اعترافات

تبدأ ليلتك بفتح جهازك الخاص والذي بات يحوي جميع أسرار حياتك منذ أول فكرة تفكر فيها صباحًا وحتى آخر أغنية تدندنها مساءً في طرقات منزلك وفي لحظات مختلفة من مزاجك. وبدلًا من أن تذهب إلى ورقة وقلم وتكتب اعترافاتك لنفسك، تأتي هنا وعلى هذه الصفحات القتيلة والتي ليس لها أي ملمس ناعم تحت يديك يعطيك دفئًا تحتاجه للبوح بما تهرّبت من قوله لنفسك لأيام أو أسابيع، أو ربما شهور. الهروب سهل والكسل أسهل.

تبدأ أصابعك في تحسس ملمس الحروف، وتنسى أنه لا ملمس لهذي أيضًا، فتبدأ بالكتابة آملًا أن تكون الكلمات رحيمة على مسامعك بعد سكبها على الورق بقصد أو بدون قصد.. ثم تبدأ اعترافاتك –

ينهال عليك وابل من الصواعق التي تفاجئك بأنك ككل من قابلتهم في حياتك واستخففت بهم. تكتشف أنك لا تنتمي للأشخاص المميزين بشيء ولا تمُت لهم بصِلة بل أنك أقل من العادي. تصبّ أفكارك على الورق فإذا بها كأفكار من يجلس بجانبك على مقعد الحافلة التي تقلّك إلى عملك في الصباح الباكر وأنت منهك من نوم البارحة، أو تذهب بك إلى منزلك قبل أن تسير مسافة عشرة دقائق لتصل إليه بعد أن تهبط بكامل جسدك في شوارع تتمنى أن تهرب منها ومن ضجيج أفكار المارة سواءً كانت أفكارًا منطوقة أم أفكارًا قمِعت للداخل. وتصعد سلّم منزلك بأفكار تركها غيرك على كل درجة من السلّم لتستلمها وفي ذهنك أنك خارق العادة بهذه التخيلات. ثم تضع مفتاح الباب في مكانه وتتحول لشخص آخر داخل سجن آخر خارج أعماقك، فأنت الآن في سجنين، بل ثلاثة، سجنك الداخلي الخاص ثم سجنك في شوارع مدينتك وسجنك داخل منزلك. تتحول إلى إنسان لا تعرفه حتى إنك تعجز عن التعرف على نفسك، تسقط على إنسانيتك ما يسحقها ثم يحوّلك إلى نوبة مخيفة من الغضب والحنق الذي لا تستطيع التعرف عليه وتبدأ في الشجار بسبب أو بدون سبب مع فرد من الأسرة، أي فرد، المهم أنه يجب أن يكون هناك شجار يحرر كبتك طوال اليوم في المعركة اليومية.. ولكن ليت هذا أيضًا يعطيك لحافًا من الطمأنينة ليلًا. حيث تأتي الحلقة الليلية المعتادة من إعصار اللومات وتأنيب الضمير ومحاسبة النفس، ولمَ لا، فوجود عقلك ليحاسبها هو فقط ما يبقيك على حافة الجنون، فقط هو. وتأتي الحقائق الواحدة تلو الأخرى لتعطيك جرعة من نوع "أنت عادي" أو "ما أنت إلا كذبة كأكاذيب الزمان". تبدأ في إحصاء أكاذيبك اليومية حتى تنسى العدد الصحيح وتنسى إذا كنت صادقًا في تلك العبارة أم أنك كنت ترضي بها نقاشًا لا فائدة منه أو تحاول متعاطفًا مع مُحدّثك في الطرف الآخر، إلا أنه كذب من قال إن الكذب أنواع.

أظنّ أن الثلاثين دقيقة قبل نومك هي الدقائق الوحيدة الخالصة المخلصة النقية الصافية من أية نوايا سيئة أو رياء أو شفقة أو أي فكرة مريضة من هذه الأفكار. كما أعتقد أنها الوحيدة التي قد تخرجك من يوم سيء لترحبا معًا بيوم قد يبدأ بالنوايا الحسنة أو بمحاولة واحدة بائسة لأن تكون إنسانًا أفضل مع نفسك ومع الآخرين، ومع ربّك قبل أي من هذين الاثنين.

