Art runs deeper than flesh and blood

I have made a vow never to write about writing; now, though I am feeling a deep desire to do it.

  This is my fourth cup of coffee in a relatively short time. Why am I doing it? Certainly not because I am that much in love with coffee; it has got something more complex to it. My brain has formed a connection between writing and coffee that now I cannot do the former without having the latter in hand. What is even weirder is that I often wind up forgetting about it until it goes cold. It is as though the mere idea of me having made coffee gives me comfort.

  I was not going to write about that in the first place. I was going to write something which typically belongs to my journal but which is also mentioned in it way too much it would be simply boring to repeat it. But then, I could not write it in here. You can just say that I am the closest thing to being allergic when it comes to mentioning something that is deeply me. That kind of what you can call embarrassment completely abandons me when that person I am forsaking detailed things in me to is nothing but a character I have made in a story of mine; I even detest anything I write which does not have me between the lines. In reality, I remain the furthest person from being me.

  When the door of my house is closed behind me as I head to the outer world, I undergo a thorough transformation in attitude: I smile, a lot; I use my hands excessively and my voice becomes shrill. The me I know myself as is not any of these. That all takes place when I am talking to people. I do not usually feel nervous on a conscious level but it appears that my unconscious has another say about that.

  I have digressed, so back to writing. You know, it is actually like this: I do not put myself into words for the fear of repeating it all again in one of my stories; it is like my stories deserve me more than I deserve myself. That does not irk me in the least. I am only a mortal made of flesh and blood; they on the other hand are Art.

 Art runs deeper than flesh and blood.

خواطر ليلية

Never wrote Arabic Poetry.....but then again, who knows?

يسدل الليل ستائره

علي يوم قد مضي و انقضي

و اندثرت في ثناياه

ذكريات لماض سحيق

فأنا لست أنا

فقط بل محض صدي

لصرخات كل من تأوه

وقال لا ادري كيف البقاء

كيف الحياة

كيف التنفس في هواء

قد اثقلته الشجون

تدفنني الاغطية

و قبري سرير

اتقلب ابحث

عن ساتر يسترني

من تلك الرأس رأسي

تجرعني الالم كؤوس

فلا أجد من ملجأ

سوي أطياف لغد

أتواري فيها

عن الافكار عن الظلال

عن اشباح الجنون

و لكن يا اسفاه

فمنها لا اجد

سوي الطرد الي

الي الان الي

لحظة تأبي الا ان تدوم

A World With No Personality (1)

Every Egyptian student has to encounter, at least once, in the exam paper, this Composition Topic:

     Technology has greatly influenced our lives making them much more comfortable and easier.

     Write in this topic expressing your opinion of how Technology has changed life to the better.

  There of course comes my mental sarcastic smile asking, "And what if I do not exactly think Technology has made life all that good?!" But, quickly, I halt that opposing pattern of thought to conjure up the best ways of betraying my beliefs in order to fill three pages praising how fantastic life is because of Technology. Now, though, I am at complete liberty to express my genuine anger at the technological world we are living in.

   The common belief is that we live in a "progressed" society. Let me just ask one basic question: From what aspects? Why do we always assume that how Time is in relation to us as humans goes in a shape resembling a stairs where you are always going to be going from good to better? Why are we not realistic enough to grasp that the future is not necessarily better than the present, and the present is not necessarily better than the past? In fact, I feel like that the more we progress in time, the more everything deteriorates, and I believe others share this belief with me. Judging also by another common belief, it is easy to deduce that most people make a mental connection between progression and Technology making them both the closest thing to being synonyms. But, is it really so?

    I once made a comparison between us with our Rockets and bombs, and our Stone Age ancestors having only caves. I found that we are both the same: most of us both have no purpose in life other than securing food clothes and shelters. It might sound like unreasonable, but just think of it with me for a while and you will find that we are only a more refined version of them. We go to school, then to college, to learn? No, to be qualified enough to find a job. When we work, are we doing it for the sake of some great cause? No, to get money. And what do we buy with money? Food, clothes and houses. Then, will somebody tell me what is the great difference? But no, there is one: the Stone Age man saw himself for what he is; we don't.

  I asked myself once if it has always been like this. I am not well read in history enough to answer this, but I do know, that in past times, there were people who lived not just for the abstract purpose of staying alive; they lived for more: they lived for a belief. They are Prophets; they are Philosophers; they are Artists, and they would be changing lives, and with lives, changing life itself. The sad thing is, we do not see any of these anymore.