Meaty Heart on Solidified Brain

  By a lake, I sat. Lake, sea, river, or an ocean. It doesn't matter, does it? Passers never noticed me. I am not sure why. I am not short, you know. Are my features that negatively common, like "GOVERNMENT IS GIVING EGYPTIANS FAIR LIVING" title in daily newspaper? I don't know. And yes I care. I won loads of notice in my previous life. I changed myself entirely to escape those attractions. I changed in a way no one can ever imagine, no one can ever bear to hear about. No, this isn't a story about a man who committed suicidal and hadn't known that he was a ghost already.

  Well, I am not a man. I was a girl who lost her hair. No, not cancer. No, I didn't get the punk skinhead either. I used to look at myself daily in the mirror and I saw my long hair. My changeable long hair. Curly today, straighten it tomorrow. Cool, right?! Oh, those days…

  Time painted on me layers and layers of thoughts. I became a wall of thin reddish blocks, covered by dozens layers of cheap paint. If any hit that wall, leaves of color will shed off in a smooth motion as if it's stepping down airy stairs of failure slowly. When I realized that, my hair was gone. I couldn't see anything, but a wig. Medusa wig. Each thought I had on mind was a snake growing out my head, might bite you and hurt you, but it was too short to go around my neck to suffocate me. My brain couldn't hide anymore that those snakes were my personal singers. I forgot they were short, but could reach my ears, whispering their devilish spells into them and in a blink of an eye, my vision blackened.

  Ding dong, the clock yelled. I woke up to know that staying in this enclosed room wasn't healthy anymore. I had to go out. To be honest, I got out; cause there wasn't any food for the snakes in that room. I went outside searching for anything to feed them. Anything poisonous. When I did, the wig melted in the sun's rays. Its beams weren't that beneficial, though. They burnt my skin as well. My eyes were shut. I don't know why they were. Maybe because bloody reality had been under the spot light of the sun, or because the light was so strong that it was about to blind me?

  From a dark room and Medusa head, to a wanderer in the street with hair thrown on shrugged shoulders, life went on and winds started to blow. They blew the fire set in my world. I couldn't know by that time if it was that time when you blow the candle cause already lights are on, or you blow the candle cause darkness as anonymous fan sounds more friendly. I didn't care to answer all these questions. All what I minded was, the wind bought all the dust on its way to hand that gift to me, so I'd breathe it in, which was the thing I did, and that was where it lived. I liked it. It was my special type of drug. The dust soaked the smells of everywhere. Home, old people, museums, paints, food,… everything! And hello, everybody, that was my delicious menu on which I fed daily. Yes, I gained weight that a wish list had grown inside of me!

  Endless wish list it was! I wish I could walk in streets. Just quietly walk without words raining on me like knives. I wish I could ride on a bicycle with a flowery dress. I wish I could go to the beach dressed in tee and shorts. I wish I could shout and scream without being criticized. I wish I could hang out with everybody, boys and girls, without buggy people sending me no-parents-raised-you-up? looks. I wish I could cut my hair short without called Americanized. I wish I could run in the street without being anatomically analyzed by whoever was passing by. I wish I could tell my parents I am going for a walk alone without forcing me to picture the most horrifying crimes which might take place if I did so. I wish I felt I can have no supervisor. I wish I hadn't to have a partner all my life, in each and every stage of it, wherever I go. I wish I could get my head out of the car's window, and let the air brush it, sing aloud and imagine myself a part of a music video. But no, I can't. I am not beautiful, free nor allowed enough.

   That was it. When I fell to my knees, (nop, I ain't a weakling chick) I did to adjust my vision at the level of what my society had planned for me to see. I didn't do it, because I was hopeless. I did, because I was planning for a major change. Remember when I started the whole thing with "I was a girl…." The change I am talking about was…… transformation. A gender transformation.

  Not real enough for a conservative society in Egypt, right? But believe me, it's easy when you move to a city where no one knows you. Parents? Oh, I forgot to tell you that they are abroad. "Securing your future," they say. I can't deny that daily I peel off a part of our community's major obstacle to have money enough for a one-day survival, but forgiveness wasn't creative enough to make up an excuse for my parents to leave me facing the copycat traditions on my own.

  I became that guy who doesn't talk to any. That oh-la-la rational guy who shares stares here and there, looks back to his book, updated to fashion. Bottom line, a male model, hard to be found (my experience as a girl previously helped me to understand the whispers, to interpret the moving lips.) To be honest I loved it. I didn't talk much. My moves weren't girly to drive attention. I thought guys' world was amazing! No one judges you and bla. No one keeps watching you and be a spy on you. No one gets on your way, out of nowhere, telling you "don't do so. I am just advising. Have a good day." Such quiet life guys have.

  After being a guy for two weeks, I was informed that my dear close friend (I knew back then before I got on my new identity) died. As a guy, I shouldn't cry! I stayed home, smelled bad, doing nothing but eating up to swallow the tears along internally. What a misery a dude has to go through!

  When my experience lengthened I realized that hanging out girls and boys, is mostly blamed on boys, not girls as I got it before. The guys say "girls won't deal with you as a friend. It's a lie. You're whether a second choice or a tool to make another jealous. If she deals with you as a friend truly, then she sees you as a girl. Where's your dignity, man?" I wanted to scream that no, not every girl is a Lindsey Lohan. I wish I could know who told them those lies! Are all of their gabby talks, a bunch of assumptions which have been shared for long that they became rules instead?

  Surprisingly, on parents side, they give the guy a look like "you, a**!" So, what's friendship? Girls all together outdoors, are bad. Guys all together outdoors, waste of space. Guys and girls all together, are b*tchy girls with corrupted so-called boys. Bye-bye, normal social life.

  My neighborhood noticed I came home late. I spent my whole day at the library then at oriental distanced places. They have that impact on you that you feel each face you look at, writes in your head his story with no talks. Anyway, days passed on and I noticed my neighbors ignored me. After a while I had been told that I was pictured as a drunken person and a drug dealer. Yeah, the clock is that sharp to cut my prestige and reputation into pieces; see!

