سألت أقرب ناس ليَ عن أكتر حاجة بتضايقهم وطلبت منهم يعبروا عنها في جملة بسيطة، من غير مايفكروا ومن غير مايحكوا مواقف أو يذكروا أسماء. جمعت كل اللي قالوه وحطيته جنب بعض وسبت كلامهم يكمل بعضه:

زي شراشيب ستارة بيضربها الهوا

أو شوية تراب تايهين فِالسما

كام مَشبك ماسِك تُقلِنا؟

ولا احنا اللي شايلين هَم نَفسِنا؟

واحدة قالت:

كفاية ضرب على دماغي يا دنيا

اديني فرصة آخد نفسي شوية

والتانية خايفة مالبعيد ومالقريب

والتالتة مش عايزة تشوفلها حد ميت

ست شاغل بالها القلق  وبيسرق منها الليل

وبنت بَطلِت تنام من دوشة الكوابيس والأحلام

في واحدة مش لاقية حد تحبه

يا بنتي ده وجع دماغ

وشمس بتكره اللي بياخدوا أكتر مابيدوا

وخايفة تخسر بمجرد التفكير من غير أفعال

علي قالّي الضالمة بس رجع في كلامه

واللي قعد شوية يفكر 

افتكرته تاه في أحزانه

أنا بقى اللي مضايقني 

حاجة وحاجتين وخمسين

بس مافيش مكان أكتب

محتاجلهم أكتر من سطرين

I look for you everywhere.

It's when I'm in the middle of a room packed with a dozen people, and you're not there, that's when I look for you the most. And you're just not there, and you're not here, and it kills me. That's extremely hyperbolic, yes, I know, but it does. Because feelings, they twitch and they hurt and we just don't know how to explain how badly they do. And we're too afraid to talk about them so we put them in songs or show them off in the colours of a painting. We fabricate them into Literature and wait for someone else to understand what it feels like.

I find myself childishly bickering with the air of a vented restaurant or while walking down the street. That's because your scent uninvitedly tosses itself my way and slaps me in the face. Real fucking hard. It gloats and I sit there and stare at its malevolent pleasure with this incessant voice in my head screaming in jaded exasperation.

Why are you doing this to me?


And sometimes when I'm all by myself, sitting on a table for two, I intently stare at the vacant seat and wonder if I could sketch you. I wonder if it's possible for me to detail your every contour and trace the corners of your lips on nothing, on a canvas of thin air. I'd have them spill out your heaviness for only me to listen to and care about. I'd have you talk. For me to find some kind of kindred spirit in your words, some kind of comfort. And with the meandering strokes of a brush, I'd finish you off with the many colours of your eyes and their different shades and the glint of gold in the upper corner of your right eye, triggered by the rivulets of broad daylight.

And for fading moments I won't have to look for you anywhere.

Because I'd have you.

Just you.

Right there.

On days too cold I like to be by myself. In some way I furtively enjoy how the frigid needles sting my skin and pierce my body. The cold hurts with such precision, it's almost as though it understands exactly how I want to feel my pain. Humble, fading and free of embellishments. Strong enough to etch the parts that have gone limp and can feel no more. Eating away bits of my apathy, breaking the cohesion of its morbidity and persistence. And after the stings fade and the pain grows faint, like a September evening, it warms me up. Accentuating my being and making me feel alive.

كنت أستنى السجدة التانية وأعِد تلات تسبيحات قبل ماَبَلِم قدام ربنا وماعرفش هاطلب منه اللي أنا عايزاه إزاي، ماهو مش هايقبل مني دعاء لو فضلت أتأتأ وأخرف كلام مالوش معنى.

راسي والأرض مش طايقين بعض والدم كله قاعد بيدّلِق في دماغي. 

أصل ربنا مش هايسمع الدعاء كويس غير في وضع سجود. 

ألِم وأجمع في كام كلمة أرسُهم جنب بعض، بالعربي طبعاً، مافيش دعاء ولا بالإنجليزي ولا فرنساوي ولا عبري ولا مصري، أصل ربنا مابيسمعش غير للعربي. 

