États d’esprit.

Capture d_écran 2018-02-03 à 16.03.36



Every 31st December, my father had to pay his car insurance, he’d squeeze us all in the car; by some law of nature I’d sit in the middle.. And go to Rabat, a whole different island for me at the time. Each year, we would eat in the same restaurant, drink coffee (still too young for it at the time) in the same place and walk through the same streets. Yet, each year I get too excited for that special day. If I’m lucky enough, on the way back they’ll take me to the supermarket, where I get to buy a helium balloon, Chips ( Crunchips to be more precise) and If I’m even more lucky, Dad would approve a cake.

That day was too special for me that weeks before, I told my classmates it was my birthday. Somehow they remembered, and came by to celebrate it with me. Awkward for my parents for sure, but I was happy. It’s the last memory I keep of our 31st ritual.

Last year, I spent it with my father, he was the one discovering a new land, I got to take him to a restaurant, a coffeeshop right after and walk in the streets. Funny how the cycle of life works.

But somehow this year, I am home, and we get to live out 31st a day later. We’re only three, but they’re the only two who stayed the same.

All of my posts on new year’s eve are honest, probably I get influenced by the spirit of resolutions and the whole propaganda. I laugh at myself when I remember a quote from the OC ” How you spend new year’s eve, is how you spend the whole year”. I know I won’t, I won’t be here all year long. I, and if I have to speak about resolutions, I have none this year. I just want to share my days with one person, and pick ourselves up together. But I’m happy I got to write this post tonight, I couldn’t sleep without writing it. The beauty of its conclusion is, as long as I’ll come back to the same bed, I’ll always be the same child inside their arms.

I love you parents, and I love you.



Restrictive writing is more creative. Give someone a white paper and he won’t know what to do with it. Give him rules and he’ll manage to produce ideas. A human starts with understanding rules, going by them and maybe if he’s lucky,  surpassing them. I say this, I say nothing.. An idea I had, to start writing poems. This white paper is damn hard without someone to brainstorm with me, and shake the dust out of my ideas.

I woke up as a bug Tuesday’s morning. I felt repulsive and unwanted. I felt oppressed by a bureaucracy that sucks my goods and gives me nothing in return. I don’t mind being invisible, it’s why I came here in first place. I knew from the beginning I came to the land of the cold where hospitality is a myth. 

I don’t mind being a stranger, I believe I was one in my own country. What I mind is being underestimated based on a cultural background. Based on racism underneath courtesy. They can’t even get over the fact you might be their equal, let along the fact you can be better than them. If you’re not their lamb, you are nothing.

I just felt.. Kafkaesque.

أتكلم ثلاث لغات، لا ادعي إتقان اي واحدة و لعل اللغة العربية أقلهن إتقانا..لم اتكبد هذا العناء؟ لأنني مؤمنة بفكرة تغير شخصيتي مع كل     لغة، و لم أخاطب نفسي يوما بلغتي الأم. إحساس غريب حقا. أحس بالنضج و التصنع.
أنا في خمود، في سبات عميق. عقلي، أو ما تبقى عاقلا منه يطفو، يرفض الانضمام إلى ما يحدث حوله. إني أدمنت على كل ما يفصلني عن الواقع. لا استطيع الاعتناء بنفسي، و حضن أمي بعيد، أنا اخترت الابتعاد عنه بحثآ عن وهم الحرية و الاستقلال. لست بناكرة جميل، وجدت هنا حضنا يضمني ولكنني في كل صباح، اذبح الحضن الذي استقبلني بتفاهاتي و لامبالاتي و سذاجتي(غبائي) وأنانيتي. صحيح هو يحبني،ولكنني ارى في حبه بقايا حب قديم لمعلمة فقدت كل مقومات الجمال.
لا يصدقني احد حين اقول انني اعاني من الاكتئاب، يقولون فقط انني فقدت المتعة في اشياء كانت ولم تعد..اليس هذا اكتئابا؟فقدان طعم التعلم و المتعة. تعذيب الروح بذكرايات كانت و لم تعد. أحاول تكوين صداقات كي احس بانني طبيعية و لكن طبيعتي او توحشي يدفعهم الى الرحيل.


It may consume a lifetime to overcome the numbing phase which precedes grasping you’re not where you belong, you don’t like where you stand, you don’t like what you have become. In the crowdedness of the day, we forget to ask ourselves, at the end of it, whether we’re still loyal to the promises we’ve once made. Worse, we fear to ask ourselves.

Rare are the souls that dare to shake the dust out of ours’. People, me non-included, rather the peer -they beautify,uglify it- than the pulp. Their words are courtesy, their attention is trickery. And that, is the true definition of loneliness. Rare are the souls that join up with you in a fragile but strong bounding, you want to consume their everything, but fear to consume their everything, and then you know,their everything can never be consumed. Each goodbye is a perfect put-on-hold and a call for the body, senses , acts and deeds to join up with the soul, and form a beautiful entity. Everything falls in harmony and makes sense. And suddenly, the world stops being such a lonely place.

