perhaps

Perhaps this loneliness is an embodiment of something bigger than just my objectification of unavailable partners that dictated the nature of my “romantic” relationships with them all these years. 

Perhaps the allure for such partners is because of that deeply unresolved wound incurred by an early incident of childhood rejection. 

Perhaps this rejection arose from the feeling of being a burdened afterthought by caregivers because they were ignorant of their own unhealed pains. 

Perhaps that lack of nurture led me to feel rejected and betrayed by childhood friends with whom I posed some kind of threat because of my overall design. 

Perhaps my soul’s design is meant to dwell in this loneliness because I am supposed to embrace it once and for all, injest it like the hardest pill to swallow in the flighty hopes that I can finally give more of a fuck to myself than I did for others for way too fucking long.

Perhaps giving so much of myself has blessed me with so many obstacles that gave my head a nauseous spin, never-ending states of discomfort and unyielding knots that perpetuate up and down my spine stopping at intricate points in my body, leaving behind a tickle or an itch you can never satisfy no matter how far you reach for it or how hard you scratch. Then the frantic breathing stops and the rush of thoughts commence its thundering pursuit of my sanity; bellowing steam and confetti and it all gets rather mad up in here.

Perhaps I am mad enough now to greet my loneliness and give it a name, a shape, a button-down shirt, a dress with animal prints, or a fidget spinner, to finally comprehend in this sweet sweet mind of mine that I can feel loneliness fearlessly, gracefully. 

Perhaps as I become unapologetically lonely I can, without any fucks given, end ruminating over loops of feel good fallacies as I unravel more and more of the world’s ugliness as well as my own.

Perhaps that is just how its meant to be and honestly I can give fuck all to what anybody thinks about what I got to say at this point.

Anyway,

Perhaps surrender to my loneliness is a better shield,  a solitary kind of romance where I can be lonely with myself and somehow in the muck of it all, we (me, myself and I) will find a different kind of light that can brighten up the way so that this loneliness can finally just become aloneness.

Perhaps that will feel better. 

Perhaps…perhaps….perhaps.

a Love letter

Dearest Nora,

I was stingy with you because I did not know any better and I have only recently started to learn how to love you so get ready to receive because I’m about to tell you now how much I love you and why I love you in no particular order but to finally put some order and rest in your heart and mind.

So, I love you.

I love your perseverance through adverse and challenging times especially when they have been many and regular.
I love your fierce loyalty towards certain family members and friends, only the ones that listened with love and patience and stood beside you.
I love your wild imagination and attention to details that most people miss.
I love your capacity to forgive yet the assertiveness to not forget.
I love that you when you stumble, which you often do, you do it with grace.
I love your offbeat humor accompanied by hearty laughs and eyes that show it.
I love your kaleidoscope of interests in and out of life and how you bite your lips when you reverse engineer existence in fleeting thoughts.
I love your unwavering interest in the darkest and brightest corners of the psyche with faith in the unseen.
I love how you stand up for yourself unapologetically, you grasp your uniqueness and you are not ashamed to voice it.
I love how you appreciate beauty in the ancient and the aged by time.
I love your humility and adaptability.
I love your honesty and your determination to always uphold the truth no matter how much it stings.
I love how you embrace sensuality felt through the palms of your hands and your fingertips.
I love how you can love intimately and passionately with such devotion and you understand what it means to give your body, heart and soul to someone yet maintaining respectful boundaries remembering that you have always been whole.
I love that you are aware of the lucky ones who are open enough to receive even an ounce of your kindness and compassion and those lucky ones are not many and you are ok with that too. You are also uniquely connected to your dreams and the rhythm of the universe inside your body and outside of it. Not many are even aware of that sort of potential. You are special. You have always been special.

There is a collection of wonderful things about you to love, that I can love, and that many others can love; family, friends, lovers, partners, children, animals.

You deserve to be loved as sincerely and genuinely as you love.

There is no one I would be rather in this life time other than you.