   That time made me realize guys had the freedom to collide with the real world more than girls, but the word "collide" isn't the one to describe it all. If there is more aggressive word to describe it, you may use it. How exhausted I'd been, makes my wish list, colored by bloody splashes. I wish I could drive fast and press the breaks with all force I had and cry. Cry aloud without being called "fagg*t." I wish I could get late without being doubted to be a criminal or a sinful man. I wish I could work at any age without calling me "poor" or giving me look of sympathy or disrespect. I wish I could get my skateboard and walk in the street shirtless without hearing the loud "brainwashed!" I wish I get on bicycle without being laughed at.

  A boy or a girl, I had the same sorrowful wish list. I know, different demands, but the same frame. The same section where both will be hung. The same sigh is exhaled. If I just had a stony heart and jelly-like brain, my life would have been easier.

The Egyptian Hunger Games

  Kill me. Pray I wouldn't wake up tomorrow. Ask for help to be tossed to me in order to change my mind. Do whatever you want, the following isn't changing.

   My conclusion, which is proud of its poverty of actual strategical political historical acknowledgment, is out. Who cares? Nobody. It's just become obligatory on every Egyptian to declare his point view to give the right to the rest of the nation to call him a lunatic, a killer,... etc.

The body:

Nowadays' events: Hunger Games.
The Tributes: Army Forces - Policemen - Ikhwanis - Thugs.

Let's uncover some of my "sick thoughts" as the majority of you would name them.
The Hunger Games is killing each other. The aim isn't to have one winner. The aim is to have more sponsors (aka Media's support) which follows the Capitol's sympathy and cheers (aka FB share-ers, Tweet-ers, TV audience & activists).
Hmm, so, which Tribute is taking over? In my point of view, NONE! So, who? The Gamemakers, monsieur. How? Let's start.

  We can ignore the reasons which triggered the whole thing. Let's imagine the Games started at Rabaa. I won't fantasize excuses like my previous post. So, let's explain the thing in the form of questions and trending answers:

1- Who killed the soldiers? Answer: Terrorists. (Lately used as Ikhwani's new label)
2- Who killed the Ikhwanis? Answer: Soldiers and policemen.
3- Who attacked the policemen brutally? Answer: Terrorists.

Gamemakers answered all these questions with one common answer: Thugs. So, we will ask them again begging for further details:

1- Who killed the soldiers? Answer: Thugs, who're Ikhwani; but not Egyptians. They are armed foreigners from Talban and similar terrorist organizations.


2- Who killed the Ikhwanis? Answer: Thugs, the armed foreigners mentioned in the first point, and civilians/citizens.
Sorry, what? Civilians? Go, get sober, then answer. Seriously.
Reply: Oh, I am completely serious and certain. Civilians mistaken the Egyptian Ikhwanis as the armed -we can add "with beards"- foreigners, so they protect their homes, their shops, by shooting randomly at those rallies as they aren't professionally acquainted with snipping the targets.
Allow me to put on my sarcastic grin and wonder "isn't that the policemen's mission to take out such odds?"
Reply: Let me grin slyly back at you and ask you "won't you just drop off the whole lawsuit on the policemen as being brutal while they haven't even shot?" They aren't escaping from their missions, they are just tired of you playing the jury that they can't perform the least of anything. And their performance can actually exclude brutality. If brutality hasn't been existed in the first place from the opposing side which has been complained about by the peaceful citizens. So, they decide to arrive after the bloodshed has been accomplished as it will be the time when everybody knew the enemy and they start taking action.

3- Who attacked the policemen brutally? Answer: Number one's answer and real thugs. "Real thugs" = from poor districts whose family members are stuck in police stations for law violations such as killing and stealing.


4- Who are you? I am the one who play with all these strings.
Still you're....?
Well, you may call me the anonymous atomic bomb. This fits me.

  Finally, that's how I see it. You would see it childish, ignorant, heartless,.... whatever adjective you'll describe these words with; but I am sure I am not alone having the "teenage imaginary brain" seeing it this way. May Allah save our country and save the innocent souls.

  A side note: If any wants to call me a traitor as a cherry on a cake, I am completely against the blind Tamarod new petition about breaking the treaty with Israel, it's like our army is fancifully ready for fighting against a conquest with complete America's support! Where's your brain? It's like it has payed for a ticket to hell. No, it isn't coward's words, it's realistic! If I could see a beam of hope out of this thing, I'd be the first one into it; cause I believe in Palestine and strictly anti-zionist. Anyway, Tamarod (Rebellion, who ousted Mohamed Morsi with same policy: petition) has just proven to me that they have zero view about the Middle East as a whole.
  Yep, and for the people who are against Morsi, but also against the so-called military coup, when I asked "so, what should have we done?" The answer was: a referendum and the president should respect its results, if not, we should wait till we form a Parliament (which we all were sure its majority would be Ikhwanis which assures the forge which would have taken place). Now, let's face it, "Morsi back" is like making the whole nation suffer hematemesis (to puke blood) as a reflex action (without bullet or anything). It's not a solution, forget it! But, I may act dumb and simply answer you back with your own earlier suggestion, a referendum "Morsi back: Yes or no" and see the reaction. It's your suggestion, the legalized one. You could have suggested it, but now it's too late.

  While you're praying, say "اللهم ارحم موتانا جميعاً" with feelings free of blames. Maybe one day you'll be one of them and someone insults your soul which will be craving for prayers, as a payback for your spiritual illness.

Egypt's Heavy Cloudy Days

The article is made of 8 sections. The part about America, with a gallery. The videos included blame all parties. It proves that our judgments mustn't be biased. The content represents my opinion. Yours is respected as well and actually, known. Thanks to your civilized manners if the respect is mutual.

The Egyptian Is A Celeb:

I am that celebrity whom you cheer for being the heroic soldier, for being the religious man, for being the democratic leader, for being the brutal traitor, for being the terrorist, for being a riot, for all these roles.
I played each role. I was a riot in 25 January 2011, I am one of the army in 14 August 2013. I was one of whom got wounded by the Minister of Defense in 2012 and I am one of who were tortured in Rabaa Adweya. You can't believe this? You're Egyptian too, right? Then you're a companion. You have been through each role of these. Dare to deny it? Can you deny your tears with each news flash? Then you have been there, yes, your feelings only, but this also counts.

played. How I'm a great actor to get all the roles precisely real. An Oscar winner, I'm, ha?

