared of them. I’m fighting in the morning the monsters I never kill at night. I may wound them, may overcome them by interrupting my dreams by sudden shakes and wide open eyes. But still I sleep again, and I dream again, and I’m in this war again; a war I’m dragged into. 

It’s just a blast of memories that I try to repress all day long. What I kill in the morning is what is killing me at night. Every toss in my bed is a reminder of what I’m coming up against after perhaps, if I’m too hopeful, a couple of seconds! Every blink is an eternity of misery and every breath is a mile towards either desolation or salvation. 

Most nights I try to lay awake, so as to recover from those hellhounds; ripping me. It is either I’m too strong that I get pass them or they are too persistent that they bind me to their underworld. It is not their fault; I created them. I created those memories that got torn apart from me so suddenly that now I’m just too lost without them. Every day in my life is a reminder of what I lost forever. There is no going back, there is no way out of it, and there is nothing but this fight that I’m dragged in. I miss everything about him, about her, about everyone I lost along the way. I’m now even scared of another loss that I try to either enjoy every part of the second and make new memories that perhaps would wipe out the old ones, or I just disconnect myself from everything else to avoid getting attached to something so much that I lose another part of me if I ever lose them, like I lost their counterparts. It’s a never ending cycle, a genocide in which I’m the attacker and I’m the attacked.

At some moments I really do miss each and every little thing I used to do with him. I miss those things so much that I even miss those things which used to make me disgusted. At other times, when I go through the photos, yearning for those old, sweet times, I feel like "what the hell was I thinking when I first loved him?" I feel like I miss even the way he used to run his fingers through his soft, brown hair. I miss the way he laughed and the way he got angry at me for overthinking about things that he told me before. I remember every photo we took, every second we spent together and it’s just too hard letting it all go so easily. It’s just too hard to forget. I’m too indulged in our memories that I can’t remember to forget him!

The same goes with her! I miss how she used to tuck me in bed and sometimes cuddle me until I fall asleep. She used to stand up for me; she loved me and showed it every time she took me in between her arms. I remember her smile, her illness, her laugh, and her yelling at me when she wanted me to get something done and I find it too nagging that I yell back at her. I even miss when I used to yell back at her! I miss her smell, even when she smelled all like medicine, her hand sliding down my hair when she used to brush it, when I was a little girl, and the conspiracies that I used to make with my dad just to get her a little bit mad at us to have something to laugh at later in the evening. I miss it all too much that now it’s gone; I miss the bad memories before the good ones. 

This is what happens when you have so much going on in your life and then suddenly you just have it all taken away from you. I’m not grateful to those memories, neither am I ungrateful. I can’t imagine that I would have come that far without them in my life. Similarly, I can’t imagine that I would go any further with them in it. I can’t let go and I can’t keep on holding on to the emptiness they left in me, after they are all gone. No one will ever fill in the gap that these people used to fill in my life, yet now they are not here, I have to find someone else with whom I can continue living. 

"Death is an integral part of life. It enhances it, so appreciate its significance. It is a slap; a warning. It says “Life is too short; it ends so suddenly, grab at it, work on it, and try your best every day.” Give people their due NOW! If you're mad, tell them and fix it...If you love them, tell them...people should realize their importance in your life! SPEAK UP! You never know what may happen next, so tell people how you feel about them; speak from the heart, take chances, trust more often and love more deeply."

This war can only end when I realize the necessity of living with and without those memories I’m carrying around all the time. My mind has to function for and against these fractures in the same time. If I lose them, I’m lost, and if I keep my life only for them, I’m also lost. The only thing I can do now is to appreciate them, then move forward. Any other option will just be a negligence spell that will backfire! Appreciate death, understand it and live with it!

Oblivion (A Short Story)

Disclaimer: This piece may contain explicit content for some audience. Please DO NOT READ if below 18.

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Created 09/ 05/ 2013

Finished 11/ 07/ 2014

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I woke up in the morning to a very hard kiss on my lips like the ones I always fantasize about. I didn’t know what to do or how to react. I am sure that it was a dream but I have no idea who kissed me in that dream. The thing that made me feel the most insecure is that I started fantasizing about the anonymous person who kissed me and I kept bringing into vision a multitude of scenarios the kiss would have taken place with.