ولكنني أؤمن كل الإيمان أن الظنّ الحسن والجميل في الله هو ما سيرشدك إلى طريق يخفف يومًا بيوم هذه الدقائق قبل أن تنام في طمأنينة وتتلحف بالسلام الداخلي.. فقط الله.

Maybe the sun doesn't shine on the other side, maybe it's the moon that does (even stronger, I guess). Maybe it's not words that you need but the impact of silence on your soul and heart to waken you. Maybe it's not books or novels or biographies or memoirs that your eyes want to read, maybe it's the feelings they carry and the lessons they conceal. Maybe it's the weakness that had held you back all this time, not the times that you thought were strong and could carry mountains on your shoulders. Maybe you need the waves of summer not the rains of winter, the dawn of spring not the dusk of autumn. Maybe your words were all out in the wrong places and it's taking you forever now to right what went wrong and put every word in its right place, time and to the right person. Maybe all what a mother said once was right; slow down, take it easy, stop overthinking, it will kill you. Maybe you need more dreams in sleep than dreams in waking. Maybe it's the waking that hurts not the staying awake. Maybe, just maybe, you could kill every if only you have said inside and out, because it's never about that. Maybe you need a shoulder. Maybe you need a please-don't-let-the-world-get-to-you hug. Maybe you need words. Maybe you need silence. Maybe you need love. Or comfort. Or a prayer. Or a bit of faith. Maybe all of this is just you inside of me, or me inside of you. Maybe it's your love that did this. Or hatred or non-love or whatever you'd call it. Or maybe it's everything and it's nothing.
Maybe I just don't know. I don't.


Written here. Written now. Written for you and written for me, written for everyone who feels like this or will or has felt like this even once in their lifetime. May it never happen again.

Write about patriotism, about victory and defeat. Write about revolutions and rebels and prisoners and wars. About emotions, of love and hatred and disappointment and regret. Intangible love and uncolored hatred and heartbreaking disappointments and abysmal regrets. Write about the seven deadly sins, about stealth and murder and gluttony and greed. Don’t forget to write about saints and sinners all the same. Write the poor and the rich using the same words, make them equal for once. Write about mothers who lost their children, about those who never had to lose; I challenge you to tell me which hurts more. Write about darkness and light, about light in the dark and darkness in the light. Remember to write about lost friendships, about those who never found a shoulder when life shut its lights dim, or those who kept the secret to their sadness within. Be fair to them too. Remind the world of those who always had someone to love but not someone to love them back, craft their nights and dreams carefully. Don’t forget the writers, who keep promises with words and silence. Be subtle. Be warm. Remember heartbeats and heartbreaks. Remember everything, remember all, equally.

And then let the world remind you: Words will never be fair to whatever you write.

A speck of thoughts
scattered, bruised, in tiny pieces
collapsing in my land
Like a strange land, an exile.
Ideas once flourished
Now hardly beat, thrown aside

Oh, how much it aches
More than physical pain
As if heartbeats are being
plucked out of your core.
Death. Is easier

And worse, my entity,
My "almost" entity is subject
To your black statistics.
Not even a number but
The "nearly" before it.

You killed me,
You killed me before murdering
My core.
And yet  my thoughts
will still flourish in another being

My soul
Will, always rise
In the face of
Your dim titles
That cannot even
Embrace my death
Or the idea of it

Imagine being the "nearly" in a death statistic.

You slip through the tip of my fingernails into a breathless city of forsaken dreams, lost in heavy-hearted boulevards.

Wading your way into every vision; you know where to find your end in this darkness - though the light of faith is always sinking within the clouds of treason.

Shaken. Frightened; you take a step into the first alley:

A different kind of sky, agitated, and screaming buildings of terrible shape carrying angry dreams of the poor, having one scene in common: a just life in the eyes of the decayed..

At ease, you carry the most horrifying and reach the end light, escaping the most saddening colors to get to a city where black is an alienated vision.

The greenness and the free air paint a pure blue sky at daylight, and a barely cerulean view at night. A sun that kisses the moon with its amber light at dusk, and a bird that sings of no defeat. A still life, a surreal piece.