The Narrator And The Listener:

I remember my teacher when he said "Egyptians have their own talent to believe whatever is said. You can say they are the only nation to whom you narrate a story and they know it's imaginary, still they cry when the hero dies, cheer when the evilness has been destroyed, and may get angry at you, the narrator, when you expose the mean twist of the story. That's us. You can witness it now, while you are watching a movie, series or even a football match. We're into whatever we watch with all our senses. They call it 'being emotional,' I would call it 'irrationality' a bit."
I recalled this, cause we have this as an instinct for real. We watch, we believe, we feel. We almost act unconsciously as the main role of the whole scene.

Present Declarations And Dreamy Reactions:

It's 16 of August, it's declared by Ikhwani... unknown activists as far as I know, that it would be "the day of rage" and it would be comparable to 28th of January. Tamarod said we should get to the street and secure our houses. I am against that. It's like triggering the protesters and telling them in indirect way "you're terrorists that's why I left my home and I am down here protecting it." This is uncivilized, Mr. democratic.
TV presenters are saying it will be bloody. It will be brutal. It will be inhumane. That's their expectations. However, my own are ruled by one scene: burnt mosques and new ones "conquered by Ikhwan." I think, all of these things happening from burnt mosques which contains holly books, and it's a holly place after all, to Muslims killing other Muslims for a person who is also Muslim. I don't think God likes this news, there will be anger arisen against us from the Mighty, nation. My dreamy reaction maybe destructive earthquake, maybe a flood, maybe a famine. And the fire... global warming... epidemics. God will never let some of us suffer. That's what we are promised. God is fair, but God warned if a majority is corrupted and the minor didn't ask these to the right route, they would be punished all along. Personally, I am waiting for this moment. To wake up and find myself beneath my house's blocks and then an angel tells me that I am already dead. I had nothing to do to stop what was happening, and I couldn't stand witnessing more, and I wouldn't have stood mourning over the dead bodies from a natural disaster.
Why natural disaster? I don't want to go that delusional. Hmm, what about war? The tension between Egypt and America now makes me fantasize that moment when I wake up to the sound of bombs, run to my phone call my best friend who is in fact Ikhwani and cry on the phone if she's still there. Everybody will mourn over everyone. I don't think they will mention who killed them as it's already known; now he's a conqueror and my right is already gone to grab it out of him. My blood under his feet is valueless as my fellow's blood was valueless under my share FB button.

He Is Dead:

Yesterday, 15th of August, my friends lost their teacher. They all pray for him and I did too. He's a dead soul, whether killed or just died, I am Muslim and that's what I do; even if who died is not Muslim, that's how merciful my religion is, praying for everyone for forgiveness. Any who, their words were affectionate. They touched my heart and partially drove me crazily worried about my own teacher to give him a call and make sure if he was alive (yes, that teacher who is mentioned in the second paragraph.) What broke my heart and make me cry over that man, is his students' posts. It was claimed that he was killed in Rabaa. As respectable as he sounds, I don't think that's what he would want from his students. He wouldn't want them to post his picture with "I knew now who killed you, my dear teacher at Rabaa" caption, which they mean by it, the military/the police did kill him. I am sure this teacher's cry now is "Don't mention who killed me! Just say that I died. Don't say where. Just ask everybody to pray for me. You focused on who killed me more than my loss. You focused on insulting them than praying for me. You studied their previous crimes rather than recalling my lessons through which I taught you the righteous roads. O Lord!"
Maybe he wouldn't have said that. But that's what I would have asked for personally. Even if I were Ikhwani and who killed me is a policeman while I don't have a gun, I'd like to be mentioned as dead and ask for a prayer, I wouldn't want a picture of me and a debate by it, if I were a bloody hellish traitor or angelic prey. I would just want a prayer. Pure of labels. I don't want you to count me as a martyr. I care for what God and only God counts me as.

America, Put Your Head At Where Russia Is Giving You Pain:

Dear USA, no one has ever EVER got interfering or even referring opposition to what you have done in Wall Street protests. This country is free, if they got each other slaughtered, you have no right to be included. Arab Union does. If you want our land, atomic bomb is the only way, which means 50 years to live elsewhere till the toxicity would be off this land. Ha, closed roads everywhere, don't you think?
American crowd, we're not against you. We are against your government, as you would never allow us to interfere in any of your affairs, would you?
The following pictures reveal the Wall Street crimes and violence; and America's multiple violations against the whole world.

Your money is spent to drain innocent's blood.

Your families are torn apart for one's criminal dream.

Listen to him.

She's stating a fact, world.

Turkey, Your Meat Is Served:

Erdogan, if you think the whole world knows the protests-are-against-the-gardens-destruction part only, then laugh as hard as you can, to suffer a heart attack and pass away before being stamped by additional disgrace. Aside that, how could you be that elastic, man? Yeah elastic, supporting "Muslim Brotherhood" under the name of Islam and at the same time you're forgetting the majority of your nation who are crawling towards being a part of Europe and losing all the Islamic rituals? Can you comment? The residuals of your nation with brains don't even support you. They hate your double mask; supporting falsely-called Islamic organization in Arab country and run to the other side and go astray allowing for example: legal and regulated prostitution. Is there a denial? No? Cheer for my winning and your shame, monsieur then. 

Witness the Turkish violence.

What's My Mission, Sir?

As a start, I am heartless person. I never put my heart as a judge. Yes, I am inhumane. I may pierce couple of eye balls with my bare hands for anyone's (who has a right) wasted blood for revenge. After stepping to med-school, I canceled that part and it's now obligatory to love all, even my enemy. Yes, even if I had an Israeli patient, I have to save him.

