Burden too heavy, body too frail.

You Should Know

You should know,

That when I say I want to savor the rum of life before I have to spill the rest to make room for more water, I mean it in a far deeper way than just wanting to dwell in a drunken state in a failed attempt to escape the inevitable slap of reality; time is ticking away.

I wanna grow old with you, you say.

But I never wanna grow old.


You should know,
That I had to grow up too fast I didn't get to be young while young.

You should know that time only moves on a straight line and a point left behind is a point forgotten.

From now on it's only regret : The things I did, or the things I will never get to do.

You should know that when I say "it's been difficult", I be talking about the tip of an iceberg; there are things you can't discern by just looking; and things I never talk about.

It's too heavy on the tongue to explain, the origin of my immense pain.

You should know that I'm not trying to punish myself or punish you, or punish anyone else that would love to see this through, I just wish to take a long break and figure things out.

What these things are, I don't know
I just wish I'd have the luxury of being selfish. For once. And the comfort of not knowing.

I'm entitled to at least that, grinding thus.

You should know that you are not bound to me in any way, and that if you refuse to accept this package of chaos that comes hanging from the tip of my gown, I only pray for you to find the happiness you earnestly deserve, and I couldn't give to you. To find consolation in another's shoulder, instead of a one constantly falling whenever you try to lay your weight upon them,

I'm not unhappy.

I just wish to be happy ,and getting into a rabbit hole along with another ,when it's too tight for one to begin with,
When I know in the deep of my soul
That I might never make it out the same,

Make my chances of being so, happy, drop to 50% and I'm done gambling.. 

I'm done dancing waltz with uncertainty.

God sees all,
God knows all. Only He can judge this conviction I made.
It's my sole consolation, believing that I don't need to say it out loud, yet He still understands.
And life wouldn't make sense at all if happiness could be attained by some ,sooner, while others stumble upon it never.
And God is just , therefore He shalt solace the unhappy.

One way or another.

You should know that I don't intend to be your solace in this life just because you think you are entitled to happiness.

We all are, my good friend, but one "can't make homes out of human beings".

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Healah Dancing

We'd make a great couple, they say
Fitting pieces of a marvelous puzzle
Designed by the hands of fate
This so-called attractive disparity they all plaudit ,and to which they compare
The known of tender sentiments between a pair
Such is the cause of my heart's grave aliment

See,
To entice,
Compliment natures don't always partake
And pray, it's not you that I
Disdain, mon frere, I beg to explain
You would've been a perfect beau, I don't intend to feign
It's this morbid notion that I aim to shake
Planting the mention of destiny, when the chat swings towards the soulful vagaries
Repeating again and again that every viking lord has his sole valkyrie
It's true, I found home in your heart, warm, and your kind words, tender and calm
And you played too well the part of the knight in a shining armor

But you and I, my tender lover
You and I are akin to the two faces of the moon
Enamor, does the one discerned from afar among the dim light of the stars

But no songs have been written for the dark side, hidden

I
Have been hiding in your shadow
Storing handfuls of your glow inside the cracks of my being
Eating up your soul like a black widow
You have always been the bright one in this awkward duo
And I
Embrace the night, vast and alluring ,as you so propose
Yet too blunt and boring, I should suppose from your grunts and sighs
Our profound differences, to my unwonted nature, seem so abhorring
I say that I'm not made for this ,with a daft giggle
And you think my attempts at acting fickle are charming

You still won't understand
That I could lie to the world
And spare you

That these words, I'd still own if I'm ever to say yes
And I'd forever stand by your side as your faithful bride
Lay your heavy head on my lap as you weep and confide
Let your weight fall upon my shoulder when your limbs are meek
And you're feeling too weak to stride on your own

And for all I know I'd still call it love
Just not the type of love you seek

That when you call my name with such pliant grace
I'd stand petrified in my place
Vaguely retrace my steps when you start to crawl my way with open arms
Because ,truly

