Here

Pour my thoughts over for me, for I cannot bear their breath in my ink. But write them down carefully, don't slip because they might kill you, and save me. Don't slip because their echo would be so immense that the universe will have to bury them in your depth, and the emptiness in my soul would never return so I can write again. (Or let you write for me)

Yes, I'm selfish. I don't want to be the writer of my own destiny because it hurts. It hurts to feel yet it hurts to be numb. I cannot bear the sound of my words, they feel too ugly for me, they don't feel like they're mine, but I'm the only one that could possibly create them -- oh denial, save me or kill me.

Write my words for me because I don't want to be part of my own history, I just want to forget it happened so I can dwell again in the cave of security away from the tidal waves of agitated oceans.

Instead I'll dance. I'll dance until I can no longer stomp my feet and touch the ground. And I'll sing there about victory, I'll sing but with a low voice so that monsters won't resent me. I'll sing alone while you'd be busy writing the words that I once thought would save me, or you. Or us.

And I'll unravel my silence every time you're near, I'll unlearn so I can learn the same lesson again. I'll forget so I can remember again and never have to feel the same. But I won't write.

I won't write because my words in your hands say more than I can write. Perhaps my ink was burdened with my too much weakness that it faded away in time.

Please write it down for me, because you write it perfectly, and I? I cannot be but the shadow of your words, which are mine, and I, while you portray, fade with the frailty that took over me.

Author's word: Please note that I haven't been great with inspiration and words lately. This is a half general and a half personal piece.

There are two things in this life that if you practice, you have to be extremely cautious while using them: Speaking and Writing.
I, as a writer, seriously thought of killing my ability to write, or perhaps just write every once in a while and avoid getting into deep, detailed or controversial articles. One of the very main drawbacks of being a writer and a thing that renders me sleepless several nights is the fact that words are as dangerous as silence, equally dangerous. They're a double-edged weapon, and if you're a writer, you have a knife or a rope right on your neck, and once you say something provoking, you unintentionally let that rope/knife slay you. Yes, responsibility that is.
The media; the tv and the internet. Those two have played an essential role in getting people so mystified that it now feels like the words people heard have cast their shadows upon their thoughts, their views and their minds until a heavy dense cloud befogged their existence, until everyone now wants to just, survive- not to mention that surviving has become a great achievement these days.
I don't think those who appear on tv realize how crucial and important their words are to the society, and like those who are and always will be silent, those who talk will always blabber, just for the sake of it. Both are diseases that have the same symptoms yet a different result.
Either way, what you write is spoken aloud, and what you speak is read in silence; it all leads to the same conclusion, but the question is, how much do you give and how much do you take? Because you can give one tiny thing yet it would provoke a whole nation, and give a thousand things that are usually wasted. Impulsiveness Vs bullshit.

Let's be honest here, people talk more than they do, so at least if you're talking and not doing, let others hear some sane words, and let yourself raise the doer, directly or indirectly, or just shut up and spare the world your never(s), spy talks and forever doomed(s).
Let the sheep decide and let the free be free, because after all you don't really care about the sheep nor the free, it's you who matters the most to yourself, and that's just how corrupted it is, always has been and always will be.

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.

Cities of guilt and chaos, cities of anarchism and ignorance. Cities of you, cities of me, with too many feelings that are our own, only our own, alone. Selfishness.
Rivers that carry words; awash, words that can no longer resemble us. Words that can no longer fly in our lands carrying freedom. Nothingness. But they are not trite, we're the archaic. Ageism.
Seasons don't change. Wait, they do, just not in our colonies. Everything is the same here. Today is a replica of yesterday, and a mirror of tomorrow. You think our lives are a déjà vu? No. Repetitions.
You're not hallucinating. You do not even exist. You. You're the remains of your dreams, the remains of your memories, if there were any, in the first place. You're the figment of their imagination. And you don't know who directs the puppet show, because you just can't see above when you are the puppet itself. Despotism.
You ride the wave yet you can't be going with that flow, because you ride their wave. You talk but only from their dictionaries: We live and we learn and we obey and we support and we die. You die. But those who live forever, are never remembered. And you who live, don't die. Manumission.

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.

Sell my dreams
To the wildest oceans,
And I'll never reach them
for I'm a thalassophobic.
Drown my thoughts somewhere
Between forgetfulness and denial
So that I may suffocate with
The ignorance of my being
And their ugly pride

They have the shackles to restrain you,
Me and them, to let those thoughts,
fade and perish, slowly and slow,
So that all that is left would be,
a mere wish to have a dream
That would save us all, and heroes,
And all that we'll write along the years
would only be dead wishes;
The remnants and ashes of our dreams.

Image Source Here

Written 8th of November.11. 1:30 AM.

Sometimes you don't know whether silence would be more hurtful than words or the other way round. You just don't know if that silence would be decipherable or would it leave you mystified with too many thoughts soaring, sometimes none of them is even close to reality. You just think. And think.
Sometimes words are unnecessary yet you find yourself saying anyways, in fear of what? Nothing, probably being accused of apathy or indifference. Does it matter? deep down inside it really does, but on the surface you’re all confident nothing’s worth it. Don’t worry, we all have those insecurities and the need to be loved with our imperfections, no matter how perfect we try to act.

My current situation with life makes me too burdened or blown to speak, I can’t write (don’t mind the fact that I’m writing now), my poetic life has become this ridiculous way of expressing before all those huge events happening lately, you know? It’s like whatever you’ll write and whatever you’ll feel is just a tiny bit of dust and ash that the world doesn’t need. So you prefer silence. This time silence is heartfelt and true, however, until when are we going to keep out words because they would add nothing to the world while they could add something to an ordinary person that might run into our words.

Is there something more than words to this world? Oh yes, patience. I think patience with prayers is a great, holy escape that makes everyone feel relieved at heart. You know, the older we grow, the harder it gets with patience; it’s like a harder lesson everyday that you cannot seem to understand, yet life doesn’t wait for you to get it, it just passes you by, and you either hold on to your patience, or you’ll never, ever, get it. Only Allah does.

I have been reading so much recently, in bed or at my office at work, cross-legged and comfortable, with the most terrible psychological aches ever; the ability to read and feel yet the inability to really feel or get involved in something that would be of any use to the country. I do understand that we all feel this way, that’s exactly why I’m writing this, to let you know I feel for you and ask you to smile because I know you feel for me. It’s just that we need patience, whether with words or with silence. I know that we have a terrible attitude when it comes to waiting, but if only, if only we knew the reward of what’s happening. At least daydream and smile.

I’m not really trying to cheer you up because I can’t cheer up myself, I’m just expressing something we all are feeling at the same time – and it might not be the same for you as it is for me, but I want you to know that this will pass, it has to; nothing lasts like this forever, impossible. So no matter how old you are, how strong or weak you are, no matter your religion, your race or your stream of thoughts or your feelings, at one point, you feel me and I feel you. And this is a test for patience, a test for life.

Shine on so the sun can rise again underneath your feet.