I closed my eyes only to try to recount what could have happened. Was that only the weaving of my hungry mind? I need this, this feeling of appreciation and love and need. I need to feel loved and wanted and sexy and attractive and a whole big bunch of feelings that I’m yearning for. Could my brain be that kind of desperate that it created an alternative set of emotions that I can only experience when I let go of physical existence. I’m into a virtual life in which I can have whatever I want! It is a brain consuming thought, but it’s all worth the time and the energy.

I delved into the black, trying to reconcile the fragments I have of this person. I ran on its concealed path and got those partial memories; emotions, coming right at me. I’m hit by them as if I’m being hit by fragments of my own that helps constructing me; keeping me whole. I have a touch, a kiss, a move, a pair of bright eyes, and the strongest of all a delightful smile that made me ecstatic. I built on that vision a man as crazy, as delightful, and as bright as I am. It was like he was a male version of me. In his perfect stature, he was only a reflection of my own spirit set in another body.

I stopped running but the black oblivion was still rushing towards me. Now, it is empty of any memories, emotions; everything. There was just me, standing in the middle of the path that I can’t see, and there was that incarnation of that person, another part of me! I approached him, examined my lover and was bewildered by my weaving. I was stunned by what my mind is capable of. It was enchanting. I looked into his eyes, a deep look with a deep breath that I held in me. It was euphoric. I smiled at him and he smiled back. I was slowly and carefully raising my hands to feel his lovely face. I laid my left palm on his cheek when he started disintegrating. The oblivious darkness that was moving against my current is now moving with it; taking him away. The image that was just standing before me is now wearing off like digital data being eaten up by a virus that transforms it into little, senseless squares, apart from each other, useless! I ran after it, reaching out to it. Sobbing and angry I screamed “No, no don’t leave, don’t wear off; don’t leave me after I’ve found you! Staaaaaaaaaaaaay, pleaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaase.”

I kept running until I was out of breath. I started stumbling and I fell to the ground when the left of me, being taken away by the ruthless current, exploded like a dying star. It was bright then it was dark again. The explosion wiped off everything in its way; my memory of his love, my emotions, my yearnings, and my exquisite happiness. Everything got sucked into the nothingness from which it was originally born. I was down on my knees, surrounded by nothing more than the static black that was suffocating me by its wideness. It was not moving in any direction anymore; it wasn’t moving towards me or with me! It was gone. Oblivion got sucked into oblivion, leaving only the oppressive space behind. I ended up in a black nothingness, lost in the high levels of my dreaming mind. I found no way back, no way in, no means to reconcile my once again lost pieces. It was only the emptiness one more time, the crucifixions one more time, the shivers, the pain, the shimmering, the breathless, blown up lungs one more time, with no means to overcome it. It was oblivion in the beginning and oblivion in the end and a lost soul hanging by a thread at the finish line of a marathon that can never be finished. 

Episodic Dream (Demons of The Night IX)

Originally written on 30/ 04/ 2013

Edited and published 10/ 07/ 2014

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Worms are eating up in my head;

Crawling in my brain

Leaching in it

A ghost child; thin and frail

With black lips sitting on a chair

Pale yellow skin with eyes sinking in their holes

At first I thought “he is sick, stay away”

But then I knew

He wasn't human, not a child of earth

Maybe an abomination;

 A conception of a bad sperm

In my thoughts I wasn't wrong;

To my calls he didn't respond

In my eyes he didn't look

He only sat on his chair

Shaking his legs in the fourth lane

In the always sunny rest room

On the first visit he didn't move

His chair was set in the corner, he didn't leave

To the bathroom I went and then I left

But being there gave me the creeps

On another visit I saw him again

I am much distracted by his looks

I scream at him, I shout and curse

But still to that he gave no response

Girls, horrified, decided to leave

Only two, caught up by curiosity, stayed

This time the boy came out of the lane

Stood in a corner with his body shaking

His right leg hitting against the wall

While I scream: “a ghost!” and I point

No one sees him but me

The girls, in horror, look into my eyes

A man rushes in, taking the boy away

I was stunned, the ghost is taken out!

The man wore an olive green garment

With brownish yellow hair and a big moustache

He takes the boy then rushes in again

He apologizes as I scream

His greyish green eyes go red

He looks at me in anger

To the ground he kneels

Into the floor his hand goes

Flooding the sinks and closing the doors

The girls and I are trapped inside

No one can hear us on the other side

To my screams I wake up, horrified

It's four minutes to sun rise

I am sweaty and shaking

Bewildered and lost

Was that a message or only a manifestation?

