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.