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.

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Opium

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?

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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.

I have hung everything I would possibly want in my life on the most unstable things. People, mainly. They kept failing me, and I kept failing my wanted things. They kept leaving, and so did my.. Not dreams, neither ambitions, they have surpassed that to become my pre-lived reality – that refused to ever become reality – . My basic kept being crashed, and so did every little part of me. Result is obvious I presume. I have never accomplished anything in my life, even if I did, it has never been mine. It was theirs, they who instead of support added more weight, and they who have made me feel worthless unless I did something worthy for them, and unseen unless they see in me what they have wanted to be seen. Shame how at a certain point I stopped seeing myself.

“Those who forgot the past, are condemned to repeat it” My past is no exception from any. Comforting because it’s gone, constantly filled with mistakes only present is aware of, and bittersweet. I refuse to call my childhood my golden age. It never was. Whenever my memory takes me there, I feel empty. All I see are features time has roughened up and small interrupted pieces from a chain , yet none completes the other. I watched Peter pan, and that day I guess, I started living. That cartoon has brought to my existence the essential ingredients to live : dreaming and hoping, wanting and needing. I dreamed Peter pan is going to come up to my window and help me fly around. I hoped Peter pan is going to come up to my window and help fly around. I wanted peter pan to come up to my window and help me fly around. But mainly, I needed peter pan to come up to my window and help me fly around when things got ugly. I was a dreamer. Many of you relate a dreamer child to one cliché-tic sentence “When I grow up, I want to be :insert a mainstream job:” Allow me to correct and say, that stands for being an ambitious child, and an ambitious child can’t exist. That cliché-tic sentence is nothing but the injection of adults, since I can’t see why a nine-year-old child would want to be a doctor or an engineer when his grasp barely swallows their meanings, when he has all paths of imagination instead. Ever since I was little, I wanted everything and nothing. Each day had its colour, Monday was white only because it followed Sunday, my cursed bloody red day. Tuesday was blue and empty, Wednesday was yellow and cheerful, Thursday was dark-blue and long, and Friday was colorless. Each day had its dreams and its adventures. I wanted to taste everything, touch everything and become everything. And even if that grew up to make of me this unstable person, I am grateful I had that as a child. The rest of my childhood, was empty. I was thrown in mazes of must-be the first in class, and that pretty much absorbed all my essentials to live. I was absent in all my supposed to be filled child’s mistakes (but constantly present in my adult’s). I was selfish and unkind. Worst of all, I was typical.

Ice cream and tears.

“Désolée pour papa”.

I couldn’t come up with a better sentence, that Tuesday. We sat silently, i started singing comfortably numb, questioned the ethics of being in a funeral and singing, then stopped. But you smiled and you kept on singing. And we listened to the song three hours in a row. It became our every Friday-ritual.

I would never forget this scene. I have seen more dramatic ways to manifest grief. People faint, cry until blood replaces tears..But this one, this one was more me. If i were you and you were me, we would have done the very same, and i wouldn’t ask for a better way.. No words can swath the wound. And no bandage is as good as the one ripped.

Time and silence are two powerful things. Words try to squeeze in between the two and gain an equal esteem. But no, words, you are highly inadequate. Unfaithful to the raw essence, do not show up when needed the most, deviate people and do not commit to schedules.

Each time i tried to write something, i deceived myself(and probably those who try to read it). I finish, and it’s not me. No, not a problem of good enough, but not me. I am not the person who writes because he knows more and want to document you, frankly, i do not know anything better than what i have been taught. What made me write was me knowing what i feel, or at least, trying to figure it out. And throughout this year, that part of me was muted. I can blame time. But i won’t lie, i had time, i had enough time to sit in front of the computer for hours, contemplate the white pixels, write a word, question what’s the point, and stop.

I was never a talkative person. And i remember in an “if you really know me” sequel, that i only talk when i feel comfortable. And WordPress made hell of changes that made me not feel so. No seriously..

But i still believe that this part of me is immortal. That the little girl who watches something, sneaks to the orange basket and hides so people won’t see her tornado, can’t grow up. I know i can’t grow up because it’s been three days that i didn’t remove the hiking shoes i’ll use to scratch a dream from my to-do-list..

Yes, i am my own version of Peter Pan.

Amour nomade-89.