All the light,
Nora

37 and a 1/2

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? 

She might. 

blood moon

Her name is Scarlet and she is a lunar maiden of sorts. She is the priestess of the temple that is nestled between her curvy hips. She is the guardian of her sacred den, the protector of the cradle of life, the only captain of her vessel. She is the lady Atlas that carries the ocean where children swim breathless.

She is the she-wolf as she howls at her blood moon and empties her lungs into the night, embracing her mysterious sensuality. She teases and spoils the mystical goddess within her at that time of the month with a breath of relief and a flirty wink to herself in the mirror. The mood swings and the anger tantrums and the unleashed beast that devours her and everyone around her prior can finally come to its routine halt because peace comes once more to restart a period that gets her off another emotional rollercoaster ride unscathed.

Once that monthly ritual is soaked in ceremony, a smile returns to her face, to her womb, to her mind, to her body, to her heart. Emotions are settled, categorized and under control. It is a time when a glow returns to her cells. Her skin smoothens and her hair untangles. Her limbs glide and float. Her bosoms swell with an irresistible invitation to nurse all the sadness in the world.

She is not filthy. She is not unholy as holy men claim her to be. She is privileged and empowered by the very fluid that waters her garden. She is what she is meant to be, a woman in full glory; respected, adored, handled with care. She is sexy because she bleeds; she bleeds because she is sexy. She is the child in her playground of sensitivity and Greek muses feather her with inspiration and renewed awe. The cramps she feels are the sacred pulses of Mother Earth preparing her to provide the greatest gift: life.

She is a woman, just like me, a woman that is fueled by the blood moon and not run down by it, not scared of it, not bored of it, not ashamed of it.

square-headed serpent

In my advanced creative writing course, we were asked to write a surreal piece using a sentence that came out of a group exercise. The sentence came out as: “The square-headed serpent that quenches this gloomy paradise”.

I was not entirely sure how to go about it until I finally added my twist to it. I always wanted to express my dismay against social media and its evils in particular the blessed and cursed phone we carry around like we carry our soul,  so I guess this kind of worked for me in a symbolically surreal or surreally symbolic way.

It is nothing grand and it could probably use a lot of beef so yea.

Fall of humanity in biblical times does not seem to be so different from fall of humanity nowadays. We are so disconnected it is unbearable.

“The heat stretches long, as long as the solitary serpent’s slithering skin, while the sun sweats in the cloudless sky and the wind is lazy unswaying the leaves to stillness like a negligent lover. The hums and prayers of creatures are muted into a pause from the day’s heat that not even the shade of an old tree can provide a breath for life. Angels have fallen into a deep slumber twisting with shallow nightmares and binary shrieks under the blankets of faithlessness. Yet an angel is rudely awakened by the nagging alarm sounds of an uncharged phone that fell from the knowledgeable tree. The winged creature picks up the phone and notices the flickering lights from the cracked screen, it moves its head closer and squints at the slideshow pictures of a decaying Eden. Then a scream from the serpent’s heart travels across waterless streams and grassless grounds bending further the winged creature’s neck as if redemption will be found between the cursors and the dots and the dings and the dongs. So the heart is flawed and the darkness of our squared-headed serpent does quench this electronic gloomy paradise.”

