Close Enough To Start A War.

These couple of weeks have given me a lot of time and reasons to come down to many realizations. You know, those middle of the night aha moments where a light bulb materializes in the thin air above your forehead and you end up smacking it off because the pain of that revelation almost scorches it and end up with a theatrical facepalm? Yeh, those ones.

I realized that at this point of my life, my sanity has been sufficiently unhinged to make me see things that no other person can second. I’ve been told that I needed professional help by two of my closest people and I came upon the conclusion that my psyche Vikings push people who care away with tiny little axes and dismember them in an obscure vault in my subconscious while simultaneously convincing me that they never gave a fuck to begin with, or existed, for that matter. Shame I had to find out after being held hostage and led into that same room earlier this week when I tried to take care, the only way I can, about that little figment of evolution’s imagination that goes by the name of soul, proudly crowned with a ‘my’ pronoun that isn’t really its own, nor mine.

I realized that people actually care, I just was never let to believe it by my Vikings because it was easier that way, it was much easier when everybody was a temporary it that never gave a crap and never will. It prevented the  progress of a thing that was more likely by historical odds to leave by making it sound like it never intended to stay. The Vikings weren’t happy that I sneaked into their HQ and found out about their current war strategy. I’m guessing they’ll wage another soon enough, with a strategy that I have no clue about, a plan B that hasn’t been put down in textbooks or tried on a former human psyche. And I use the term human loosely.

‘It would be difficult to determine the state of that soul and what form it had assumed, under its twisted envelope. If we were to attempt to penetrate into Quasimodo’s soul through its thick, hard outer shell, if we could sound the depths of that twisted mind, explore the shadowy interior of that opaque creature, illuminate its obscure corners and absurd blind alleys and suddenly throw a clear light on the spirit enchained at the bottom of that cavern, we would no doubt find it stunted and rickety, like those prisoners in the dungeons of Venice who grew old bent double in a stone box too low to stand in and too short to lie in.

Quasimodo scarcely felt within himself the blind stirrings of a soul made in his own image. The impressions of external objects underwent considerable refraction before they reached his understanding. He received almost no immediate perceptions; the external world seemed further away to him than it does to us. His brain twisted all the ideas which passed through it. He was therefore  the victim of endless optical illusions and aberrations of judgment; his thoughts wandered aimlessly, sometimes mad, sometimes idiotic.’

I realized that my logic, uttered incessantly by the voices inside my head, has been rendered inept; it’s no longer one that I could listen to and follow with confidence, because by the statement of people whose word I’ve learned to trust more than my own, it’s no longer in sync with that of the world. It’s been pushed back into another dimension by the aforementioned Vikings, known to the world as defense mechanisms.

I realized that the world is not coded in mathematics, and couldn’t be predicted with formulas, because it’s full of ‘People’ whose formulas are too volatile to be bracketed in one general term. In fact, they’re so elaborate that even if you take one person and try to formulate and extrapolate his actions and reactions, there’d still be more variables than the slots you’ve made into their formula, and as a consequence would be impossible to fit in just one and quite a laborious task to try and make an extended version of that x function to include all those y variations, let alone know, by your current state of judgment, their true limit or form.

In the words of a good friend, the only consolation is this: “Being nuts isn't a bad thing, look what all the sanity brought to the world.”

As for the solution, I’m not nearly one to know.

Life Lesson #301: Running away is not an option.

‘I mean if you’re able to go into a collapse with all your might, why can’t you use the same energy to stay well and busy?’ – J.D. Salinger.

A Dream.

i had a dream recently

and it was about

...*drumroll*

zombies

kal 3ada

i was in a pyramid fil 2wel

(my dreams are super gory btw)

anyway, fil pyramid and i dnt rmr details, but there were mummies everywhere

and they were SCARY

intestines falling out and shit

7agat 2raf awi

b3deen there was a struggle 7aga keda, neseet el details honestly

i ran out

thinking the dream was over

XD hahaha

oh me. el mohem

i ran out into the heart of a city of roaming zombies

first image

blood splattered on the ground and pieces of flesh

one zombie on a lamp post

hanging b3deen fell and smashed on his face

and i freaked out

not that he fell

no

that wasnt the scary part

the real scary part is if you know zombies, they don't know how to climb really..

at least not lamp posts.

this was an indication that i was screwed

so naturally, i pretended to be a zombie with this other guy, who was also human zayee

i know, i keep telling my mom im messed up

3lashan this isnt normal

but whatever

anyway,

this is when it gets really weird

and you'll realize

what zombies are

to me

i finally got it

i pretended to be a zombie with this guy, and there were a bunch of zombies hanging out keda, like chilling as friends

and they demanded we do this weird zombie dance

el mohem we sucked, and fil akher i was like

...im sorry im just not a zombie

hahaha

and they're like, we know, it's okay we won't do anything to you

and

the dream ends with me telling them

"you're genuinely good people, though."

and they all smiled.