But dreams? You're almost through without a thing in your pocket, only miserable ones of the needy.

while at the gates of the city you find yourself soaked in another alley, of the starving and the severely brokenhearted. You beg your feet to move, but hungry skies hold you captive, pour their nation's dreams and free you; drunk on semi-dreams, semi-nightmares.

And then you pull yourself back to me, asphyxiated by dreams and pleading for my words to say it all, to save you.

But my pencil, it shivers.

And their dreams, they hold up, for the moment to rise.

Written August 3rd, 11:53 PM.

Image Source

Face to face

I to mirror

A breathless image

Against a tired self

Words hit reflections

Like ugly songs to the ears

On the other side, life looks different

Another definition staring at me

How do you see two persons

with one reflection?

Or maybe mirrors often evoke

A personality disorder

Let me shatter the glass

Maybe I'd know which I exists

The real one or the fiction

Written 10:09 PM.

See how they do it? They move colors in your life and re-sort them like a huge puzzle. Like a game. Like a fun riddle. They stop time in your watches until the moments disappear into the darkness of hours, and slowly, you've got only events in your memory. Time never has and never will matter, unless they be defeated. Forgotten is time.

They push your words into silence, not knowing the power that lies within silence itself. They evoke the winds of fear so that angry seasons would burst, clutching at your being to destroy that moments when you thought silence mattered. Because neither words nor silence will. Unless you expose the idea of their being. Silence is as empty as words.

The fear of insecurity will be your skin. They will discriminate against you. They will haunt you and perhaps win. They will publicly execute your bravery, for it was too cheap to be kept, and even if it wasn't, no chance for survival with that skin of yours. Unless you free your soul. You are a mere slave to their filthy power.

You will. They will. And only the bystander wins, in the cave of fear.

They run in the depth of your being

And disappear in the shallowness of life

Until they are a

Shadow

In your core.

A ghostly grayish being

And happy, they linger.

They all have been waiting in that infinite space. The talks lessen as time carries away their excitement, until the tic tocs are the unbearable sound filling the room with too much impatience. The destinations vary, sometimes even purposes in the same destination differ, too. The facial expressions shift from enthusiasm to bewilderment and mystification; words become devoid of meanings, as if they are some sort of a time machine, to waste time rather than fast-forward it.
Who controls the silent can control the poor. And who controls the rich can control the ignorant, and finally the end is one: a fine depiction of the coward crowd.

And the waiting is pointless.

©Euphoriaofbritt @ dA.

Discolored sentences
Cross bridges between you and them,
And the traffic of words is
Unbearable to deaf ears

(The nonexistence of you)

They, long ago, burned down bridges
That could lead to you, or
Maybe they feigned they did,
Yet you believed

(The age of the diseased)

And they reigned their own colonies,
With rules on walls of
Your nonbeingness,
And papers of their ego

Oh, fever of the self



Written 12:57 AM. 11.16.11

Note: This was supposed to be talking about Solipsism (Yes, the philosophical concept) but it somehow took a kind of a political direction.

And you could not rise -
For your words imprisoned you,
and silence lingered.


It's a Senryu piece, a shitty one. I'm just pissed off and needed to write something very concise.

It was the light that blinded me,
the sound than deafened me.
The colors that bled with each hue,
leaving only black
and white

It was a hurricane when survival was
old; a habit - a breath.
A flood of emotions that
never killed.

It was an addiction
to love you
by hatred,
and to color you,
by naught.

An obsession, to forget
by remembrance,
and bleed
by living..

And if together we fall,
how many would rise again,
when divided?
How many would gather the pieces
shattered on the roads?
The untrodden and forgotten
within the winds of struggle.

How many words would fade,
unsaid and buried within,
just to drink the toast of
disturbed liberty?

And how many would dream,
when thousands lay insomniac?

Just how many?

"Silence should rhyme with Secrets"
--


Words wade through silence,
-like a monsoon-
leaving wrecks of inviable memories,
Thoughts,
Sentiments.

Breathing is suddenly a language,
unknown to wordlessness-
so loud it speaks out cowardice
Uncertainty
Fear..