the meeting

“The memories pass through my lips as we walk together to meet the stranger under my skin, the hardened reflection of what could be, tripping over and picking up the over stuffed backpack with fluorescent promises. We hold each other’s hands, cell greets cell with wide grinding smiles, and we are guided into a chamber glimpsing at reality as reality winks back at us. Eyes dilated, a halo survives above your head, shimmering, static, crawling over the fading screen of your irises. Is this wakefulness the truth or is it removing the filter of our eyes? Nostrils flared, the deep beat ribbons its way into the veins behind the retinas and bursts open the valves of my heart. My heart throbs like a stack of pills falling by the tremble of a cat’s tail. Another line to cross and we are consumed into another chamber. The monster is right behind us swallowing smoky waves and frothy air. In the distance, amidst the gigantic tree-like trunks of our past, present and future, small mouths mutter and mumble wordless thoughts gnawing at my brain like insects over a fresh crust of old skin. My old journals fly around flapping their pages, regurgitating jealousy, anger, shame, regret, love, love, lovelessness, the ultimate solitude, following other pages towards a gaping hole, like the dark tunnel of a rabid dog’s mouth while we point and watch in awe. Let’s start barking at the outcomes and lick ourselves with self-praise. But where did you go? I have been right here. I never budged. The monster inside me made sure of that, resting assured, remaining inside you and I, to bang and bump and split our heads open, the one that rushes and drags and forgets to slow down or to wipe the spit sliding by the side of my mouth, to quell the thirst before choking on the omega of my soul, hunting thoughts that need to be caught like butterflies in a net. Questions race before the answers and questions always end up winning, losing to no answer whatsoever. There is a monster inside. This monster is weaning you slowly towards a colorful mad ugliness. We have never seemed so close yet so certain at how distant we actually are. The isolation is all encompassing, clear and desolate like the pink blue grey rocks of a sacred land. You cannot devour me whole but I could just be a slice of time in your cake of life when you resurrect me over and over again from my little deaths. We keep saying we will cross the bridge when we get there. What if we have already been on it this whole time; pause for effect; inhale, one foot in front of the other, stumbling, swaying drunk, sprinting to shake off the edge, strolling, seemingly unaware that the bridge does end and its beginning ended long ago when we dangled our feet at the rotting plank, wondering about the crisscrossing of what-ifs, dragging me down to the masks on the floor, making love to the undertones of a menacing bassy industrial sound. Don’t feed me your pretentiously poetic lines, she said. “My mouth talked to you like a tired machine. Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional”; those words are not mine. They surely are not yours. Those words you hide so well, protected behind that untouchable veil. It is all one big mesh sewed tightly by the mighty threads of damage. Time is wasted and lapsed to carve out honey-dripping words from the Jesus-look-alike that stick to my eyelashes. Do you recognize now the monster you had over for breakfast, lunch and dinner? It was you. I am you; it is good to finally meet you. Where have you been? You may come in but you cannot stay too long.”

want

Not too many years ago, some eyes rolled one day because I had an opinion about relationships.

My opinion was that we all want something from each other.

I never quite understood why I got heat back then and for the longest time I felt shaken over such an obvious concept we perform consciously and subconsciously. I began to scrutinize matters of the innately selfish human condition, how I dealt with people and how others dealt with each other. I surprised and contradicted myself many times, got confused, lost face but hell, I came out knowing I was right.

Not too many years later, and after a cascade of heavy experiences, I still believe in that opinion, and if anything I reaffirm it more now since ultimately we do want something from each other whether anyone cares to admit it or not. I am not afraid to declare that, yes, I want something from you. For example, I want you to read this post, provide an opinion, a critique, think, hate it, like it, ignore it, whatever. You will still provide a reaction that I may want and may not, that you may share or may not share depending on what you want. But I want something useful still. Something that can inspire me, amend me, help me grow, shake and stir my emotions for a moment to reassemble me, or you.

Just because I “want” something doesn’t mean that I want it because I am a an emotional hoarder who is keeping track of everything that everyone has given to me so I could feel special for a while until I want more. No. I could want the good company of a good friend. I could want you to pass the salt. I could want to share something meaningful and beautiful in any given occasion over any random reason for no particular intention. I could want to be alone. I could want to make a move. I could want you to make a move instead. I could want to be evil, do something bad and hurtful. I could want to be understood or appear enigmatic. I could want want itself.

