You're P.P

  Few years ago, when someone asked you for contacts, they would ask for your phone number and to get friendly faster they would ask for your Facebook name. It was such an embarrassing duration when your friend's FB name was "Toto Mimi Cool." By time – or to be more accurate: when 25^th of January 2011 hit – everybody started to write status to document their opinions, not to share how they feel anymore; so they cared to write their real names….. Copyrights, you know! Afterwards everybody got tired of FB, and Twitter was declared as "the social media restricted to cool folks." That was how far you were exposed to the world, yet faceless.

  As more events occurred, Twitter started to be a live broadcast in simple sentences while FB was where you set your conclusions and visions. In a blink of an eye, social media became a state of free journalism – and by "free" I mean no financial cost. Twitter: you choose a cool fictional name and put up your FB link in the description which has your real name, just to seem professionally awesome. Now, we may say the majority of the society have FB accounts, and some have your name and your last name. That point when you realize there are many people out there. Too many people, that there is a probability that someone shares your full name, but with different features and of course different life events. Subsequently, you're not asked for your FB name anymore. You're asked if you upload your picture like norms, or you upload your favorite actress', cartoon character's picture like……. insecure kids. That was how far you were exposed to the world, hesitant about publishing your face.

  Uploading your picture used to need your parents consent. Don't dare to deny it, please. Especially if you are a girl. When you asked to put up your school yearbook picture in which you looked young and plainly innocent with your uniform (no sexism at all), they would give you the worst ideas for long-lasting nightmares. "They will crop your beautiful face and put it on a naked body!" That was how far you were exposed with fear deep inside.

  We -girls- will never get it why you should shame a girl if a picture of her is apparently photo-shopped and made by someone who wants to condemn God's desire to create her as a girl. Reminder: A girl is human who "needs" to use technology as much as you "want;" so you have no right to limit her internet usage.

  Aside the assumptions, we don't have those questions anymore. Or I may subside "we" and talk on personal perspective: Girls don't fear using their actual pictures anymore. Brave? Cool. But where's courage in posting a picture of me in hot shorts and cropped tee? I have friends who would understand freedom? Awesome. The thing is, girls pose as if they were models. They all wanna be one! But if you afford them the job, they will call it off immediately. So why do they do it? To gain confidence? Why would she post it public? She set it private? Still it is shown, you know! It's not because you can't zoom in, it is called "private." I believe in personal preferences and I judge no one. My point here is, when did girls become so comfortable with limitless exposure? I am just asking when and why. I am not disrespecting them. I am searching for answers.

  Basically, the picture thing isn't about girls only. Guys too! They favor their shirtless pictures or that sweaty shot at the gym. I don't know if this work out for them to be admired by a girl because of his picture. A picture! Some say "to win those abs you work freakishly hard, don't mock that!" I am not mocking and it doesn't make any difference with me anyway. The point is guys now care about their appearances and if they look cool in that filter or not, like their profile picture shouldn't be their priority, right?
That's when we hit the core: We're entirely exposed and some of us break the barriers, because they just feel happy to say where they are, what they are eating and with whom they are enjoying the day and they MUST prove it with a picture.

  Away from genders, when did this flip happen? When did everybody feel so comfortable to post MANY pictures of them? Why did we fear that before? Everything has consequences, where are the consequences of oh-I-love-how-I-look-let's-post-it-and-let-haters-hate? What is the importance in that to be a priority or phenomenon or I may call it epidemic? It's good to see your colleagues fresh and pretty, but what about this hurting them in the future? What about the spectrum of exposure? Shouldn't it be in consideration?

Why? What? She? He? Fear? Hack? Technology? Judgment? Society? So….. who's first, the chicken or the egg?

  The fact is: whether you're a girl or a guy, you're not on social media because you are who you're. It is not because you are grateful to have a life which offers extra time to post about it. You're not a private property! You don't own yourself. You can't stop announcing your thoughts now – you might explode if you didn't. We're manipulated through it all. We were driven to addict typing than talking. To confess without waiting for an agent to question us. Your brain is a public property. So the words are not yours? The name is owned by million others? So what about the face? You can't switch it with another's. You thought P.P is for "profile picture"? Well, I think it stands for "public property." Yes, you can stop it and sign out, but that whole world you live in is based on using social media which isn't entirely ugly; sometimes your source of inspiration or support you need is found there, but that's not promised for a long duration. Such a beautiful trap, isn't it? Let's face it! You are a public property. We are a public property. Our features, thoughts, friends, clothes, moves, where we go and what we study; we all are network's property. We're P.P. You're P.P.

I Am Not Coming Home

  I can't tell if I am fed up with this or bored. I can't tell if this is stability or numbness to chaotic mess. I can't tell if this is a turning point or one of those scenes which ends with "oh, just kidding!" The only thing I can tell and ensure: I am not coming home. At least not tonight.

  Is it a farewell or a teenage version of rebellion? Don't know either. I will never know anything. Maybe why I am leaving the place is about how random I am. Maybe cause I am fond of new waves showering my interests. You take advantage of this and manipulate me. You invite me in and tell me "I will teach you something new." I get in and I find myself surrounded by dark walls with no windows nor even the door I got through, is there. You always trick me! I don't know how I get rescued every time, and I don't know how I can realize this now.

  I am not coming home for what you want me to be. You're claiming that you're helping me out, but you're actually keeping me out of sight. You told me I've got the gift. I've got the talent. I have got it all. Funny you never spoke about how I can water those gifts of mine, so we both can harvest their fruits.

  I am not coming home ever again. I know I will obligatorily return one day. Until this day comes, I will keep my distance away from you. I'll do my best; so when I return, I will be satisfied and ready for your confrontation. So when I return, I will give you all the reasons why I didn't stay when I actually had the choice to leave.