ولازم "اللهم" تقف مستقلة ومسيطرة. هي بتأكد الدعاء وتقويه. 

كنت باتعب وأنا بطلُب من ربي. فزهقت وبطلت أطلب. 

في يوم جه وجاب أخري وجابني الأرض، شفت نفسي في أضعف نقطة وصلتلها لحد دلوقتي، عيطت عشان مش لاقية حد يعملّي حاجة وعيطت أكتر عشان الحد الوحيد الواحد الأحد اللي ممكن يعملّي كل حاجة، مابعرفش أتكلم معاه. 

استسلمت للأمر الواقع وسِبته يضرب ويرزع فيَ لحد متبقاش حاجة، اتضيقت من ربنا عشان مش راضِ يسمع، كتمت كل الغضب واليأس اللي فيَ في هيئة صمت تام، "يا ربِ اعمل حاجة بقى!"، واصرخ وأنا عينايَ لفوق، سطح أودتي باصصلي بتعجب وبيضحك عليا ويقول "ايه المجنونة دي؟" 

في الفترة دي، بكل اليأس والقرف اللي جابِته، قررت أجرب أقولّه أي حاجة وكل حاجة، ولو عايز يسمع يتفضل ولو مش عايز خلاص، أكون عالأقل طلعت اللي جواية. اتكلمت، قعدت معاه كتير واتكلمنا. اتكلمت معاه وأنا قاعده علي سريري، وأنا ماشية لوحدي، وأنا رايحة المدرسة، وساعات في لحظات الوعي المخطوفة اللي مابين الحياة والنوم. وقتها كبرت شوية وفهمت إن ربنا بيفهم كل حاجة، مش دين وركع وسجود بس. ربنا بيسمع الحزن واليأس والحب والأمل، ده طلع بيسمع في أي وقت وفي أي مكان و أي كلام، وفي حالة الناس اللي مابيعرفوش يتكلموا زي حلاتي، ربنا بيسمع السكوت وبيسمعه كويس أوي.

Diluted

On random days you wonder whether you're losing coherence because the world's being mean to you, or if it's just feigned exhaustion starring your overdramatic and very talented adolescence. And sometimes, on more random days, you seek yourself at older times when you were slightly stronger. When the days didn't feel as long as they do now. You hope that somehow you'll pixiedust some patience into you, something that will make things seem easier for you to hold on just a little bit longer because you can't take it anymore.

                                        ----------------------------------------------------------


My friend once told me that just because I'm going through bigger and heavier kinds of trouble, doesn't make another's pain any less bearable. I'm not talking about the pain you feel after a papercut or a playful pinch or even a badly scraped knee. I mean the slower kind of pain, the one that hurts without foppishly showing it off on skin and scars. The kind you feel as your eyes stroll along the last lines of a book that took good care of you. The same kind you feel when you hope in vain. When you desperately wish for one last chance with them. When they are no longer there to hope for. The pain you feel when you can no longer see yourself as a whole, but as fragile fragments breaking bit by bit and all you can do is wait for the very last piece of you to fall, and you give up.

"I think... If it is true that there are as many heads as there are minds, then there are as many kinds of love as there are hearts."

And I think that there are as many kinds of pain as there are wounds, all kinds of pain derive from hurt, and we all hurt the same.

أنا تعبت

لم يخطر بباله أن من الممكن للمرء أن يستهلك كل الطاقة التي تستريح بداخله، تغذي الروح و تصبر القلق الفكري الذي ليس له مشاغل أهم من تعذيب عقولنا ببطء. وبمزاج. كان ظنه ببرائة بنت في الخامسة عشر من عمرها أمام ولد تكتب عنه في مذكرتها كل يوم وليلة. الطاقة الروحية والنفسية كعدد الجرات والسكون، رب لا يموت، ولا يفنى...