Drive all this bla-bla to the trash. Via internet, I saw Ikhwanis dead bodies soaked in blood. A body here and a brain by the corner. No, I am not happy. No, I am not satisfied. Yes, I am crying hard. Yes, I visualized him as a terrorist and yes, I've imagined him killing me and no, it didn't lessen my feeling of deep agony and sympathy to him. I have the right to imprison him and hang him, but I don't have the right to just shoot him.
That was my opinion as a viewer, but what it's as a soldier? What is really my mission?

"Don't shoot," the commander said. "Don't move," the boss ordered. In a second, my boss wasn't around, maybe a phone call was in. My fellow next to me, were shot and dropped, ripped of breaths. My life flashed before my eyes. My shaking hands moved involuntarily to my gun. My brain paralyzed to recall our sessions. I pointed at the direction from where the bullet was released, the terror closed my eyes shut and I pulled the trigger. What have I done? Was it my right? Oh God, I killed a soul. Forgive me! My back hurt? Why? I feel like my absent meal was driven to a drainage tunnel at my back. I touched the zone of pain with fear, it was what I expected. Blood. Wow, I am dead. To imagine the scene.

Mmm, wait, no, I'm a policeman who grew much hatred towards these. I had my gun and fired at them all. These dirty terrorists. I have to kill them, before they kill me. They are terrorists! It's my mission isn't it? That's why it's legal for me to have a gun and it's illegal to be with them, isn't it? My mission is to captivate who does something illegal, correct me if I am wrong! But this illegal factor is an actual gone which will kill me before I defend myself and my country, that's why I have to shoot first! + 18 Bloody scenes.

NO! I am neither nor, I am a journalist/photographer. You as a protester what would you like to say? What? F*ck them all? And me? Why? Okay, let's move on to another interviewee. Why is my breath is cut? What is my shirt turning red? Oh I am dead! Wait, what have I done? What? I have been in the zone? But, it's my mission to be here, to have a coverage to find the right path then deliver it to people. Why? Watch and feel.

What I wrote is cheesy, right? Okay, I am an Ikhwani. What happened is a coup. It's a disaster. They will make the country filled up with sluts and alcoholics. I'll stay here till the end of the road. Till Morsi is back. I just do like you riots had done in 25th of January 2011, why am I acting as a pain in the head to you? Isn't it everybody's right? You were a sit in for 14 days, I am a sit-in till infinity. Till Morsi is back on the throne. I am a Muslim and that's what I care for! Gun fire from everywhere. I can't spot the source. Where can I hide? I have a family to feed and I can't head back home. As soon as I am out of here I have no source from which I can feed my starving family. I have to stay here. Where can I be protected? Oh, there's my fellow and thank God he has a gun he will protect me. I will run to him. Finally, a shield. Let's call out and pray that God support my fellow, the fighter. Amen. Oh, my side aches. This is not the right time to suffer from my stomach ulcer. This pain is incomparable. God, be mercy on me. My hands are wetted on the spot of pain.... why that? Oh! What's that dark fluid? Oh, it is staining my cloth dark red? Is that really blood? I can't hold my ground. What's happening? Oh, I am dead. Crying farewells.

So, each lost the definition of his mission. Each don't know what he's supposed to do. Each wants protection, tho they are scared from your judgment. Each wants you to pray for him, not ask for hell to burn blue to his flesh. What he can do? What? Answer me, crazy people, who employed yourselves as a god, as a final judge! Answer! Hey, did you notice that it's logical that none of them had actual time to blame any for his death? None cared about his killer! They knew he's a killer anyway and he'll be killed too. "He can be from my team, but missed the shot that time. He can be my enemy and God will punish him anyway," that's most probably their only thought. Or "go to hell all of you. Who will protect my family from now on?"

DB = Dirtybook:

FB now is just a bunch of dirt. People making up stories to drive you to take sides. Stories aren't away from reality, like a father crying over his dead son who was about to get married, then they finish it with "still supporting military?/ still supporting Ikhwan?" FB posts are comments of insults and sarcasm. Pretty hurtful. It's like a scene of conjoined twins who are pulling apart from each other and the common part is bleeding heavily. I am not a cell in that common line. I am an... antibody traveling through each one's body finding no destination. Disturbed. Can't find my path to help. I wonder how many of you is with me? Lost like I am? Feeling guilty and helpless like I do? Egypt, oh, only you can feel me, poor mother. Only you.

Let's sit, cry and watch Egypt's cloudy days.

The Empire Of Loneliness

  Twenty years passed since he finished college, and now, he's stepping into his forties. He lives in the house, where he was brought up. He is described as the prince of youth who evolved to the king of silence. The flashbacks he has from his youthful years make him shut his eyes hard till they exude proud tears. He sighs secretly which follows a smile of carelessness.  His days seem to be built of routines.  Routines you wish to win a portion of for a day even.

  The neighbors know nothing about him since his parents died. They just know that if you asked him for a favor, he would nod accepting your request and accomplish the mission with a kind smile. They know too that he's a hard working man, as his sister got married and she never quits visiting him. They wonder why he doesn't give her the visit instead.

  His friends claim when he turned thirty, they didn't know him anymore. It was before his tragic loss to his dear parents. He was the most loved. He was always around chanting, laughing and talking. He was their example for the word "alive," till all of a sudden, after graduation and the multiple parties they had celebrated together, he disappeared. He just did. He worked in several places, though he wasn't an industrial student. He worked for what he likes, hates, related to his college, not related to his previous studies, luxurious jobs and poor ones. He didn't have a break. It was that time, he didn't want to enter his house. Awkwardly, he made no company in all these places he worked at. His language was nods and smiles. People loved him for that, it took a good deal of time till they realized that his nature to be that quiet and he has nothing personal against any of his colleagues. None of the places he worked at gave him the chance to meet his friends. He wasn't delighted by that coincidence, he didn't care to think about it.