***Courtesy of Sara Soliman, one of my closest friends and someone whose head is a place I’d personally book a ticket to in one of my next lives.***

17th of February 2012

But that's just how the story unfolds, you get another hand soon after you fold.

Well, guess what, dad? Turns out I’m a wimp after all.

Phantom Soul

We Feel What We Can’t See.

‘You may be a lot of things, but wimp is not one of them.’ – Dad.

Home Yet Homesick.

Of Crystals.

Come to think of it, literature is nothing but wonderful custom-crafted lies that people use to escape from or into their own aura, depending on how they carry themselves through life. And life is nothing but a chosen distraction from all the time we have in the world that otherwise would only be the death of us.

And once every blue moon you come across a person whose ability to be happy exceeds their own as well as life's shortcomings. And you realize that they're the ones who've been doing life right all along. Not by being great, intelligent or successful, but happy. Those who are genuinely amused by how a little uncircumstancial event might have taken an unexpected turn, and that idiotic happiness is the reason for their light-hearted bouncing through life, without the needless stress and grief that weighs the soul down, sometimes so much that you begin to resent everyone who’s not wandered off of the yellow brick road. But what you don’t realize is that you only resent yourself for not having that ability, and you’re projecting it onto others, whose only fault was that they were enjoying their lives.

Little by little, you’d stopped doing the things that make you happy, and have been reduced into seeking constant affirmations of your worthiness from others due to lack of regular confirmations coming from within. It’s not their fault that they haven’t stopped trying when you have, it’s your fault for stopping without valid reason. For in what better purpose could hard work be harnessed than your own happiness? After all, you’re the one living with yourself, you might as well be pleasant. If not, then you’re probably thinking along the analogy of a married couple. You’re married to yourself, what happiness does it bring you if you’ve filed for an annulment?

Think of how many hours one may be willing to put into a paper, for the sole purpose of tending to their GPA, how much more important do you think your happiness is? It is after all the GPA that counts. That rigorous meticulous work you put into the latter is a lot more long lasting and relished than the former, even though sometimes, the former will lead to the latter, in the form of little deposits into your personal bank account. Another deposit may be a good book, yet another a careful workout. For what other reason would you do something if not for your own happiness?

If an emotion like pure hate and resentment that is energy-consuming could be replaced by another emotion like happiness that is energy-producing, with little effort being that you work on the things that make you a better version of yourself, then why on earth wouldn’t you take it? Masochism is a morphed form of happiness for the crippled of soul. If you’re able-bodied, why park where the wheelchair’s supposed to?

The little things matter, and with enough little crystals you’ll cast an expanse hue on every other department. If it doesn’t work, you could always go back to your delusions of martyrdom, they’ll be waiting right where you left them, in a pile of shards that flake everything they touch.

Why, do you ask? Because what else have you got to lose?

‘Like the terrestrial crust of the earth, which is proportionately ten times thinner than an eggshell, the skin of the soul is a miracle of mutual pressures.’ -A. Carson

Room 101

‘That is what brought you here. You are here because you have failed in humility, in self-discipline. You would not make the act of submission that is the price of sanity. You preferred to be a lunatic, a minority of one. Only the disciplined mind can see reality, Winston. You believe that reality is something objective, external, existing in its own right. You also believe that the nature of reality is self-evident. When you delude yourself into thinking that you see something, you assume that everyone else sees the same thing as you. But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not external. Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else. Not in the individual mind, which can make mistakes, and in any case soon perishes; only in the mind of the Party, which is collective and immortal. Whatever the Party holds to be truth; is truth. It is impossible to see reality except by looking through the eyes of the Party. That is the fact that you have got to re-learn, Winston. It needs an act of self-destruction, an effort of will. You must humble yourself before you can become sane…

Do not imagine that you can save yourself, Winston, however completely you surrender to us. No one who has ever gone astray has been spared. And even if we choose to let you live out the natural term of your life, still you would never escape from us. What happens to you here is forever. Understand that in advance. We shall crush you down to the point from which there is no coming back. Things will happen to you from which you could not recover, if you lived a thousand years. Everything will be dead inside you. Never again will you be capable of love, or friendship, or joy of living, or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or integrity. You will be hollow. We shall squeeze you empty, and then we shall fill you with ourselves.’

Excerpt from 1984, by George Orwell.

Phantom Limbs. (IWTFY)

Oh The Beauty. *Swoons*

Because Who Needs Men When We Have Tiramisu?

Are You Readeh?

And I Looked At My Life And I Choked, From There No More Ever I Spoke.

I haven’t written anything for a while, mostly because twitter has been sapping all of my creative energy and expending it on insomniacs who care for only as long as their mouse reaches the retweet button then you’re launched into oblivion, along with any point you’ve been trying to make, and in part because of my work schedule. Not that anybody really cares, I’m pretty sure most page views never really sink in far enough into any reader’s subconscious for it to make a change. It’s not like people go through blogs to make up for their lost revelations. Writing is there for catharsis, because the obscurity of phrasing still qualifies as therapeutic against the obscurity of a bundle of unexpressed emotions or dismissed thoughts. What am I saying? It doesn’t matter.

