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.


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. 


an apology letter

Dearest little Nora,

This is a letter of apology. Another one long overdue. This is your 39year old and a half self. It was a difficult journey to arrive to where I am. Daunting and exhausting. I may have arrived relatively “safely” but the bruises and scars remain and it is ok. I carry them with respect and honor.

I have not forgotten your original pain. In fact, it was your pain that you carried from such a young age that led me, slowly but surely, to this transition point in the cycle of our current life. That very same pain grew into confusion, misguidance and rebellious voicelessness that I have ignored for decades. I knew it was there but I got distracted and experienced the harsher side of life. The kind of ugly that life spewed at an unapologetically sensitive women like myself and that sent me to many rock bottoms along the way. I knew you were different, a wild day dreamer, intermittently energetic, moody as fuck, curious and stranger than most. And because of that, and for the biggest portion of our lives, family suppressed you, friends suppressed you, partners suppressed you, life suppressed you, and worst of all…I suppressed you. Not anymore.

As we both now know, time is a cruel teacher; calculating and patient. Time was not particularly on our side by makings things fast and forgetful instead we lingered and endured and felt every sting through every cell of our being time and time again until by some cosmic mercy it finally granted us the tick of a gentler hand and perhaps now we appreciate time a little and no longer resent it and no longer allow that very same pain to fester.

And time finally stood still in that instant when I saw you completely, I heard you and I stood up for you and held you gently in my heart and mind where you can finally be wild and free and just be you. That instant that is rightfully ours. No longer in anyone’s shadow and instead in your own and unafraid. The embodiment of love and freedom in solitude.

I am sorry it took this long but as they say;

better late than never.

Yours in light,


decline or accept

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.




sting me a stung

Salsabeel Village,
North Coast,
Alexandria, Egypt,
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.

Cheers, Nora

that one-liner

So I am posting on a Tuesday instead of a Monday but that is because I finally made it to the beach with friends yesterday and the sun, wind, sea and sand were just right.

I have this book that is called The One-Line-A-Day, A Five Year Memory Book. On August 30th, 2015 I wrote: “I have made a decision. I will quit soon and start work with my mother. Leave this wretched city behind”.

A year later, I am working with my mother, I haven’t entirely quit and I haven’t left this wretched city behind either. I am amazed at myself and at others at how fickle our decisions can be. We make a decision with all the confidence in the world, looking hopefully into a non-existent future with glittering stars thinking that we will surely conquer that decision, squeeze it till we drip the last drop of success out of it.


No such thing. Every decision I made, so far, didn’t stick out. Every decision I watched someone I know make, did not stick out. We babble and dream and convince ourselves it would work, but it does not. Why? Discipline. Mostly. We lack discipline, not money, energy or time. Discipline. That one most-pivotal-moment-sort-of-lesson I learnt the hard way working with my mother. Not the most joyful of partnership but one where many hard hard lessons have been laid carefully before me so I can I get to pick and choose which attitude to work with, if I even could.

When I look at the lines upon lines that I have written over the few recent years I feel like I am reading the lines of several different people, each in their unique situation, embodied in one being; dumbfounded, depressed, eager yet willing. Taking a peek into the past on a daily basis is actually a terrifying exercise. So much self-judgment, nostalgia and resentment can arise out of that exercise. Another discipline lost, the discipline to look at the bright side.


current distractions

I have discovered creative ways to distract myself while I swim with cement blocks tied around my aching joints in a putrid Ocean of billboards and broken buildings and menacing smog puffing at me. Actually, they are not really creative, they are revisited hobbies, hobbies I had and thoroughly enjoyed but for some reason forgotten because I was a stupid bitch, like reading. How I used to love reading and how I am falling in love with it once again. I’m onto my 8th book in 2016 and I don’t think I have read this ferociously before.

In a time of eye-widening and ass-numbing distractions stemming from the tentacles of social media, it is truly hard to focus on one thing. One good thing at that. One self-developing thing. BUT somehow, I managed to finish all 5 books of Game of Thrones, listened to 44hrs and 53minutes of Stephen King’s IT on Audibles, restarted Oscar wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray that I have abandoned about 5years ago and finished it, and picking up Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventurew in Wonderland that I have also abandoned but now plan to reread along with Through the Looking Glass once I am done with that.

So that’s it, I’m set, I’m loving it and it is my only proper escape when I’m feeling in limbo at the restaurant or in any other state where I’m forced to wait for something or someone or nothing, which happens a lot.

Oh and I have developed an unhealthy fascination with Jeffree Star.


this summer rut

The sun shines and passes my days by. I haven’t met the beach till now. I haven’t swam in the water. In that familiar element where the child in me can begin to play for a moment, or hopefully several moments. Zigzagging away from her shy shell. From the depth of sadness a flicker of a smile can pay a visit and the weight of the world can feel a little lighter. But no. I am stuck. Stuck in a rut. Even tighter than a butt plug.

I got an audio book to give me company on the road. 500kms every week I cover. Every week. Back and forth, between 2 points that push and pull me while I spin and spin and swish and swash like a rag in a washing machine running low on water and soap.

Today I am in the office. Half dazed, half asleep, quarter awake. A long day ahead. Another long day ahead.

in the forest

The below is one of the products of a creative writing course I took a couple of years ago. Our teacher asked us to continue a story that began with the sentence “In the forest where none may pass by you”. Obviously I took a different approach to it. I had just de-slaved myself from the corporate world and had fun venting on the matter like an excited teenager freshly out of a shitty relationship. When I look back now, the corporate world did have its perks that I took for granted but then again I’m still glad I’m out of it.


In the forest where none may pass but you, you are first mesmerized by mute metallic letters looming overhead like Big Brother who was never really there but somehow ever-present, planning and resting, in the protected cave of your industrial giant. You thought that this giant would comfort you, show you some wonders of its world and show you its care. It does not and you will understand otherwise. You are met by drones in over-priced branded shirts, pants, slick hair do’s, plastered, crusty smiles and glazed, pupil-less, eyes. None has any genuine depth, any true inner being; these attributes are not pre-requisites to enter. You eat on plastic chairs with heavy utensils, munching and scrunching meals that do very little for your taste buds. There is no savoring; you are fed with over-zealous recommendations for a misconception on health and life enjoyment. You recognize this from the numerous posters on the walls, the deluding slogans, mere letters and words placed neatly next to each other to convey a message that you register yet the information your brain captured still fails to compute. Everybody’s cocooned in their minute bubble thinking and calculating that they will get there; to that place where the American Dream comes true. That is not entirely false, not for the bad ones. Your fellow drones accompany you with fabricated fellowship gently through corridors perfumed with pungent smells of disinfectants, nostril-tickling air freshener and cheap leather, over-powering your senses further. You walk on carpeted floors bearing the tracks and marks of pumps and loafers and trendy coffee stains and when you touch the walls your fingers go numb. You see dull faces and bodies hunched over blaring screens, disorderly documents and empty talk. The sounds you hear are beeps, machine buzz, repeated monotonous chatter, Xeroxing, drawers opening, closing, clangs of keys, keyboard typing and nothing. You are abandoned in a place where “people are afraid to merge”. Your creativity is limited, unneeded. Your soul is stapled and paper clipped in a file cabinet somewhere. This is not an entry. There is no moment of truth.

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