What are relationships loosely based on if not on a certain specific and non-specific set of exchangeable actions and reactions? Who, out there, who, can really not expect something in return? Or at least half-expect something they want returned in some form or another? We attempt to be humble and say we will not expect anything, a brave and noble attitude, but some time during the day and night we expect and want, if not need, secretly; attention, appreciation, money, gratitude, sex, praise, love, ass-licking, a smile, forgiveness, a kiss, a slap on the face, a ding on the phone; because ultimately we want to be acknowledged, we want to stand out, we want to have an opinion. We want to exist in someone else’s world. We want our wants to be addressed and what better way but the wonderful world of social media; the glossy happy helper that asks me every day “what’s on my mind”? Then we end up writing a status, because guess what, we want it to be out there. We make a post knowingly and willfully. It’s a choice we all make. And we make a choice when we want it and when we know it is going to benefit us somehow like a comment, a like or even silence.

No one is completely selfless. No one is completely all-giving. No one expects nothing. No one.

 

she

7:39am: She hits the snooze button for the second time.

7:45am: She shuts off the alarm on her cell phone with a weak finger. A moment later her heavy eye lids surrender to wakefulness. She moans at the dampness felt by her cheek on her pillow from last night’s drool. “31 & still drooling”, she teases herself.

10:20am: She crawls out of the company’s shuttle bus & sighs at the menacing towers of her corporate dungeon jutting out into a smoggy sky. A female colleague carrying a pretty expensive designer bag greets her with an irritating chipper leading her to roll her eyes in dismay & fake a smile in response. Her morning drive to the office through chaotic traffic, overflowing garbage, beggars, zombified pedestrians, commercial songs from the radio add nothing to building enthusiasm for the day. She dumps her laptop & her cheap hand-made Bedouin purse through the security machine & she wonders, for the umpteenth time today what this all means.

4:15pm: After a yawn-filled meeting, she returns to her desk to prepare an “all important” report. She suddenly falls deep into a single distraction & her lips glisten from being freshly licked by her tongue. She hears the voice of a man who makes her thighs tighten. She turns her head for some eye-candy which sours as she sights, yet again, the engagement ring on his beautiful finger. She bites her lower lips, cranes her neck & squeezes.

11:30pm: He shuts the door slowly after leaving her flat. She’s over at the sink drinking a glass of water & her cat sits nobly beside her, staring blankly. Her mind swims & her legs tremble in spite of the weak orgasm he gave her. She is brought into attention when she realizes she’s squeezing her sore breast & asks as her heart aches “ why can’t I get it right?”.

two thousand and fourteen

I can say a lot about that year and maybe I won’t.

I felt. I thought. I saw.

I hated. I screamed. I broke.

I laughed. I cried. How cliché. How unoriginal.

I dabbled here and there with secret friends. I deflated and I existed. I exist still. Why? Why exist at all? Why am I in a loophole? Over and over again?

At times, life just felt like a reel of film spinning, playing on empty, and making that repetitive clapping sound. Clap. Clap. Clap. Plastic on metal. Or something like that.

That year was a noisy one. It was eventful. It was great. It was horrible. It was everything I did not want it to be, and it was something that I wished it to be. And remain so. Somehow.

It is just a year like any other. It never is.

The pain just drags on. The failures. The disappointments. The experiences praised over inflated egos and white lines.

Music in speakers. Masks on the floor.

Time-lapsed. I see.

It was a year that exhausted me. Brought fears into my eyes, suffocated, emancipated and enslaved me.

I wrote.

Nobody really reads anymore. Nobody really cares. And it is ok. Caring is not an obligation. It is a choice, it seems.

We read/listen/hear/do/say/touch/manipulate/consume/love all that it is we want, that is not ours, or at least we think we do, for ourselves. Most of of all. That is just the way it is.

Crooked promises.

Feet cemented in viral mediums that take me nowhere. Stuck. Looking over an unreachable horizon. Through hollowed buildings. Piles and piles of garbage on the road. As if there was a destination. No wonder my eyes sting. No wonder I cannot breathe.

Translucent. I can see right through you and I am choked by the silence and distortion of it all.

Where have you been? Are you listening? Straighten your neck and look at me. I am not a ding on your phone. I am not an eager cursor.

I am not for granted. I am not for sale either.

I am getting old.

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