I’ll never know!!!

Perhaps it was my mind;

Seeking unity in its mess.

That Was Her

She was that and that was her

Insane, imprudent and so impure 

Sinful, apparently strong and tough

as a pile of ash in the winds that're rough

so heavy as the rhyme of these despicable lines

so in rush for an upcoming life

senseless to the edge lines of despair

and so a simulator of inexplicable pain

that she brought upon herself

for having such a nutshell brain

that was her and she was that

a mad woman in love with an equally mad man

the only man that her kind of women couldn't have

because that is her and she is that.

The Death of Woolf

Disclaimer:

This piece is a piece of pure fiction based on the death of Virginia Woolf. It DOES NOT tackle any real pieces of information. Everything is deployed in the favour of dramatic effects. Her suicide note, as found on the internet, is quoted but nothing else can be considered as a real piece of information about the life or the death of Woolf. 

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“Dearest,

I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can’t even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that – everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer.

I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been.

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She wasn’t mad as they called her, she was only a radical. She wasn’t a psycho as she was accused, she was only insightful. She had her emotions heightened, only more elegant and more refined than others’. She was an artistic human. She had no voodoo mumbo jumbo going around in her life. She wasn’t an associate of the devil. She wasn’t old. She wasn’t young. She wasn’t anything but some thoughts that had a hard time getting explored. She was only a compilation of suffocating words that she expressed through her handwriting on pieces of parchments every time she had the urge to let something out. She loved her husband, she wished if she could bear his child but she wasn’t so lucky. She was dismal in her world. She lived in the agony of being a slave to her own fantasies. The worlds that she created, through the words that should have been her liberators, worked backwards. She was enslaved in her own freedom, a slave to her own alternative life.

She had the thought in her head that one should be different. She only failed in being so. Not because she wasn’t different, but because she was too different from the world that surrounded her. She was a radical, which categorized her as a rebel, which she was, but also for which she was regarded as a curse to her life.

Growing more dismal every day, growing desperate for the liberation she has always sought, she gave up on the conventions that she wanted to reform. She decided to only reform herself. The only way applicable is to embrace the fact that death is the ultimate liberator from every squeaky, loud voice in her that is trying to pull her from what she is towards what others think she should. She was even a radical in the way she saw things, not only in the way she thought of them. She didn’t only hold a new perspective, she also knew how she can act on her own. That’s why she aroused anger during her time.

“It is only another hardship another day in which I’m crazy. It’s only another day of detachment in which I feel overthrown by the large waves that do not seem to cease standing between my free spirit and my physical existence. If I am to be free, I’m to give up my body, which will be a worthy price for my liberation.”

On another dreary day, grey clouds and suffocating sunrays unable to penetrate through the fog and mist that have taken over the atmosphere, she headed over to the sea. She had her house, as vast as a grey palace, inhabited by the screams of her heart and the shouts of her mind, and as artificial as the cold, extravagant, white marble that had covered every inch of it, looking over the sea; her savior and her doom. She has looked at it for every day of her very short long life and has always pictured herself hugging its cold, comforting sand bed and laying there forever. She used to look at its soothing, gentle waves from above, from the balcony of her west wing, where she had protruding from the body of the palace. Whenever she was there, she felt that she was standing on the sea, in the middle of it; no directions, no right, no wrong; only nothingness; only peace. Only this day, she had approached it through walking on its shore with bare feet. She put on her raincoat, very heavy and very dark, and filled its pockets with crushed pieces of white marble, along with sharp, black stones. She carried in her pockets the screams that had drowned her every day. She carried along her misery that has led her to despair. She has just given up but a woman like her never goes down alone. She brought her murderer along down with her.

"I wasn’t alone in this. I had his smile in my head and his gentle eyes on my mind; I could see them as I walked into the water. I felt his lips pressing hard against mine; bestowing on them a last kiss, and his hand placing my stranded locks of hair gently behind my left ear."

She walked further and further and smiled harder and harder until She disappeared in the vast water. She never came back up, neither did she make any sound. 

