it’s safety on,
because your words,
are like ammo,
to my emotional gun.
it’s safety on,
because your words,
are like ammo,
to my emotional gun.
I am here. Droopy-eyed. High.
I am here. Muscle aches. Progress.
I am here. Shocked. Delighted. Free.
I am here. Questioning. Answered. Hmm.
I am here. A little Queer. Who cares anymore.
I am here. You won’t bind me. Leave Me Be.
I am here. Busy. Fulfilled. Enjoying the Chaos.
I am here. I am glad you missed my spot.
I am here. I see all. I see all of You.
I am here. Now.
She speaks to herself sometimes, often mumbling. The creatures that live with her answer with curious eyes and hungry mouths. The days and nights roll like liquid slowly streaming down a steep street. She tries to write but the words are not arriving like before. She wonders, wonders at the reason, the purpose, the necessity of this existence. Her existence. This laborious rebirth; blissful, spiritual, quick in its slowness; emptying after a memory refill. She still mutters to herself. She pauses while washing the dishes like time stood in mourning for a moment. The thoughts quieter and the heart ticks away its beats. She thinks of the lust that entered her and she yearns. Yearns to settle for the unsettled.
Fireworks. Sparkles exploding in the sky, glittering, shining, casting light on the darkness for mere seconds. Fading, imploding, like an orgasm that should have lasted longer. The sounds popping, crackling, bouncing off the cold red walls of this ancient ascending earth. If her hand could be held, would that make a difference? If her lips were kissed, would she have felt complete? Her hands buried in her pockets from the sharp winds, some parts of her body ache in pain and others ache in pleasure. Would it really have made a difference? Her body held tight? Will she be aware at all?
On the historical full moon of Friday July 27, 2018, I performed for the first time a full moon ritual. It is a ritual where intentions are set in earnest to release destructive behavioural patterns, old conditioned thoughts, emotional stagnation and damaging personal attributes that no longer serve me in hopes for self-forgiveness, self-healing and self-development.
It is a simple ritual of writing down statements of release on a paper and then burning it up into ashes to symbolically rise with a cleansed calm mind, purged negative emotions and a newly created space in the heart. I sincerely had no idea what to expect literally and figuratively and I have reached that point in my life where the faith in discovering my true self and a higher power has only began to manifest.
I had researched that anything could happen during this process. The paper could take time or less time to burn, depending on the chemistry between fire and paper. I was prepared that it might take several attempts to see it burn through. As I put the paper alight, flames engulfed it so ferociously I had to lean back. It looked like swaying mountains of red dancing right in front of me. After a few seconds, the burning slowed down, ashes began to spread and to my amusement the paper had began to recede into a single word like an underwater volcano that erupted and its lava was forming an island in backwards. This island of a paper stopped receding exactly at the word “confront” from the noun that I wrote “confrontation”.
I cracked a smile and my throat choked part from surprise and part from what felt like an immaculate awareness from this cosmic demand. The universe, or something out there, cared enough to advice me and maybe elevate me consciously on this stifled planet. It was like a cold slap on the face though. No therapist could have said it louder, no drug could have taken me higher, no failed relationship could have humbled me so into self-realisation.
Of course, like an embarrassed child caught stealing cookies, I began to question confront what? I have just confronted major mind and heart ache, what more can I confront now? Could I not just catch a break and breathe? Not yet.
Then I understood I was not confronting enough, in fact, my confrontations are half-assed and ego-serving. I should not pride in the confrontation of my last long relationship gloating that I got the upper-hand, or confronting various situations with a bad attitude and defensive energy because I feel entitled. It is my self that I must confront.
Having said that, on the same day, Mercury began its retrograde in Leo. Leo represents courage. It’s crystal clear now that my message from the universe is to also find courage. The courage to confront fairly, forgive, be compassionate and ultimately let go.
enter into my world softly and ignite a curious flame?
trace the cracks on my shell and fill them with shimmering gold?
play with the child, reassure the teen and elevate the woman?
breathe in me your fire, quiet my winds and still my waters?
listen to my silence, read my tears and write gentle caresses on my skin?
offer your body freely, share your mind boldly and fuse your soul wholly?
flow with me, glow with me, grow with me?
swim against the current with me?