I'm just too afraid to fall

For, my precious jade of a kind lover, to fall
Is to fade

And I try to stand tall as I wield my blade
While in the dwelling of my safe shield I shudder, terribly so
At the thought of being dragged upon baring my flaws and insecurities
To the lows of shame and regret

Perhaps that's how you found me, eh

A black swan in a crowd of Egrets

Thou have mistaken my callous apathy for strength of will, and my
Unabated episodes of frets and anxieties
For anecdotes of promising thrill
Ignored my shaken joints and my trembling lip
Only reveled at my tightening grip on my sword as I
Bled
While coming to blows with
Disappointments
I can gather my own shreds, much obliged, sir
I only fear for your limbs to fail under the weight of my own bane
If you try to condole me yet
For my hefty tears to drill holes in your skin when you cajole me
Caress my temples and
Try to pluck, in vain
At the strings of this broken lute

But you,

Just love to fix things, don't you, Don Quixote ?

Note VI

It's also pretty interesting, how my artistic inclination have evolved so, moving steadily from profile pencil sketches to landscape pencil to oil realistic to acrylic abstract

To impressionistic

To fantasia ,and conceptual..

Give me a word and I'll draw its definition, its color and the measure of its power...that's the sorta thing I dig these days. People moved from "this is amazing" to "I don't get it" slowly..
But one gets bored of all the limitations on what we call "art" you know, it doesn't make sense to people but it makes perfect sense to me, it's meant to make sense, you only have to live in my head...

I don't think one is supposed to produce a work devoid of any meaning and call it a masterpiece, especially when it's an abstract work...plunging in your pallet and splashing blotches here and there; this is a crime....I mean, you can't possibly call that inspiring, it's merely reduced to a form of dissipation. A violent and very deceitful form of self expression.
Being severe and physical doesn't correctly portray anger; the same way playing a Beethoven piece with that idea in mind results in an ear-grating performance instead of paying homage to his memory. But that's my own impression, mind you.

Someone I came across was complaining that artists try so hard to shove down messages through their work, and it got me thinking whether the real value of one's work lies in delivering its intended so-called "message", or successfully inducing a sense of grasping a message, real or fake..

"It means whatever you want it to mean", "It's up to your interpretation, because I certainly didn't mean anything"...strings of thought like that make me go as far as my distant childhood.
When I was a kid i read a few pages of a book I found in my sister's closet, it was hidden and got me anxious to know what it was about, more so that most of its pages were missing..It was a novel, but one of these Nietzsche-ish novellas with chances of philosophy trickling everywhere, only in Arabic ..The author was arguing that atheism on the grounds that the universe's inception was due to an elaborate string of fortuitous events, is utterly and completely ridiculous because, here comes :

You can't write down words on shreds of paper, throw them on a flat surface and expect them to form a well-structured , meaningful, memorable poem, in your tenth, hundredth, even the thousandth trial.

Chance may very well breed something of substance, but it could never be truly beautiful. Meaning is beautiful. Engineered, and intended. Thought of. With a strong will to get found and be heard.

A strong desire to abide and live.

Meaning.

And it made perfect sense to this curious 7 y/o..

Ever since then I used to spend a long while looking at the work of a stranger wondering to myself :

"What are they trying to say ?"

Years have passed and I'd stop petrified facing the exact usual dilemma of my youth, only on the other side: standing still, mind so loud, heart so noisy, staring at a blank canvas the same way I'd stare at a blank report page on the night of a deadline, not knowing what to do with it.

I was dwelling in a state of such confusion, one of these times, and....this old man comes up to me and says in a broken accent :

"You should switch off your mind, or you won't hear your heart clearly", as corny as that sounded.

But it nevertheless hit me then : it's not about the purpose. it's not a valedictorian speech, it doesn't have to scream out loud, and remind people of its presence. That is so pathetic, begging for recognition, and so very typical of me, considering my nature. It is all so wrong and pretentious.