  Hugging his forties with a new home, yet it was the same flat he grew up in, was neutral. It was weird that he quit all these jobs he took up. He depended on the money he saved. He managed his needs. He learnt to sew, he bought the fabrics he liked and turned them to fashion items for himself. He used to wear each self-handmade for only one day, for that you would never see them afterwards, as he used to give his used-for-one-day clothes to orphan houses, as despite his old age, he was fit as a healthy teenager. He had all the healthy recipes via internet which made him spend each week 20 pounds maximum. He downloaded PDF versions of books, printed them and got his artistic side on, to color and design hard covers for them. His movements were sways. His progress was calm and genius. He was forty, but acted like a sixty-year-old scientist who is fed up with his brain which knows about everything and time lays besides him rolling its eyes as the old man doesn't join its empty races anymore.

  His days, his thoughts, are they similar to what you see? To what who knew him sees? This is how his daily life goes: He lays in his bed, sleepless for hours. The bed still had the warmth of his parents. He keeps touching the pillow, dips his nose into it, breathes in the smell and breathes out a crying scream. His thoughts are stabbing his skull. He wishes he can cut his skin and let them out, but they just keep pushing till his veins protrude and he fingers their patterns slowly till he reaches his eyelids , rubs them hard and gets off the bed. He walks to the bathroom, has a warm shower. He cries there even harder, but he thinks the falling water takes the tears along which makes the process unnoticeable. He steps out of the tub, clears the mirror from its accumulating vapor, sees his own features and spits on it. He puts his clothes on and heads to the kitchen, turns the radio loud which plays his mother's favorite tunes. He makes himself a cup of hot milk, his back tends to the wall and he keeps chatting. He keeps chatting with his absent mother. He narrates the memories accompany each song. These memories his mother used to narrate to him, but he ignored and roared in the back of his throat each time she started talking; now, he's like fixing this mistake. And yes, he knows it's pretty late. He smiles, walks out of the kitchen, goes to bed and sleeps. He wakes up on time. He had no wardrobes. It was just a statue dressed up in the outfit he made the day before and shelves of shoes. That is the room, is like after his renewal. He gave up the wardrobe and the mirror to his sister. Nothing stayed the same, but where the bed and TV are, is the only exception. The formed space are studded by these shelves, which were painted in bright colors by his young nephews where shoes and books sleep. He opens his eyes, imagines his love next to him, waking him up with the sweetest words and the most affectionate pets. Then he shuts his eyes hard and imagine another girl he liked and wished to be in love with him by the door of the room asking him to smile and get off that bed of laziness. After his brain cries out for mercy to stop torturing it with daydreams, he looks up to the ceiling and jumps off the bed. 

  His room, meaning the room which was totally his when his parents were alive, is clear of any furniture. It was the room of mirrors as his nephews call it. They don't know that it is his gym. He plays the music loud and starts dancing, laughing, jumping, talking, saluting, doing everything. He talks to people he never met. He dances and laughs with pals he never knew they existed. Afterwards, he has his serious mood on and starts training like a sports coach.

  But before that active jam, he stays long in his mini-mosque. The dining room was cleared, it turned a place of shelves filled up with Qur'an and religious books. He stays there for hours. He prays for his parents then his sister, then his nephews. He doesn't ask for forgiveness to his own mistakes, cause he believes that he deserves each time his skin would burn in hell. He reads Qur'an and revise that part he worked hard to memorize the past night. In the end, he drops himself loose on the floor, sweeps his hands through the smooth threads of the carpet. He always asks his sister to visit him, but he never does it as he knows the exaggerated hospitality of his sister and how she would work hard to cook several meals and how this puts pressure on her financial life which doesn't improve because of his useless, still absolutely loved, husband. Of course, if his life was summed up to be boxed by these walls, we would have been narrating the life of a dead man. He randomizes the chances to go out, but it's always by the sunset. He breathes in pure air, let his brain chat with the natural scenes and heart chant the background music.

  In his diary, he was the loser who survived, the guy who was the reason of his parents disappointed crying nights and didn't have the chance to show his regret and announce his sorry on time; though he insufficiently fixed it after their death with a heavy depressed heart. In his sister's, he was the secret hero, who sacrificed with his happiness, his plans to make his own family, just to see his sister happy. In his nephew's, he was the outstanding role model. In the diaries owned by the strangers he met, he was the mysterious generous man, the human who poured out unlimited, infinite giving. In his friends', he was the man who took the pain in, the friend who bled with loud laughter, the pal who helped you to run to success despite his paralyzed state, the colleague who gave love without receiving. In his parents', he was the son who took all the blame in secretly and silently, he was the little boy who gives honor to you by whatever he says. He's the man who stood still when life collapsed.

My Kid's Letter

Dear mum,

   I know in this era there's no such letters, but one of the reasons I love you is, you're one of whom witnessed the arise of technology, though you're not using a bit of it, so I've to get my Romeo on & write you a letter while I AM YOUR KID. But you know, writing isn't a big deal as long as you read much. You raised me up to read books and even read the plot before watching the movie, as if nothing in this life would work without reading! This is not about revising with you how nerdy you brought me up (no blames, by the way).

   This letter isn't personally informative. I've just found myself sick of work and I even ran out of creativity to make up anything new on the internet for fun (like you say "surf to find yourself, create to let others surf searching for you." Yeah. I listen.) So, my time was filled with heavy thinking about.... well... I- I... found your FB & Twitter history; you can say, I hacked your past. I went through each post and friend. It's funny that I know minor of those friends, I can recognize barely-known three out of your "700"!

   Before you get mad, mum, I swear I didn't mean any scratching to your privacy, I was innocently curious to know why you're the only mother who says our age is better than yours. I was starving for  knowing. Without being offensive, mum, but seriously, were you just "share-ers/ retweet-ers"? I may use the word "parrot" as a substitute. You were concentrating so much and put all of your brains into a movie/series to get out of it, a quote & with Instagram's vintage effects to the screenshot; voila, that's what you created.  I have seen each post and watched the movie related to it and gasp! The quote is.. somehow good and true, but the movie is stupid and made for retards! I have read your compliments to each other for noticing such wise saying and I am like "someone, please, slap me! If this isn't over, kill me!" As these wise sayings are actually daily words from an angry mother to her kid, from a caring father to his boy, from a loving friend to her best mate. It was literally like you, people, didn't noticed each other's talks, you're believers to whatever said in this screen. I noticed too hundred thousand posts a year! I can't judge this, you were discussing about things, so it's not a total major waste of time, but it was fooling your generation. It was harming it, cause you surrendered to its hollowness. You believed that the click on "share" makes you intellectual being while you might not have read it.