Secrets, buried within
quicken the heartbeats
in an attempt to break free
devastate
overthrow

But the look on the faces scream for nothing
Maybe a telltale? (A fool's reasoning)
only a thought could never perish; Doubt,
Mistrust,
Deceit.

Written December 10, 10. 2:37 am.


*Yes, those are my own feelings.



























© Deviantart.

The desert in your eyes evoked a storm in my heart, just to reach you. I opened all gates of amiability, that my senses caressed your sand-but for a second there, I thought your nights were so shiny; perhaps ungrateful? Burdened by forgetfulness, an excuse for painting the sky charcoal. I look at you again.
I leave.
You unveil
(A kingdom of disguise)

(Am I colorblind because I'm dreaming, or I'm dreaming because I'm colorblind?)

Love, once carved on bleeding stones,
never attained to beating.
And I, looking at the tidal waves;
tomorrow didn't bring any wonders

How did your sadness creep in to my dreams?

You
-dreams thief-
sift the vitality, and bereave
me of my strength

(Your colorful world left nothing to my almost-colorless life.
How could you?)

Once upon a time the nirvana of my dreams
walked into my life and I was
as alive as can be

(You promised tomorrow it'd end)

Tonight the fullness of the moon
leaves me stranded ashore,
and I don't believe in forever, yet
I don't believe in you..

Can you heal an unbroken heart?

Your image is getting old in my sleep,
It's as hideous as a relinquished book.
And I could only see you in black and white-
Release me, I'm jaded..

Would you color my dreams?


Written November 24.09 11:39 pm.

Please don't give me broken dreams
yet ask me to fix them;
I'm anything but a dreamer.

I trod the shards of memories
-yours and mine-
and let my two feet hemorrhage,
Staining the visions of yesterdays.
(Dear, they're a wreck)

Satisfied?

This ambiguity is never-ending
You're a foe to my pretending
(I don't love you)

Some things are better left unsaid
and I'm nothing..
but a coward.

You are the reason to my unreason..

Written 27th of October.09. 10:03 PM.
"Too late to notice my existence, I've already faded to the darkest you can see" -Me.

My senses are tangled with disbelief, as you blurt with nonsensical apologetic words. Like a shell exasperating the waves of the sea, I fall smash-hearted; gashed.
"I don't believe in love"

You beseech me for believing, yet leer me for those lies I painted upon your sickening skin-I'm inflicted with love's curse.
"I never lied"

You're like a riddle, idiotic once solved..or perhaps a labyrinth? I never believed in you anyway..
I caress your heart with my sword, you slay my senses with your cruelty; a massacre.
"You're imbecile"

I carry the remnants of my crumbled world and forget that, for one moment, you loved me.
You leave..too.
"I never believed in love..it's cliché.."



I just wanted to write something with this title :) call it a poem, or not.
Written October 13th.09 9:40 PM

Sorrow gushed from your lips
like blood from soldiers' injuries
your words were like a puzzle
Maybe chains without keys

Something led me to your shade
A sad tune, or a black serenade
I heard your plods and your moans
I could tell you're suffering alone

(Chorus)
No matter where you hide
where you seek refuge in
you'll live, you'll die
beneath your ugly skin
Don't let cowardice fool you
with your ghostly heart
Someday, someday death will find you
and rip your soul apart

Stain your thoughts with ghastly infections
Paint your broken heart on the mirror reflection
Die! twice if you've died before
bleed, hemorrhage on the floor

(Chorus)

(Bridge)
A pathetic fool you are
And only me can see you
what's common between us?
Maybe I'm dead, too?

I hear your footsteps, coming towards me
I inhale, you dwell, we are immortality
You paint a scowl on my face just to save
the one you fooled to be your slave



This is a little bit complicated, some parts were inspired from my blog post "We were infinity".
I just neeeeeded to write a song, Idk why!

You were like the golden chains
hanging around my neck
-Suffocating me-

"Steadfast" I thought,
instead, you persecute me
with your infidelity,
your treason..

I lit a candle and hoped
the flame would dissolve
your ridiculous thought of immortality

If you dwell in me
stab me in the back,
I'm tearing the heart of you..
And only death
will give you the immortality you need..

**Just a silly thought..Title inspired from a poem by a famous poet, I don't remember the name though.