وفي يوم مصاحب لساعات طويلة ودقائق أطول، نظر إلى نفسه في مرآة الحمام، نظر إلى نفسه المرهقة الفانية، التي التهمتها الأفكار المستبدة، و الدقائق المسروقة، الذكرايات الضائعة والكلام المكتوم، في بكاء داخلي و تعاسة تبدو أبدية، نظر إلى كل ذرة من طاقته تترك جسده وتهجره...

استدار لكي يخرج إلى المطبخ ويعد لنفسه كوب من ورق الشاي الحزين، شعر بدفئ الكوب ودفئ جسده يتبادلون المحادثة  حيث خرج ليجلس بمقعده المفضل في البلكونة ، التقت نفس عميق في حزنه،

"أنا تعبت."

وجلس في ضعف...

I'll See You Soon

And like the celestial bodies that walk the bigger skies that cover us, while more or less than half of who's down here sleep soundlessly, others worriedly. I know that you sleep too. After a long day of doing whatever it is that fills your hours. Whatever it is that you'll tell me about one day. A day  with whoever they are who get to hear you talk. I'll forget a few of their names because some of them won't be there anymore, some of them you won't remember because they hurt you badly or maybe because they didn't hurt you enough, because of their incompetence in leaving a part of them in you, in taking a part of you to keep.

I know that you wake up everyday. In the middle of the night, you dream, like me and like every soundless breath and calm heart in this world. Tell me if you lose yourself like I do when I die for a while at night. Tell me if you find life in night's death. Tell me if you sleep at all.

I know you walk the world in love with her, the girl who fractured you, and left you limping. And I can only hope that you pull most of the splinters she left out, and I promise you I'll take care of the rest. 

Sometimes I wonder if both you and I ever crossed paths, if our lives ever intersected. And hopefully in an intricate whole of a world that will bring us together one day, I'll see you soon...

When I was eight I kissed a boy on his cheek and never told my parents. I could feel my eight year old feet cold and shaking, we slow danced to our third eight year old friend singing and I can't remember the song. I never told you that.

You know about how my grandma and I aren't close and barely talk, did you know that I never *really*  hugged her. Not even once, I just let her hug me. I hope she knows that I really love her, and that I'm very very sorry for not even trying.

My parents were going to name me Malak, I lost a friend called Malak when I was in fourth grade because I was a very mean person. We were never friends again. But we make small talk now, a casual hi everyday. I lost a lot of friends.

I looked at you once, a couple of years before we met and had no idea that I'd one day love you, have you, lose you, and forget you.

I can't keep secrets, I think you know that. I'm not always there. I used to take piano lessons and by the fourth forced attempt I ran out crying because I wanted my mom.
I liked a guy called Omar for two years, he was very mean to me. We don't talk anymore. Why didn't I tell you about him?

I talk more than I listen, and I never say what's supposed to be let out.

My mom doesn't know about my perfume bottle collection. In a big box. In my dresser.

I don't answer my phone because I don't want to. I like being alone. I love being sad. It makes me write. I hate what I write. I've always been jealous even though I said it seventy-seven times, "I'm not the jealous type". I see myself as a number seven. I see people as numbers, I see numbers in people. I don't have a number for you. And I don't have a number for my brother.

I have journals, and call them diaries. I cry. A lot. And I love it.

I should've told you enough, I owe you that and I'm sorry.

And until I have someone else to write to and about, I hope you don't mind me writing to and about you. Another thing you don't know, I thank you everyday.

سأراكِ قريباً

سأراكِ قريباً في كلمات رسالة لم أُرسلها لكِ بعد ولن أُرسلها أبداً

سأراكِ في  ذكرى ظلت معي، تطعم اشتياقي القاسِ

سأراكِ في حلم قصير، كم من اللحظات الفانية، سأرتب فيها ما أتذكره من ملامِحك. من كلِماتِك

سأراكِ في ظل خيال طامع

سأراكِ قريباً و ستهجري كل الأماكن و كل الأزمان

سأراكِ قريباً حتى أنسى كل ما لم تتركيه لي من بقائك. حتى تتركي لي ما تبقى مني

سأراكِ قريباً

She Walks.