   It was a funny frustrating experience, still I've learnt much. I learnt that you're the only one who's true to judge our generation that way. I've seen the rusty cuffs which used to tie your imagination to flee back then. I've witnessed how the society in the past was holding back the exploration that you could do. You were forced to be attached to certain things, in the way it's posted. Minor times, I've seen a constructive argument. By time, you lost that sense of argument, it seems you were tired to do it anymore, to correct some thoughts or to exude information from someone else. The rudeness was the style to oblige you to accept whatever they say. Who sounds wise is a snob, who sounds silly is the coolest. Who talk about how old is gold they mention miniskirts in the 70s, and my heart ached! You were also shedding off Arab culture. I remembered that day when you chose several comedy Arab movies. You told me they were very old that even the actors and actresses in it, were older than your own grandparents. You told me that when you were my age, you used to laugh, later on -after being awoke by reality- you watched and you sighed. You told me "watch and write down which phrase made you laugh and which made you sigh." I remember how generous you were that day when I wrote all of what got my attention, followed by "sadly laughing." Then you followed these movies with comedy foreign movies, and that's when I wrote nothing and my reward was a vacation for a week by the sea. I have never got it, till I went through your past's timeline. I get that we don't know the value of our own culture. We just keep blaming it, insulting it, underestimating it out of ignorance without experiencing, without fair comparison.

  What was really funny, that my grandma's generation is the wisest creators, yours is the foolish mindless followers and mine is the filtering researchers. I wonder if you, all of your class, got back in time, would you let your mind still busy with the same stuff? With fashion, movies and lyrics? With pretentious unreal intellectualism? Or you would start stepping up and expressing yourselves through actions which we -your kids- would be going through them now proudly?

   Mum, this was a talky talk with you, I wish it was tete-a-tete conversation. Anyhow, before I go, I have to tell you that I studied your last post on FB, which was a.... sequel? Wasn't it? Sorry, just joking, but you can't ignore the fact that it was ridiculously long! I promise that I haven't read this last post at first. I took your timeline with sequence of events from the oldest to the latest. So, I guess now you figured out that my letter is a brief version of that last post which you titled "we were such fool adults." That wasn't intentional, but I've just noticed it now! What they say "Like mother, like daughter."

   We will blab it all out next meeting insha'Allah.

                                                                                                                     With love and respect,

                                                                                                                                 your daughter, 2071.

You Are

  They say you're what you eat. They say you're what you listen to. They say you're what you wear. I am convinced with: "You're what you got."

  Some of us wear Gothic clothes, listen to Opera's tracks and eat Chinese food. Some of us wear formal clothes, listen to metal music and eat meat.
It's whatever you choose to be. To wear Gothic clothes, listen to metal and be vegetarian, is typical, while you assume that's the loudest scream to say "I am different."
You like dark colors, wear it. You love meat, eat it. You like rock music, listen to it. You've the free will to let this mixture express you.

  What you don't know, that some of us are forced to be in that certain way. Some of us are forced to like classical music as they were forced to be ballerinas. Some of us are forced to be vegetarian, because vegetables cost less and that's what the family can afford. Some of us wear casual all the time, on any occasion, because their wardrobe is a piece of furniture shared with their dads.

  So, bottom line, when you have freedom to be a part of a blinded smoothie, be it. Some of people out there don't have such chance. When you're forced to be in a certain way, you also have secret hobbies which can certainly create for you escape door; that door which only the beloved ones know about it. Most importantly, don't judge negatively. Some people are mentally healthy for being confident in that suit of different characteristics and some are forced to be in that way to satisfy God, please their parents, to follow their country's tradition or they are just oppressed by inequality of chances to live as a human being on mother Earth. Don't forget "You're" can be sufficiently a correct statement which need nothing to finish it. It can be confirmation to your reflection.

The Pomegranate

  Her heart was ideal for medical study. It was identical to pomegranate. It had thick cover, was it protective? It was painful. It used to contract against itself, squeezing its own poor insides. It gave itself pain. They said that phenomenon was for its own good. It was working as a blender to give you the pure juice. Yes, they were right. Additional to the pain the patient gave to herself, life wasn't merciful. It added such misery by one thing: splitting her heart, her pomegranate, into two halves. Its juice poured out. It colored each physician's face. It tasted deliciously tempting. It was so red and its flavor could be smelled. They wished all people's heart would have been like that. When they had a look inside, they found red pearls. They were many & sparkling. Some of these pearls were a bit yellow. It seemed their patient was a loving person. She loved everybody and gave each his/her full supply of blood from her own. Some were yellowish, as she doubted their intentions, their nature, their pale masks.

  The peeps of the heart monitor weren't heard anymore. The doctors addicted the sweet taste of this heart's juice, they were hypnotized by its flavor, mesmerized by the scene of her numerous pearls, that they became deaf. They neglected the screams of her existence, announcing its last sufferings. They didn't notice the tears rolling on her expressionless face. They were so into cutting her insides that they weren't alarmed by her aggressive vibes. She was dead. They looked at each other and gave a serious look. Not terrified, not uncomfortable look, but serious one. This look they give when they are scanning their syllabus through their heads to find explanation for the case before them, but this time they were scanning for scientific excuses. These excuses were: 1- "It's certified. She gave us permission to operate this."
2- "This is for science. Her death would add some honor to her name in the medical research."
3- "It's her fate. We're no murderers."