It may consume a lifetime indeed..But it may consume one look from a soul to truly overcome the numbing phase which precedes grasping you are where you belong, you like where you stand, you like what you have become around him.

I am not lost, i’m on my way.

So would you take me in?


Who am i ? Such a wide question to start a novel with –that i warn you- won’t contain anything but trivialities about a girl whom present fell in many contradictions, only words healed. My life was fed up with pain,that barely existed ; and joy that ephemerally existed. Daughter of a pre-absent father and a mother. Sister of two strangers that sadly turned out to be the embodiment of everything i am not. Tragedy is,they have never earned those titles. Bigger tragedy is,that threw me in the arms of all wrong people senses have found shelter in instead. Now that you –all or none- presume to know all the keys of my seventeen-year old existence. Now that you –all or none- might predict what these blank pages will be filled with..I’ll gladly announce to you that none of what’s said above ever defined me. It’s in the stories that i have never lived that i find my reality. It’s in the lies that i find truth,and it’s in truth that i get lost.It’s in the thoughts that knock my door accidentally and bring me in here that i find my pleasure.It’s in the the smallest details that i find my ecstasy. It’s in the corner of a paper that i find my escape. It’s in an eye contact that my world crumbles,to form a beautiful harmony of shattered pieces. It’s in a daunting night,when soul is nude that i find my bare truth. And it’s in the morning right after that i find relief. It’s in being cursed that i justify my clumsy acts. And it’s in being special that i survived the indifference. It’s in a cartoon displayed in a warm July morning,when a slender light sneaks to my pillow,where my happiness can be resumed. Nothing was more pure than the smiley shining sun in the corner of the paper,the apple-tree next to the red-door-ed house. What happened in between? Life ,i presume.

I don’t have much of a story to tell. All I have is me, blank papers and many bottled inside. I’ll find it hard for me to come up with new characters, since I won’t be able to control their lives when I can’t even control mine, because I don’t want to lose myself inside of characters, neither lose them inside of me, and throw them in paradoxes of what I pretend to be, what I want to be and what I am. And last, because no one seems more caricatured than I am and the people paths of my life have led to.

It has always been me, in a world I created inside and a world that kept shattering it. Inside my world, my father was a great man, He took me in road-trips each Sunday morning, he told me stories before I go to sleep and he listened to each letter I spell. Inside my world, my mother was a happy woman. Inside my head, I was a special girl, innocent and sweet. My world is filled with great friends and family. In another world – you might call it real, but I’ll never do so, since the only things that ever seemed real to me were the ones above-. In a more mature world. My father was indeed a great man, he was a teacher. Yet, he chose to teach generations but his own daughter..My father chose to find his path to heaven, without showing his daughter the way to. Depending on his generosity, we have never surpassed three stereo-pied sentences a day. My mother was carrying three lives. When frustrated, when unappreciated she used to throw all the weight at me. I have spent many years blaming my mother for being unhappy..I hated her death-speeches and impulsive words and I have spit all my bitter failures at her : I failed because my mother never supported me. And how foolish was that of me.. I have blamed my mother for so long, in a way that when I finally stopped and realized the amount of sacrifice she made for me, us and them, I have found myself denuded from all ways of loving her, I have loved-love-will always love my mother in a way you’d never imagine if you base yourself on my acts, but I failed expressing..And that I guess, is my number one tragedy, how many remorse will I taste when she’ll be gone?

Friends? Doesn’t the concept itself carry many contradictions? How can you ask a selfish, self-centered human-being such as we all are, to befriend? Isn’t it brutal to be in need of what will never go hand in hand with our nature? Isn’t it cruel to seek pureness, when pureness is nonexistent in any possible relationship –no matter how much you may convince yourself otherwise – Maybe, my whole concept of friendship is exaggerated but I have wanted people I would give my eye to when asked, issue isn’t that I have never found those people, issue for you perhaps is that you’ll never love anyone more than your eyes. Issue for me is, i was ready to give them away to people who didn’t ask for them in the first place, and took them for granted next.. I have been living under the shelf of hypocrisy in consuming relationships that took what they saw in me first, what they wanted-needed and left me empty. I have always been left empty. And it isn’t more tragic than the way I have been filling the empty space inside. It was a vicious cycle, the more I lost, the less I started asking for. I settled. And that is my second tragedy. Our (or my if I am the only one) problem is that I have always set my walls so high at the fresh beginnings, but when wrecked due to the contrast with reality, I have settled for less and more less. In a way that I have started to welcome any sort of human-being that might cross my foggy existence and cherish his presence as if it was sacred. But eventually, I have blamed them all – all but me – for making me less perfect than I was, it’s you, it’s you who has made of me this needy creature that only you can nourish..  And i wish i was given the chance to scream my need, but oh, i have seen more backs turned at me than i saw faces. Are my senses to blame because they have been glued to all of you? What did make me earn the title of “the taken-for-granted” ? When I didn’t find support in people meant to hand it to me, I have searched for it in all sort of people. In each person, I have tried to find a lust that is going to keep me walking.