One has to invest in putting in their own genuine feelings, rather than thoughts...And that is why I stopped making sense. Started flirting with concepts and phrases and lyrics and poems with my brush..My impressions, what I feel when i finish a book, how I feel when i'm listening to a song, how a certain word would bleed if you stab it with a point-pen; that opened all sorts of possibilities to me; and

It made me feel so alive, and happy. 

A residual feeling you leave behind in your work could tell a great deal about you, and could have a value so heavy it makes you an immortal.

Because a concept, an idea, a poignant feeling, they never die.

I understood this when I was tried to paint what Anarchy looked like, and thinking to myself

"Would they see what I see?"
"Would they feel what I'm feeling right now?"

If you had one more minute with a person that is no longer alive

What would you say?

I'd say nothing. Silence is so eloquent.

"Doesn't love make your head spin?"

Letters To My Ex-otic

8:34 pm

It brings little to no consolation, learning that I managed to get over you while you didn't.
Get over me, that is.


8:47 pm

It kinda pisses me off actually.
All these years, and I still can't crack open that black box of a mind you got there.

Oh well, I'm glad it isn't my problem to solve.


1:18 am

*ucking leave my family alone.

"If you had your gun would you shoot it at the sky, to see where it would fall, if it would come down at all ?"

It scares me that I can't pin point an instant where I changed my perception of love from a feeling to a choice.

It scares me that I'm choosing to fall in love with you because it's the easiest way out.

I rid myself of redundant connections like tired Ginko shed their vivid leaves.

Preface

To those who left too early,
And those who stayed despite our flaws and folly.

"What made you this way?"

The eloquent silence of my father.
And mature resilience of the child in my mother.

The Poor Knight

I respect that about you, a great deal, your classic chivalry.

Despite all the differences that I say they mortify me as I lol while secretly meaning it in all earnestness, for you know I can't lie to save my life, I will always respect you for being an honest person.
Honesty is a collective term, see, and I mean your having an honest heart and an honest gaze. By conscious choice. Your actions speak for your intentions, and they are as clear as a summer day. And you have a very curious way of saying what you want without resorting to metaphors and lengthy expressions : you just look at someone straight in the eyes without faltering.

You make it look so easy to be an open book.

I fail in that regard, seeing how much of a coward I am, ranting on a cyber blog with all the passion I've got when i don't have a single motivation to say how I truly feel towards someone.
When I speak, I utter no lies.
But I steer away from bumpy conversations. sliding on a paved road of small talk and casual inquiries. 

It's easy not to lie when you never have to.

But you don't bother protecting yourself, as I've seen. And I love you, your existence, infinitely for it.
I love your person beyond all bounds for being a walking sunflower, with petals so expendables, and seeds benevolent.
You get my silly metaphors by now, I trust. For I lost the ability to speak in an intelligible manner long ago.

Even when it takes its toll upon you, your young body, and young soul, you still choose to get slapped by the vileness of this world over and over.
And over.
Because you don't have it in you to step and trash. Though you argue that man is "inherently bad", I don't see it that way.
Goodness exists, and part of it resides within you.

Do you know how many men in the world are like that ? quite rare.


PS : I know, I appreciate people a lot in here recently, it's because I've been blessed and I've got to bless back.

Caprice

Within the past month i wrote more than 10,000 words in vain.
For the past month i refused to sit and compile a 10,000 words thesis proposal.

Nobody tells me to write on here, and I don't get paid to do so, yet I can't stop.
My future lies in these 10,000 words I'm asked to write, yet I feel no urge to produce them. Because they are not honest.

Note 10

12: 00 am

I ran away from you because you remind me of how much I've changed.

I don't hate the person I've become, I don't know if I should, humans are a product of their experiences, they grow and evolve, and change is a natural process.
But if you always accept and love yourself for "who you are" no matter how far you stray from the path you thought you will follow for the rest of your life,
constantly adjusting your lain route to match your capricious strolls on dormant landmines,
Then how do you know when to stop ?

How do you know that you walked too far ?

How do you know that the person you've become isn't the person that you swore you'll never be ?