It was a quite death, just as the quite life that others wanted me to have. Although my death has raised controversy and debate, I had an eventful life, just as my fierce spirit. Along with my other "victories", the way I chose to die is the ultimate victory of all. It’s just another way of saying I’ve lived to the fullest even when I was "wasted". I’m not wasted, I’m a phenomenon, I’m Virginia and that was my death. 

Son of Sun

Close your eyes…

Listen…

Silence…

Listen!

Go into the black;

Walk into oblivion,

Through it!

A pinhead?

A haystack?

A light?

Death or Life?

Are you dead or are you alive?

Lost at the road?

Lost at the choice?

Close your eyes…

Listen...

You’re alive, but dead!

You’re dead, yet alive!

The pinhead is the light

Of a planet of a Black Sun;

Revolving around it!

Your palms tickle

By the wheat flower

That they move across 

In a warm winter day

In which you can see the Sun

The Son of Sun is day

And its cousin is night.

And as you caress the Son,

The cousin caresses the Sun;

Eclipsing the warm light

To end up the life

Of a hefty, dark day.

Close your eyes…

Listen…

Birds… 

Chanting to the life

Of day and the death of night

The eclipse is over

The son is sun and the sun is son 

Day has come 

With a warm winter sun

So open your eyes

And sing the song

Of the death of the hefty Black Sun 

And the birth of a new day.

Empty Impulse

I’m sitting in front of my laptop, all set to start writing something that I don’t know. I have the impulse to write, the motivation, but I lack the essence; I have a feeling that I can’t clearly define. I can’t pin point its name but it’s there. It’s like a feeling that is empty; an empty impulse! How can an impulse be empty? Can a heartbeat be empty? Can a breath be empty? And if there are empty breaths and empty heartbeats so can there be life? What kind of life can be there if all the motivators of life are declining towards extinction! How can I be all set and ready to take matters into my hands; write a story that has never been written before, and still be all empty and null! Am I not supposed to be a writer? Am I not supposed to question life; the universe, and its exquisiteness? Am I not supposed to be an interpreter of motions and gestures? How come I want to write something that I don’t know? It’s like once I come near my keyboard I’ll figure out what needs to be written, what needs to be out of my system, like a sin, and I’m chocking upon. It’s very easy to get a feeling, an emotion that motivates you, but you can’t define it. But is it ever easy to try explaining the thing that you cannot define? And if I cannot explain it, does that make me a sloppy writer? And if it doesn’t make me a sloppy writer, can a writer ever be motivated by an impulse that may come and go? And if he can be motivated by such impulses, what would he do if these impulses just stopped coming? Would he cease being a writer? Would he cease seeking the perfection, on which he triumphs, which he brings to existence? Would he stop seeking oneness through his claim of ownership over the produced piece that he never thought he would tailor in such a perfection? Would he really give up all that he was, is, and will just basing on an impulse that has given him up? How could it be that easy? How could it be that depressing?

My impulse often visit me when I’m angry or depressed, which is most of the time my mood. In case I’m neither of the cases, which is probably when I’m sleeping, and not even quite often then, I’m in the mood of “what if…?” Even when I’m not writing, I’m always creating an alternative life that involves me and my friends. I find uniqueness in it. I’m unique because there is something that is only mine, not available to be shared with anyone but with my reflection in the mirror. That reflection that reflects my monstrosity, mingled with such an innocent face. That reflection that has a sight of the devil in it. You can always see it through those eyes when they are determined on doing something to take over something that she knows it is never hers to take. That light of darkness that breaks through the dark sky of my head, bringing the darkness of my abyss on top of the light that is trying to fight it back down to where it came from but it can’t. It’s those moments of strength that feed my infuriation and depression alike, allowing my impulse to dance on the grave of my words that are becoming dead just seconds after their birth. They are born as I’m typing, and die as I’m reading what I wrote. Their short interval of life is as long as eternity; they will be born through every attempt of reading them and will die with the last letter that is read but will be engraved in the unconscious of the reader and will then find another death with his own. 

The impulses are always empty yet saturated by words that will never be known to the writer until he tries to discover what he should be writing. He will never understand his impulse until this impulse comes to life through his words then die through his attempt of understanding it. It’s a life that comes and goes and gets born then dies then gets born one more time then becomes immortal in the endless time. A writer’s impulse tends to be born out of nothingness then live as short as seconds and as long as eternity.