She walks away, from, and to. In all her fineness and beauty. A slender entity, wearing her elegance in words. Reciting rhapsodies of love and dreams. Of passion. In all her fineness and beauty, she walks wearing her elegance in being. In steps. She walks away, from, and to.

A slow paced saunter in the breeze of a young night, alone and happy. Recalling the events of the day that has so hurriedly left. The days that have so hastily gone by. She recalls. She smiles. She walks.

A first kiss. An unforeseen smile. A pleasant stranger. The disclosure of an inquisitive thought. And the breeze of a young night. Alone and happy. She recalls. She smiles. She walks.

A prowl in the numbing cold of an endless tiring night.  Alone and sad. In hopelessness, she searches for the times that have gone by. If they were deathless they would have made her promises to stay.

She recalls. She grieves. She walks.

A first kiss. An unforeseen smile. A pleasant stranger. The disclosure of an inquisitive thought. The solitude of a girl in search of what was once and is now no more. And the numbing cold of an endless lonely night. Alone, in overwhelming distress, she recalls. She grieves. She walks.

And she walks away, from, and to. In all her fineness and what is left of her. The living remains of worn-out allure. She walks away, from, and to. A slender entity, wearing her elegance in words and being. In steps. She walks away, from, and to.

Untitled.

This is not a memory that has made its way out of the clutter of my mind to be recollected. This is not a confined secret to be let go of and set free. It is not a message to be written down on paper, sealed and sent to a loved one.

This is a hope. A longing. A story, lost, waiting to be found and recounted.

We will one day walk the stone-paved streets of an old country, neither you, nor I, know a thing about. Lost among the knocks of umbrella canes against the floors. We will stop in front of an old man and his worn-out accordion, and quietly swing our bodies to the music of Those Were The Days. We will walk and walk. And walk. With a book I’ve been crazy about under one arm, and the other clutched to yours.

Two chairs and a table rest on a sidewalk and I will sit and have you and your gloomy cup of coffee opposite me, while I sip on my tea. We will talk about everything and make fun of the unfamiliar words being tossed in the air around us. We will stay quiet, wordless. And silence will do the honours.

We will leave.

We will get up, leaving behind the two lonely chairs and table tossed on the sidewalk. We will make our way back, past the old man and his accordion. Escaping the loud claps of shoes against the stone-paved floors. And we will leave for good. As if all of this never was. And never will be.

This is not a memory, a secret or a message.

This is a hope. A yearning desire. A story, lost, and is never to be found. 

مش هاكتب

مش هاكتب قصة عن نفسي.

ولا هاحكلكوا حكاية غيري.

مش هاقولكوا عن أول مرة حبيت فيها

ولا عن مشاكلي

مش هاكتب عن مجد ثورة

و لا عن الدين

مش هاحكي ولا قصص ولا روايات

زهقت من كل ده

أنا واحدة عندها 18 سنة, كل القصص اللي عندي نهاياتها ناقصة, كل القصص اللي سمعتها نهاياتها حزينة, و كل النهايات الحزينة  غير كاملة.

أنا هحاول أستخدم قدراتي الضعيفة في البلاغة, في إني أطول كل قصة سطرين أو تلاتة... بحيث إنها تخرج عن نطاق المنطق و تحلي 

مرارة الواقع

أنا هاستخدم خيالي و طمعه الوحشي في تكملة و دوام كل قصة اتحرمت من النهاية اللي تستحقها.

أنا هافك الحتة اللي متلعبكة في القصة دي, و هالعبك الدنيا هنا, هاصلح الغلط هنا و هابوظ الصح هنا...

هاخلق نهايات جديدة, بكل حظر و بكل لطف... و بكل أنانية.

 هامشي في شوارع غريبة و أبص على وشوش ماعرفهاش

هاسميهم

و من كل وش هاحكي حكاية و أخلق نهاية.