Disappointments are an odd craft. And I say craft because they’re never inborn, but tended to. You breed your hope, and put energy into rearing it just so you could smash it at the expense of someone else’s shortcomings, if not your own. Problem is, smashing your own is a lot messier for your janitor to clean up after,  it’s a frigging fraternity initiation ceremony of the alpha, beta and kappa cross continent conference union next to the former’s ugly betty hen party.

It could be argued that disappointments are god’s way of jumpstarting your battery, or that it’s evolution’s way of slapping your ego back into our dimension. Though contradictory in the postulated purposes, they have the same effect in the bigger picture; crashing your page so you’d use the refresh button, because after all, we all know it’s impossible for you to even consider that with so many tabs on if not absolutely forced into it, it’ll undoubtedly stump your connection.

Some people handle disappointments better than others, some feel psychologically obliged to switch ISP’s altogether. You can’t help that, you can only hope to sometime learn not to place someone else’s expectations before your own well-being, no matter how important that person may be, because even though you may not currently realize it, but you may have been hiring a nanny for your own only to bathe in the glory of someone else’s falsely high expectations of you since you don’t really have to work to prove or moot those. The fact that someone is enough of an impressionist to think that you’re something more or less than you are doesn’t mean you should believe it. I’m not saying it’s not fun, but it won’t do you any good if not actually add in harm on the long-term. So? They’re disappointed. Fuck em. You’ll never be back as you were, good riddance. Are YOU disappointed? Now that matters, because you can’t afford to wait till you’re ‘back as you were’ with yourself. Unless you had Voldemort’s powers of soul partitioning. I daresay not even then, because his soul was not whole enough to counter the expelliarmus spell of an undergraduate with the the charm knowledge of a 10th year, and you can’t possibly think it’s a good long term plan for your soul to be wedged, let alone dislodged, by another’s disarming spell.

Or you can give up on expectations altogether, live your life with no disappointments. Might as well hire a basement and invest in a yearly subscription of Cheetos, playboy and a faster internet connection. Oh and while you’re at it, tell your friends to go easy on the pepperoni, because trust me, the only social life you’ll be getting will be with the pizza delivery man and e-bay shipping staff. Don’t worry about your career either, I’m sure the 2o cent per article rate will go up once you’ve sent 50+ years on Helium.

We Are Basic Lies.

‘It's Better To Burn Out Than To Fade Away.’

Family <3

Etla3 Ya Hassanein!

Fine, fine. I’ll grow up. Sheesh.

Being a kid may be the toughest job in the history of man. You’re shoved into this world, with zero experience and plenty of liabilities, and you’re asked to turn into a human by a certain deadline.

Tick, tock. Grow up little fuck.

You end up having less moral consciousness through the first decade and a half than a challenged poodle and  ignoring the one you have in the remaining half, much like one would a zit that they can’t pop out or pat properly.

Then, out of the blue, you’re a certified fraction of the population who’s about to have their own car, go to university and have a life, when the truth is, you’re just an old kid, you still get lost in your own neighborhood, make the stupidest mistakes on a daily basis and have absolutely no idea how to be a grown up other than maybe looking a little more serious doing everything. You lose the luxury of being excused when your experience fails to be up to par, the tolerance of people who choose to look the other way when you show their expectations into a dry wall and the clarity that comes with being young enough not to see everything in HD.

Much like Spiderman, you’re left with superpowers that make grownups go jelly and the motor functions of the aforementioned jelly, coupled with the prospect of your life crashing face-first into a brick wall on the slight off-chance of doing it wrong, you’re suddenly made into a desk clerk who’s been assigned more office hours during power cut, left to fill in the high-tech gadgets’ shoes at the price of losing your own job if you don’t get those 23423469762343 files proofread and  handed in by 5 o’clock.  Cheers buddy, power cut time. Now work your ass off if you wanna keep it.

The irony lies in the fact that you were supposed to pick up the required experience for that having the emotional capacity of an ape for a quarter of your life, of a Bulgarian cockatoo for another quarter, that of an ancient, 1st generation computer for another and a, surprise surprise, an ape again for the last quarter.

Makes you think of the popcorn theory again, doesn’t it? And you get the mental image of a whole extraterrestrial audience laughing their ass off at the poorly cut, edited and produced show that is your life. I am having trouble juggling a senior year with a social life, how the shenanigan am I expected to add in a couple of more pinches here and there? You go from not being allowed to leave a 30 metre radius around your building to driving across the Nile, commuting on a 2 hour drive to university every morning, not to mention the couple of errands here and there during and afterwards. You’re left with organizing, managing and directing a life through paperwork, other people who don’t know shit about what they’re doing and very fucking bad traffic.

Fuck this shit, I want my mommy.

Of Marshmallows, Marshmallows & More Marshmallows.

My dad, roasting marshmallows on a knitting needle in front of the heater and a good movie. And just so you know, my dad roasts the best marshmallows on the planet. Be jelly, bitches.