Fairy

  At a certain time in her life, all her dreams were crowding at the bus station of her fate. Which could take a seat first, was a matter of panic. She knew the bus would come anyway, and not all dreams would ride along. She had one in specific though. She had the dream of "super identity" as the priority, the most important on mind, but unfortunately, that dream in specific was the laziest of them all. It seemed standing careless and laughing at the rest of the dreams. It said proudly "I would throw myself on this road once I see the bus coming, so I won't be stained by the disgrace of such competition."

  She never understood why a part of her, a dream of her own creation, could be so mean. She wanted it so bad on this bus. She wished she had a fairy to whom she would whisper her wishes and would come true. It happened. Yes, the fairy appeared.

   For the poor girl, the lady was a fairy at first, but afterwards she realized she was having a deal with the devil. The fairy told her "this one and only dream of yours, I can make it ride along. All the way. Under one condition: you give me all the rest of your dreams."
"But these are all I have got," she said breathlessly.
"Then, as a fortuneteller, I have to tell you what you want can never be yours except you give up all you have."
"This is quite my theory. But…"
"The bus is getting closer," giggled the fairy.
"Deal!"

  Her soul was celebrating while her mental state was in confusion. She was sure of what she had done. She was sure it was good for her identity, but would never be good for her peace of mind. She knew it was a bloody sacrifice, but she thought it was a good giveaway so she would have eternal respect in return.

  The bus ride wasn't good. By every station, she saw the fairy giving generously, to the passersby, the girl's wasted dreams. To people who could never value these. People who already in no need to have dreams, cause how real their practical life was, got them blind. It was heartbreaking.

  The eternal-respected-identity dream sat beside the shocked girl, smoking cigarettes of ugh-s. She could feel the hatred radiating out of it. She cried to it begging for mercy. She reminded it that she had created it in the first place. She screamed that she sacrificed all what she loved for it. The dream wouldn't believe how perfect actress she was to play the role of a prey.

  The dream broke its silent sarcastic gestures, saying: "What would you do if I stepped out of this bus right now? Shattered in pieces out of this window. What would you do? You would regret whatever you're saying now. You would weep over 'I should have been grateful' scene. You may stop regretting and look ahead till you get that certificate to win "fake respect," and I shall disappear forever! Till another kid relive your dream and I'd join the ride again and again. Scarcely do I find people with different aim. Usually, people want me, because I am a beautiful dream. But I am always a piece of paper. To all of you! No one tries – even tries to find the spirituality, beauty and uniqueness in me. Everybody does like you do, blames me for their own choices while I tried hard to make you hate me. I didn't want to feel hurt or let my owner feel the same pain."

  The girl wished she had never seen the fairy. She imagined if she had one of the other dreams with her, all her scars would have been glittery stickers. Quickly she realized that there had to be a missing puzzle. She would have scored the highest grades, but she wouldn't have the same loyal company. She would have had a man, but she would have had neither identity nor friends. She would have had herself, but she would have lost all who counted on her.

  Fairies and their participation in the game of fate, isn't mean. In fact they facilitate the process. They are actually letting go of their sweet reputation, to lessen the burden of blames towards yourself and drive you to throw those blames on them. Beautiful creatures, aren't they?

   Whatever dream you choose, there's another one you're throwing for someone else to adopt. Your life wouldn't have been better if the company was different. It would have its own downs with equal severity, but this version is the only one you can handle. So be grateful. 

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 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.

Friendship Means....

Isn't friendship like bonds made of different fabrics?
 
Some made of Gold but you can't always walk around wearing it, due to the fear of being it stolen, so you throw it in your drawer (Mistreating dear friends not on purpose). 
Some made of metal, has hideous look but you are forced to be with and by time you will like it cause with it you are secured (People who pop up into your life, out of the blue, you get freaked at but then you find their fine core). 
Some made of thorn, has nice adore, with beautiful flower but having it around your wrist can't give you a break off bleeding (People who hurt you but you can't let them go cause they are what you're looking up to be). 
Some made of wool, you can't feel their existence but when you feel you're out of jewelry, you find it still there, decorating you & you're happy having it. (People who loved you, never worked hard to scar your life, never showed off their missions that saved you and still you accidentally don't appreciate them.)
Friendship means a part of your appearance, rarely when it means part of your character, nearly impossible part of your heart & unfortunately fictional to be part of your fate.