No. I didn’t think so.
A revival of sorts. A reemergence of emotions, thoughts, perceptions, dreams & nightmares. A grand opening of the soul. A display of inner wonders. Beginning with, of course, a rant of repressed emotional histories.
I am not a mind for you to cloud. I am not eyes for you to shield. I am not ears for you to deafen. I am not a mouth to spit your words. I am not a throat for your halo to choke. I am not breasts for your misery to nurse. I am not emotions for you to sicken. I am not legs to tread your path. I am not a body for your release. I am not a soul for you to posses. I am not a heart for you to break.
I am. I am. I am. I am nothing. I am everything. I am mine.
For 11 months now, I have been commuting between two major cities in Egypt; Cairo and Alexandria on a fairly regular weekly basis. The distance between them is about 220km. It does not sound like a lot and in fact the Cairo/Alex desert road has been recently renovated to meet “international standards”, and yet many street lamps are not even lit ensuring to keep hazardous standards above average. Such is the joy of driving in Egypt.
Every weekend I go to Alexandria to help my mother out in her restaurant. Then I return to Cairo 4 days later to work in the office for the NGO work and thus that has been my life for 11 months. What prompted me to take this decision still astounds me to this second and such a decision did not wait to come without its share of consequences yet I am slowly discovering the reasons, the explanation, the purpose or whatever it is I’m supposed to discover through therapy and sobriety.
To try and step away from the seemingly perpetual company negativity and pessimism that have been good friends of mine for a couple of years now, I will list 10 good points and 10 bad points of this experience which actually has a genuinely challenging one. In a nutshell, it has been taxing on me mentally and emotionally and needless to say physically. And this is the kind of “travel” that hopeful Facebook posts talk about that has helped me discovered the joys of life or the beauty of who I am and could be. Commuting in Egypt is no joy ride. Endless traffic is endured, potholes and bad roads are passed over, pedestrian zombies and roadkill are dodged and a harsh test of reality and patience is passed upon you by force.
Anyway, here is my list of pros and cons of living and commuting between two major cities on a weekly basis.
Why is it that the green accept button is always on the right? And the slide option is towards the right too? The right side is inherently associated with the right choice, like the Angel that sits on your right shoulder, looking over you, whispering goodness and stuff. What if I’m left-handed? Anyway, I digress. Still, the choices we made, wrong or right, ends up being the right purposeful one somehow. No matter how shitty the choices and the voices were, and how shitty the consequences and screams became, it is always, and indefinitely, unapologetically, the right choice.
But I made some pretty bad choices which have affected me to this day. I am healing now though. I made a choice to heal myself. As I painfully discovered that no one and nothing can truly heal you except yourself. So I dragged myself out of the muck by sheer wilful force. A force that I never knew existed but still came out of that ancient place within me that declined being dragged down, controlled, subdued, or subjected and misguided by substances or people. I have forgotten what is was to be self-sufficient, self-reliant, self-respecting and free. I wonder if I ever was free. I wonder now if I can really begin to understand self-love.
At long last, I am transitioning, hopefully, into a person that is prepared, ready, exhausted and willing enough to accept. I am no longer resisting the accept button, no longer surrendering to decline the truth, or accept a downward spiral. Fuck that shit. It’s not worth it. Things are not worth it. People are not worth it. And the notions and ideas and pasts memories and misconceptions and grudges and anger no longer serve weight to intoxicated victories or infested emotions or warped existential psychological freedom. It only served as a dead weight, a paper weight holding down papers that should fly free when the winds of change come gushing.
I accept that I have emotional issues that need to be addressed and taken care of and it’s ok for me to take my time into understanding them.
I accept that forgiving my parents and moving on from the resentment I held towards one or both of them is essential to my individual growth and finding out who I am with and without the reflections of their inadequate selves projecting through me and my behaviour.