  After finding excuses, the time to find out their experiment's conclusions had come. One of the physicians gladly started concluding that people hurt themselves. Not physically, but emotionally like: I am ugly/fat/not accepted/stupid/a loser... etc. That's why the heart was harshly beating against itself. Though, each beat was for survival. It wasn't pathogenic. He said it meant any human makes up his own failures just to create an aim and follow the road to success. He always breaks the mirror to rip that image in it out and replace it with a perfect portrait which only takes a while till time waters its beautiful colors to be a mixture of dark and light colors.
The other physician laughed at such assumption that it would be true if the patient was a teenager. The patient was a beautiful model of 25 years old. Anyway, that doctor said it was trivial to focus on such a thing and she moved on explaining her notice. She thought that people love hurting each other. Not intentionally, though. That's why they -as a group of physicians- loved the taste and the scent of the heart's juice, they hadn't notice that it was a "hello, I am running out of blood" alarm, they just enjoyed the injury without noticing the lethal danger. She can't deny how selfish they were, as physicians, to let their curiosity slave them. They didn't mean to hurt her, they were simply exploring her beauty and her uniqueness. That's when the doctor stopped talking, starred at her friend across the room and remembered the last time when she doubted her honesty, and hurt her position as a lifelong friend. The stares which flew in the room got the point well-taught and understood.
One of them just interrupted the silence and talked about the pearls. The pearls which magically drove their whole attention. He stared at it and went on "We all have those pearls, don't we? They are reddish healthy sweet ones or solid yellowish ones. They are not ripen and rotten. We don't completely hate. We are like selecting some people, we press cut, we don't move them to any other folder, we keep them as it is. The whole difference that their figures are discolored. We are all good-hearted. None of ours is blackened and collapsed. This must be documented."
Another member of these researchers whose guilty eyes confirmed the accusation, was on the ground. He laughed out loud, "you're making out of the victim, a model of your miserable lives? You're shaping a philosophy from a body covered in blood like ancient Greeks? You're all now psychiatrists and none of you is a surgeon? In a blink, you changed your routes in life? And for just few hours. What an irony! You know, the only conclusion of what's happening in here, that humanity exists where this body's soul has just arrived. Whether it's hell or heaven, it would be better for here anyway."

  That was how the girl's pomegranate heart turned to a grenade which everybody bounced to the other, till one of them poured out the whole truth and let himself be bombed alone. To be in heaven. Or hell. Well, any place other than here. 

The Uncensored

  What I'd write now may be replied by the funniest sarcastic jokes ever, or the most offensive comments.

Well, my expectations are enough to stop me from admitting this article, though I can't prevent these fingers from typing.

  Okay, this is enough, I have to start talking about the topic, cause I can see your face blushing -thanks to the title and to your dirty thoughts.. ehm... whatever-. The issue is about "Insults." So, where can I start?
Without mentioning any of the insults, cause I have to confess 99% of them I know it's offensive word, but what does it mean? I think this will be my eternal unanswered question and how I am raised up, chains my curiosity not to chase the meaning. A quick hint: I can chain my curiosity , but I can't tame my brain from its useless overthinking; conclusion:

1- Most of these insults, which are words -and I am weird enough to cherish the word "words" and derive its letters from the most pure meanings and the smoothest philosophy-, and these words are about animals. Animals are organisms, right? You're one of these organisms. You are from the same animal kingdom, right? I know it's stupid of me to take informal offensive class of discussion to classy scientific level. This stupidity is a kind of underestimation to you, more than to me; cause I can't rise the level of discussion with kind of educated people who don't use their knowledge in their life, a kind of education which is only activated at work, as if the boss is the catalyst and the salary is the product.

2- Another big scale of insults include body organs. Body organs? Really? May be because I am a "mini-doctor" I can never get the offensiveness of the meaning hiding its dirt behind these words. Humans, all of them, have "butts" if we need an example. They say it hides within the filthiness of some expression, I once had the guts to ask why and I was answered "Because of its biological function." And that's when I said "Exactly! So, what's offensive about it? Billionaires do that process, which is "excretion" if you're lost, am I wrong?" Ministers do, presidents do, everybody, every living organism do. It's not shameful, it's not offensive. It's ignorant of you to think it's a bad word. What makes it bad, is the situation you spit the word in. And if you said that word, this means you have never learnt your God's miracle to keep your body clean of those wastes.

3- The most ferocious expressions which are said to men in specific and their meaning is related to women. Women? What the heck is underestimating and insulting in women to you as a man? Answer! I guess if someone called you "Lady," this is an honor, dear. Ladies include your mum, granny, sister, future/current wife, daughter, granddaughter, female cousin or aunt. So, isn't it an honor? Someone without her presence you wouldn't have come to life, you wouldn't have been in that respectable class of education, you wouldn't have had anything to be proud of, you wouldn't have had support, you wouldn't have had a protector  you wouldn't have had a person who has 24-hr-job praying only for you.

4- "You son of a ..........," someone, who insults your parents, deserves one reply with a cold crooked smile "You didn't have parents to raise you up well to tell you what you're saying, gives unacceptable hints about them and street-rat impression at you."

5- Fingers. I look at the finger they give in movies when the gangster member is getting angry at the failure of the mission. All I can see, is phalanges covered with skin. The position of the finger, the middle one. But, to my surprise, I find the boss shooting that guy just for showing him his finger. That's when I started "Was that insulting?" Well, as my family is my usual company when I watch movies, they just show a look of disapproval, which means that was completely uncensored and I should be grateful for watching that movie till the end. Anyway, I - don't know how I'd say it- ehm, don't know what it means precisely,  just I know it is pretty bad. I can't see who, when and why he created such filthy meanings to limbs! A lot of people need a hand, may be just one finger of those, they are limbless. And you, dear, should be thankful that you still have limbs and have good use of it, not useless bad one.

  Let's get to the most familiar part: "Insults are just informal jokes with our best friends, so it doesn't show disrespect as the whole article is about." I can understand the mission of destroying the ice between you and your friends by every possible way, but insults won't make it tighter nor more loyal. At some point, it can be the spark which can turn your friendships to ashes. Try to use in your life some paradigms which can show truly who you are, and I believe the dirtiness of these words can never do you any good.