نهاية سعيدة

نهاية يستهلوها

الدنيا دي محتاجة نهاياتها السعيدة, حتى لو كانت جشع خيال بنت سادجة مكتوب على ورقة مقطوعة من نص الكشكول.

The Idea of You

You exist. In the deepest corner of a random mind, you exist.  Formulated by a bunch of delicate thoughts under the control of  a single mechanism. Within the nerves of a troubled brain, you exist. You exist somewhere that probably doesn’t. The creation of a subtle conscience, without which you are not. You exist by night, by day, everyday. I made you. We met by chance, somewhere near water. You lent me your favourite book and from there, from that moment on, we were. The illusion of us exists in the deepest corner of my mind. Only in the deepest corner of my mind.  I want you to make your way out of me, to be.  But you are nothing but an idea, a pseudo alternative. A figment of my own imagination that will never come to life.

I'm Fine.

I’m fine. Really, I am. I don’t mind your not being here anymore. I have grown accustomed to our being away, apart. It was all such a hassle anyway. You were such a hassle. Us, we were a hassle. Us. Our first us didn’t feel that good, the pleasant chills weren’t so pleasing. The butterflies were nauseating. 

Our prolonged calls tired me. Your voice, gracefully springing its way into my ear like musical notes, your voice tickled my ears irritatingly for fifty-three minutes at two in the morning. Sometimes for nineteen, twenty-eight. Or a quick three minutes and twenty-one seconds to get an idea of each other’s whereabouts. Yes, I’m pleased that’s over. I am.

Counting the days until our next meeting, thinking ahead of what we’ll do, how we’ll hug, planning the two hours we’ll spend together in my mind. All anticipated hours before I see you. One would grow weary of all that trouble. But now, now all of that is no more. Now I can lie in bed in peace, I will count no days, no hours to when I’ll see you next. There are no days, there are no hours, there is no next. There is no us. 

It’s very liberating really, walking the streets without your hands, so warm, bearing my back, leading me. Without the intense look on your face, trying so hard to read my body hoping I don’t cross the street at the wrong time. Now I can cross the street without worrying about you not catching up.

And as unpleasing as the chills were when your fingers ran down my arms, as nauseating and sickening as the butterflies were, the tiring calls, the awkward hugs, our nonsynchronous lives, as much as I hate looking back at us and all our flaws. I can’t help but miss them, every second, I miss everything. I miss your arms holding me back from crossing the street freely. I miss you. So very much. 

See? I’m fine. Really, I am. I’m great. 

Untitled

He never knows when to stop. His equivocal nature rarely grants him the choice. Always adding a few extra words to a perfectly whole sentence. You never know if it’s missing any integrals. He’s the one who takes that spare step everyone eludes. The step that moves you between two very distant worlds. You know, just in case. He’s never good with strangers. His idea of a successful acquaintanceship is bearing a shallow short-worded conversation and leaving without having shared a single second of intimacy with one another. It’s better this way.She, on the other hand, always knew when to stop. She never said enough. She walked the earth careless, free, and brutal. She was always there, and not.She was an independent you and he remained a solitary I. Both were never an us. This fact was as distressing as trying to remember what it felt like when he was with her. He can’t. He can’t remember her.He can only remember how he wanted to bear a long conversation with her. He can only remember the rivulets of empty thoughts streaming his mind when he was with her. How they told him that he has to sit there until she had no more to say. He’d watch her talk, heedful of her many visages, always to be taken off guard. He hated it. He hated how she never tries, he hated the way her secrecy locked him out of her world. He hated that people told him she’d leave unknown. he hated how true that turned out to be.She was an omnipresent specter of intimidation and he was condemned to vehemently love her.