   I will work and love what I am doing. I will see what you told me about the outside world, so when I return, I'll narrate to you how I got over all the obstacles. I will search and feed myself with every spectacular fact about this world for my hungry soul - to quit asking for more, to reach modesty and humbleness. I will tell you I got it all in hand and taught everyone else what good deeds are. I will come back home obligatorily, but naked. You will laugh at me saying "you should have laid here till your day comes when you'd be officially my resident," then I would surprise you with to whom I gave my all. That I gave all I could win to another who is in need. That I collected all the honors which would make your dark walls decorated with cheerful neon lights instead.

  Remember when you said stay here and enjoy my friends' mourns by your door? Remember when you told me to stay in here and you would give me bitter coldness, cause warmth is charges of jealousy radiating nothing more? Well, I will come back and tell you I was the source of warmth, not because of jealousy, but because I was source of joy and hope. I will tell you I went to my friends and told them never mourn over a friend; let's pick him up and oblige him to join our journey towards success. Towards something worth narrating when the air would be carrying our ashes.

  I am telling you. I am not coming home. Even the name on you, isn't mine. It belongs to a dear one to me though. But to pay respect to that person I love – whose place is ruled by you - I tell you: when my soul is stolen by fate and a full stop is written in my biography, it's the only day I will come back and sleep endlessly. Mr. Grave, God gave me a life whose end will be at your place. Now I've a spirit. A breath. A beating heart. So, you're not my place. I can't deny how grateful I am for giving shelter to my sadness. It grew mature, but eventually it taught me something I can't export. It's a part of me and it's not dead. But from time to time I have to show my sadness that it has friends out there. The same state, different story, but the same rush of feelings. Mr. Grave, I will come. It's obligatory for every living organism to be your guest. I just pray when I arrive, I arrive in a modest fashion. Naked as I was brought to this life, bragging "everything I owned in life, I gave it away to another. My legacy would be words and inspiration." You will ask me "where are the things life has given you?" I will tell you proudly that I am an honest pal who gives things to its original owner. We'll laugh and hug till you will be forced to let me go to meet the greatest trials of all. But for now, I am not coming home. Please, let your lawyers, depression and hopelessness, leave me alone. I am not coming home.

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. 

Traffic Jam

  If life had a traffic light, its colors would be arranged respectively as yellow, green and red. Ready, go and die. The trip began with you when you were a baby, when you conquered the back seat. What you were doing unconsciously, was observing the world through the window. You didn't care if dad had an argument with another driver, cause they were about to crash into each other. You didn't know that mom was annoyed because the car was running out of air, like what did air even mean back then? Sometimes, you didn't know what the final destination was, but you stopped nagging, because pictures were running so fast outside that window, and the colors stole you and trapped you in its hypnosis, that you didn't care anymore for where you were going.

  When school kidnapped you afterwards, the bus ride became an enjoyable time for imagination, or more precisely expectations. It was filled up with what-ifs actually. What if I went back home and found grandma was there to surprise me with her sweets and cakes? What if my teacher praised my work and everyone wanted to be my friend? What if the friend I want to have, is wishing the same too? What if I am the cleverest? What if… what if… what if?!

  All that time, you didn't feel the jam. You enjoyed it. That's really what our youth has always been about. We enjoyed the ride. When we stepped into our oh-it-is-getting-serious phase, the now-or-never period, the I-want-secured-future obsession; that was the only time we stopped enjoying the ride and we became the driver.

  You think being the driver means everything is under your control, but what's the traffic light for? There will always be a traffic light, stopping you to let another pass, you would scream "why? I want to reach that opportunity before another does! Did he work as hard as I did? Why would he reach it before I do, although I had a shortcut? Why did you make me see someone stealing my dream right in front of me? Isn't this cruel?!" Then it turns yellow, and you never notice, cause you're still cursing the "bad luck" you own. Then it's green, everybody is putting all their weight on the horns, to make it as loud as possible for you to snap out of the drama and go on; cause they also want to reach another certain place in that world. They are no enemies, but they are like you. They have a dream which isn't stolen. Maybe not yet. Some get so furious that they push your car forcibly, and angry you, will get out of the car, scream and shout "why there is no mercy? Why everybody is pushing me to the edge of the earth? I didn't need this additional trauma, man!"

  And here you go, you miss another green light, and it's red once again. A stop station. Again. The scene of running cars crosses your vision, and all regrets rush through your heart. You think it over and determine to get ready once it's yellow and go at full speed when it's green. Here you go! You're doing it! There when you have reached your target, you knew that the person you hated witnessing him crossing roads before you do, didn't win the opportunity. It was designed just for you. Cheerfully and gratefully, you get back to the road, and instead weeping over who stepped before you did, you guide another to a shortcut, where you started the road. You help and inspire hundreds. Some will remember you for your tricks, some will forget you, but they will teach a future generation your tricks. The process is continuous and the copyrights aren't necessary to keep.

  Your name isn't important to be remembered. The roads won't always be overcrowded: some sleep when others are awake and vice versa. At the moment, it's red, ordering you to stop while you're rich in temporary enthusiasm and energy. Accept it. It's fate. Have it as a break. What's wrong with it if you just adjusted the plans? It's not the end of the road. One of these red lights would be your end though. Embedding a full stop to your wishes and dreams, which is not bad. Another will start from your ending point, not because he's better, luckier and his life is easier, but because it's a life cycle represented in complete circle, not interrupted one. But for now, remember that red lights will flash in your face a lot. It means you have to stop, right here, right now. Meanwhile you can look over the neighboring strangers and help. It's better to help than to let your inner darkness bring heavy blocking clouds to the globe. It goes red, yellow, green in your day. It goes yellow, green and deadly red in life overall.

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.

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.