I accept that letting go of people who have existed in my life for too long and accepting the differences and changes that have occurred between us is part of a bigger plan and accepting that fact is the best thing I could have done to myself in so fucking long.
I accept that I live in a unforgivingly negative country thriving on socio-economic issues, political mistrusts and soul-pollution and it is going to take years for any pure change to take affect.
I accept that I must live in a bubble.
I accept that I must work very fucking hard to achieve any relief financially, physically, emotionally and ultimately spiritually. Very fucking hard.
I accept the Now most of all. I accept the Past and I accept the Future as non-existent entities that have piqued the denial I’ve lived in and robbed me from true clarity.
A river of expression has been flowing within me but that flow keeps coming to a splashing halt against this invisible dam. I have no idea what sort of dam it is or why it is there. But it is there. Majestic, thick, menacing and shall not let my thoughts, feelings or creative purge flow at all.
I am stuck in this state. Over the past couple of weeks I have been delaying, procrastinating, writing a post because I kept yo-yoing between what topic I wanted to write about. I had one topic lingering that I chose to title “forgiving the parent(s)” and others that kept bouncing off the peeled plaster of the walls in my head. They are still bouncing, mad, like angry birds.
Could it all have started with the parents? The agony of growing up? The blaming game when the going gets tough?
So this is a post of my inability to purge in hopes that it still succeeds in purging something.
My mind is restless. My body is screaming for a change. For a state of what it once was. Self-effacing, self-loathing. Sometimes I can feel pretty good actually that I have come a long way. Faced shitty people, shitty environment, shitty substances, shitty realisations. And sometimes I wonder what went right. What went wrong again. What went where why? Back and forth, forth and back. The mental cobwebs go as quickly as they come, like the spider themselves, always in a hurry, always still. The left side of my body is out of balance. From my left eye to my left foot. All the points and joints hurt. But still, I am, amazingly, astronishngly, surviving unscathed. Just yet, for now. Sipping on tea with milk. Extra milk. With that sourly sweet aftertaste at the back of my throat.
The Mediterranean Sea
September 19, 2016
Dear Mr. Jellyfish,
This is just a quick update on my recovery from your generous stings 8days ago on what should have been the first day of a cheery relaxed vacation with friends after 9 months of hard work and barely any breaks.
Unfortunately, it has not been the most pleasant of recoveries especially when, well, because, you see, physically, you left my left arm nearly useless with a swollen wrist and immovable fingers for at least two days. Only shadows of your marks were visible then because my skin was too taut to even show the veins on the top of my hand. Freaky stuff. My wrist looked like a relatively heavy baseball bat just swung its way nonchalantly by a drunk in a soliloquy. I cried, figuratively and literally, for the strongest painkiller just to curb the indescribable pain I had to bear for the first 6 hours from our sticky situation, but there were no pills. Maybe that is what being flayed feels like, or more like being flayed while a sinister bad-breathed Egyptian government employee sweetly runs the top of a flame from a knock-off Bic lighter just high enough under my skin so as not to turn it into a crisp.
I really did not mean to swim your way, Mr. Jellyfish. I had not been a few minutes in the water and was just about to swallow the horizon and lose myself into it to find the peace I been, and still, looking for, while ignoring the waves of negativity, but alas, it was short lived and fate brought us to our watery embrace. My good intentions, if I could so boldly claim so, did not prepare me for what was coming next, and one tentacle at a time, you have changed my life forever.
People have seen my arm aghast assuming I got burnt, by acid perhaps, or some horryifing man-made chemical mix which could be just as obscene. So I find it amazing that all you needed to do was probably poop your poison on me and not even wipe.
Anyway, there was enough human drama happening in the background that I envy your obvious oblivion to the details. I wished you were there though, tentacles crossed on the sofa, greased up with after sun, smoking a cigarette perhaps, and stinging the hell out of our irreversible human drama without reproach. So cool that you could swim away with shit like that. Respect.
Pain is such a lonely experience. To be human, in this day and age with its bullshit drugs and technological addiction, is even lonelier.
I wish you a happy long life, Mr. Jellyfish, and I hope we never meet again.
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