  In the end, all I wanna say insults are nothing, but a tool to express your anger, and it's well known that anger is an absolute evidence for your weakness. So, insults doesn't show your strength nor your right in winning something than others; on the contrary, it shows your ignorant useless educational experience. You can't be called intellectual while your whole information only entails insulting others, polluting your own dignity and have the worst view of your ancestors. Bear it in mind that insults aren't cool at all, cause if it was, I should have bowed every morning to burglars and thugs. So, let's change this subject from being uncensored to be obligatory lesson to raise the level of your manners which are already delicate and honorable.

Shadows

  He walked. Walked through roads he always had seen from the windshield glass of his car. The same roads, but what a difference, he felt! He felt the sun rays into his skin, penetrating his eyes. The first time to see people, older in age, younger. He let the older pass before him and the kids too, who are as old as him and felt an ego within their giggles, he hurried in front of them with a cocky walk. He felt he was rewarding the oldies for their patience towards the unknown sufferings they had, punishing the young for their foolishness and praising the kids for their innocent energetic joy. For the first time, he felt he is an angel drifting among people. He felt it was way better than driving, hidden inside a car, whispering insults directed to whom pumped stupidly into his car.

  What stole his mind the most, witnessing people's shadows. He wanted to find the mysterious relation between their past, secrets, present intentions and their shadows. He canceled the scientific fact of sun's presence to throw this shadows wherever it wants, behind them, in front of them or beneath them. He just loved the fact that what he never thought of before to have a relation with things beyond sanity.

  

  The brief study started with a woman who walked in fast steps. The tail of her dress was weary and dusty while there was no mud in the street nor dust in the air. She seemed one of the women who leaded

complicated life. Her hands had apparent veins, her walk was fast, but fade. He tried to know how could this happen. A woman who was weak as her, weary as her cloth, how could she walk that fast? He set for himself a competition to walk faster than she did, but as soon as he became next to her, trying breathlessly to cope up with her steps, he heard her stolen breaths. He felt he would cry. He slowed it down as he remembered that he simply wanted to see where the sun decided to throw its shadow on this heroic lady. He found the shadow right behind her. He wondered how fair this could be. A shadow, with its darkness and its featureless appearance, could hide its ugly facts from this woman, and walk just behind her. He thought. On and on. The woman could nearly be out of his sight, till he seized his thoughts to stop throbbing and let the lady reach her final destination to know the answer of this puzzle. And she did enter a school, smiled to few parents standing by the gate, they cheered when they saw her. By that time, he could only see the whole picture. A teacher who was sacrificing her rest, her health, her wealth to get on time at the school, to teach, and let her veins protrude on her skin to show her hard work. Her shadows just followed her and walked behind her, cause she had a better aim, a brighter task, an honorable mission to achieve. She didn't think about the darkness of her past to let the shadow stand beneath her, she didn't think about the fearful unknown future to be in front of her. She just thought about how great her work was, that her shadow respected her dream and hid from her.

He tried hard not to smile; his pride couldn't be hurt just for his working consciousness. Oh, what was next? What was his second participant in his top secret, personal research?

  A kid hit him accidentally while running, she turned to him and gave him an apologetic look, she stared at the good looking man for a while till he nodded his head with a smile as accepting her silent apology. The kid smiled broadly and kept running. This one's shadow was beneath her, he thought thoroughly of the reason, and he realized that kids' purity can never let them worry about the past, and their naive brain, their absent responsibility and null experience in life, make them not worry about future plans. All their thoughts are stuck in the present, their plan to enjoy the sun in the morning and to abuse all their energy to smile at strangers' smiley faces, show their respect to their friends, flood their love on their parents, embrace their teachers' affection and introduce their virtual friends to their real ones; that's why their shadow is right beneath them, nothing to scare them from moving forwards, nothing is following them to devour them into darkness.

  His brain didn't give him a break from wondering at more people. Some of them, their loud voices clouded his thoughts' clearness. Some, their questioning stares at him, made him feel that he had been so superior to a good society which could welcome him anytime, thanks to their humble hospitality and thanks to one more unfortunate thing: Their superficial judgment at people who can know as little as they do, but just their appearance is clean enough to fool their expectations.

  As soon as he thought that his mini-personal research was over, he found another position of the shadow about a new participant in the secret study. A young man who was walking bored rather than lost. His shadow was before him, and it seems like laughing at his sad face. Disappointed face. A hopeless figure which he made out of his beautiful youthful features. His backpack seemed to be breaking his back to pieces while it was so obvious that it was almost empty. The shadow was meanly carrying all kind of worries, extending its claws to tomorrow with all their doubts of failing, collapsing future and shameful disappointment. It was clear enough that the young boy obliged the observer's optimistic views he formed about shadows previously to diminish and be introduced to shadows' dark side. This guy had his fear of exams and how grades hid his whole future and turned his vision to blurry, his ability to hear into an instruction to be deaf, his moving limbs to paralyzed wheels & his cheerful thoughts to a master of sarcasm. The young man wanted to pat on the boy's back and tell him "it's going to be alright. It's fate, and what's in front of you now, the shadow and its teasing darkness, are nothing but  this scary movie you watch to finish your tasteless dinner."

  The man went to his work that day with unexplainable joy and satisfaction, just like a scientist who had proven to the world that his theory was correct. He thought that he should from time to time change his habits just like the sea when it has slapping waves on windy days, smooth ones on sunny days and the surfers-love ones whenever it likes. He believed God created nature to be changeable to give to him as a human being an example how things can't be stable and he has to change his routes; and as he observed nature, he has to believe that his species is a piece of that nature and he has to meditate through people too.

  The man didn't notice his own shadow, not because he was busy observing others, but because, deep inside, he feared to look at it, he feared it to be in front of him as he knew how materialistic his priorities were and how they could scare him to death. The fact is, my friend, this man hadn't any shadow. He was a spirit of a dead young man, who lived free as a bird, rich as a millionaire, happy as a four-year-old kid, but he didn't live long enough to watch life's definitions via his bare eyes, not through his Ray-Ben shades. He didn't live long enough to walk on the road in his sneakers instead of his luxurious polished shoes. He didn't live long enough to satisfy his brain instead of spoiling it with the mainstream trivial stuff. He didn't live long enough to witness his shadow.