You remind me of who I was, and it makes me remember how much I've changed in the last 7 years, that I have no feelings at all for the young me, no sympathy, no admiration, no revulsion, no love in particular, no appreciation for the experiences and bonds I've created then.
I just love my current self because it's the one self that I have to deal with right now.
i only give it healthy doses of love that guarantee its survival, I got way too much on my plate to torment myself by self-hate; it's the way of goners, self-laceration. It killed Schimkov.
I know how much I struggle, and I deserve at least this acceptance.

That isn't wrong. I know it.

I'm still trying to figure myself out.
I'm still working on my connection to God.
I'm still trying to separate my motifs from my convictions
I'm still sorting out the bonds that are worth keeping from the ones that are keeping me back.

It must be nice, having your life figured out for you, isn't it ?

You are one of these friends that belong to an era; a stage of one's life, and it messes things up when you try to reach out for a person that no longer resembles the one you used to know.
You don't wanna do this.

12: 16 am

I think this is very healthy,

Perhaps I didn't want to carry this burden.

You should've asked me before you dumped it on my back.

On Lifeguards That Are Afraid Of Water

What do you think is the acceptable mode of behavior
When you see a close one falling 
To the abyss of rupture that you just managed to spin out of?

Should you pretend you never noticed because the world has too many a flaw to fix on your own?
Do you
Try to convince your troubled mind at night that you shouldn't care 
Because the thought of your fall wouldn't linger in their minds long

That thou wouldn't dare to plunge after the tips of their fingers, sinking

Because you are afraid of not getting out again

An emerging savior
Or a lone survivor 

You spent just way too long down there
To not remember how the depths of that pit horrendously pong

So do you set back utterly content ;try to console your nagging conscience by the enduring thought that you intend
To dangle your trembling hand to their aid when the time is fair
While you dwell in the comfort of safety, far above
Or
Do you run along your way because they are fully capable and grown
They should know how to swim on their own
Or learn on the spot when push comes to shove

It's a savage world out of your bubble

And nobody gave you a hand at your first struggle

Stay, do you shed a tear as you stand akimbo
Cheering on them to rage and rampage against their love
Or fear
Of the viscid darkness 

You saw them slip as they wandered on, didn't you
Perhaps you saw them jump in despair when they blundered
And now they are calling
Not for a kind hauling, but for you to hop along in for a swim
And you are
Stalling

You love them, true

But life has taught you to steer clear of slippery places
So you stop to stare, quietly, because it's the wisest move
They need a living witness of their marvelous break
A warm pat and a prosaic attempt to console
As they break out of that wretched hole
Though watching quietly is too severe and hurtful a life lesson
True, but it's slightly more thoughtful than squirting the classical jeer of

I told you so

I'm sorry you came to love me.

I make it too hard to, don't I ?

I'm sorry I couldn't love you back

And I'm sorry I didn't try. Not harder, but not at all

I'm sorry I don't know how to be stern on my heart, so spoiled and selfish to twist and morph
To fit and adapt
To surf the wave of passion when it came my way

I'm sorry I wanted you to stay
Close
But not so close I could hear your deafening heartbeats; they

Put the quietness within my chest to shame

I'm sorry I don't think that I am the one to blame 
For this commotion

And

I
Am sorry that I don't believe I owe you the courtesy of acknowledging your feelings.

Note 16

Why do flowers die when their roots are exposed though ?

One would think that whatever the extension could handle, the origin should be as strong to withstand...if not conquer, at least.

I mean
What came first should have the ability to abide

Perhaps
flowers would die to hide beneath the ground, and
Roots would kill to bloom in the open

Perhaps each should be given the chance to decide
How to live
And how to perish.

-What do you see?
-I see a flower pot.


-What do you see?
-I see urban buildings washed by the rain.


-What do you see?
-Nothing of form, but the colors are kind to the eyes.


-What do you see?
- I see blood and fire, I see the aftermath of a war.


-What did you mean for people to see ?
-What's in their hearts.