تلاتين بكره

طيب أنا كمان شهر هبقى عامله ايه؟

شهر يعني تقريبا أربع أسابيع

 و الأسبوع من أسبوع مايبعدوش عن بعض  كتير

شهر يعني تلاتين يوم

تلاتين النهاردة

تلاتين بكره

تلاتين امبارح

شهر...مش بعيد

و الشهر ده في منه كام واحد

اتناشر

لو واحد عدا الحداشر الباقيين هيعدوا زيه

هبقى عامله ايه كمان سنه؟

زي مأنا

ماهو مش بعيد

الساعه واحده و ربع الا دقيقه

ستين ثانيه يعملوا واحده منهم

تصدق هي دي اللي بعيده

هبقى عامله ايه كمان دقيقه؟

ما هي دي اللي بيحصل فيها كل حاجه

بتموت ناس في اديها حكايات

و بتخلق حكايات بتجر وراها ناس

دقيقه

مش يوم مش شهر مش سنه

صغيره بس بعيده

خللي بعدك يموتلي كل الحكايات القديمة

و يحييلي اللي هيخليلي
 التلاتين بكره اللي جايين دول أحلى من التلاتين امبارح
لو سمحتي

السنة اللي كبرت فيها

أنا فاكرة زمان وأنا صغيرة قبل رمضان بأسبوع، لما أهلي كانوا يخدوني أنا و أخويا اللي كان وقتها عنده سبع سنين عشان نروح نجيب فوانيس من الأكشاك الصغيرة اللي بترص الفوانيس على أرصفة أحمد عرابي، و تشوف الشارع بينور و يطفي أحمر في أصفر من بعيد، كنا نختار الفوانيس و بعد مانروح نلاقي جدتي جيبلنا فوانيس هي كمان. 

قبل رمضان بيومين لما مامتي كانت تنزل تجيب ياميش رمضان، و تروح البيت تفرد الحاجة على السفره و تجيب القطايف و تقعدني جنبها، تديني خمس قطايف بس ألعب بيهم، و ترميهم في الأخر عشان ببوظهم.

قبل رمضان بليلة لما كنا كلنا بنقول "ياااااه ريحة رمضان جات"، و نتفق مع قرايبنا هنتسحر فين.

أول يوم رمضان لما كنت أعيط لمامتي عشان ماتلبسنيش الطقم ده لأنه مش عجبني و كرشي بيبقى كبير و حمادة ابن خالتها بيعض يتريق عليا. (دلوقتي بقى يتريق على أخويا)

أنا فاكرة كل سنة، كل سنة نجيب الفوانيس، و نحشي القطايف، و نشم ريحة رمضان ، و حمادة يتريق عليا و يقولي يا تخينة.

لحد ما سنة جات و نسيت تجيب معها كل الكلام ده، دخلت علينا و إديها فاضية، سنة رخمة مارضيتش تنزل تجيب معانا الفوانيس؛ عشان كل الفوانيس بقت على أشكال عرايس و كرومبو و حاجات هبلة، السنة اللي بقيت أعمل فيها طبق القطايف كله عشان مامتي عارفة إني بقيت أعرف احشي الكمية الصح و اقفلها بمهارة، السنة اللي بطلت أعيط عشان بقيت أختار فيها الطقم إللي هالبسه لنفسي، السنة إللي حمادة بطل يتريق عليا فيها عشان كرشي لم بعضه و مشي (أو بمعنى أصح بقيت أعرف أشفطه كويس) 

هي دي السنة اللي رمضان فقد فيها ريحته

السنة دي هي نفس السنة اللي قلبي بطل يدق جامد من السعادة بليل و معرفش أنام ليلة سفر، السنة اللي مامتي بطلت تذاكرلي فيها على السفره، و اللي بطلت أكلم فيها صاحبتي عشان نتفق هنجيب معانا إيه في رحلة المدرسة يسلينا واحنا في الطريق

السنة دي جات و مش راضية تمشى من ساعتها، يمكن حست إني برحب بيها ولا حاجة، بس واللهي لا دي فاهمة غلط

السنة اللي كل أيامها زي بعض 

وأنا بصراحة زهقت

و ريحة رمضان وحشتني 

أوي