The Crib

Nothing

I know of nothing

Like a baby in a crib

Surrounded by muses of days gone by

Without inching a foot out

I see it

I see it clearly

What is waiting for me

If only I can escape

If only

But I am within my nest

Comforted

Rested

Shackled with strands of sand

Blocked by a glassless window

I do not seem to escape

Phantom limbs pulling at me

Soothing me to sleep

Hindering my ascent

Promising me of visionless dreams

I oblige to them

I succumb to the phantom

Yet when I lay down my head

All is lost

I can no longer see

I can no longer feel

For I was robbed

For I was betrayed

Like a baited animal

Lured in to his misery

Served to his defeat

But never worry

I will wake up again

From my gluttonous slumber

And soon the walls of the crib

Will overwhelm me with glorious hopes

Of becoming a Man

اللي راح عمره ما هيرجع

أنا مش عايز الزمن يرجع بيّا.. أنا بس عايزه هو اللي يجيلي.. طلب مش كبير أظن، صح؟

أنا مش عايز أصغر.. أنا هافضل في سنّي بس هأعمل اللي كنت باعمله وأنا أصغر..

محدش يقولي إستحالة!!!

 أنا ليه أحس إنّي مقيّد؟ في كل حاجة ومن كل حد؟ مع إني مش حاسس إن فيه حد مانعني من حاجة.. دي دماغي الظاهر..

"نوستالجيا"

أنا عايز أرجع وأنام على ضهري في العربية وأتفرّج على البنايات والشجر معديين بالمقلوب ولا كأنه أول فيلم سينما أشوفه في حياتي..

عايز أقول لأمّي تجيبلي سكر ناعم مش خشن علشان لما أحطّه على الزبادي ماحسش إنّي باكل رمل..

عايز أرجع خامسة إبتدائي لمّا كنت أنا وبنت في الفصل لوحدنا وقلتلها "ممكن نمرة تليفون بيتك؟" إبتسمت بعد السؤال علشان ماتحرجنيش وقالتلي "لأ" وده كان أول فرندزون أخده وحسّيت بعدها قد إيه الأفلام بتضحك عليّا وإنه مش سهل إن الواحد يطلب تليفون واحدة بيحبها..

عايز أرجع أطبّل وأزعق بين الحصص وميس ريهام تخش تهزأني ووشها يحمَرّ..

عايز أرجع أخد مصروفي الأسبوعي من جدّي اللي كان عشرة جنيه وباخلصه يوميها على كيس هينفجر حاجات حلوة من سوبر ماركت خالد..

عايز جدّي يرجع يزعقلي ويقولي مفيش مرواح للنادي قبل ما أحفظ السورة المطلوبة مني في حصة الدين وقعدت مع جدتي وهو يبص من البلكونة إذا كنت خلصت ولا لأ..

عايز أستخبّى تحت الترابيزة لما أسمع خطوات أبويا على السلم وهو راجع من الشغل بليل علشان أجري عليه وأحضنه قال يعني هافاجئه..

عايز أرجع ليوم الجمعة لما القناة التانية كانت جايبة فيلم Space Jam وانا كان عندي إمتحان دين يوم الحد وأقعد أبوس رجل أمي علشان أتفرج عليه للمرة السبعين ألف..

عايز أرجع أتخانق مع أختي على ريموت التلفزيون..

عايز أصحى على صوت واحد عمّال بينادي في الشارع على إسمي "يحيى.. يحيى" وأنا أتزاول مع إنه بيقول "بيكيا.. بيكيا"..

عايز أرجع أرخّم على العيال بتوع المدرسة اللي أكبر أو أصغر منّي بالنبلة.. معلش يا أحمد يا مروان..

عايز أرجع أتخانق مع الواد اللي شاط الكورة في بطني وأزعقله يقوم هو زاققني موقعني على الأرض قدام الناس كلها..

عايز أرجع أخد جايزة أحسن لاعب في الجيزة تحت 16 سنة لما كنت بلعب كورة طايرة..

عايز أفكِس لكلام مدرب السباحة لمّا يقولي عوم "كرول" وانا أعوم "باك".. يقولي "فراشة" أنزل تحت الميّة وأغوص..

مع العلم إن دي كانت تصفيات علشان أخش الفريق وانا طبعاً ما إتقبلتش..

عايز أرجع لمّا أتفرج على فيلم وإتنين بيبوسوا بعض تقوم أمّي تقولي "يا يحيى بصلي لغاية ما البوسة تخلص" ووشي يجيب ألوان من الكسوف..

عايز أرجع ألعب إستغماية مع ولاد خالي ومن كتر طولي مالاقيش مكان أستخبى فيه..

عايز جدي يصحّيني كل يوم جمعة على أحلى طبق فول ممكن أي حد يعمله..

عايز كل يوم سبت لما أروح لجدتي في مصر الجديدة تعملّي الملوخية اللي أكلها من هنا ودماغي تفضل تلف من هنا..

عايز أرجع وأخش مكتبة ديوان لأول مرة في حياتي من حوالي 7 أو 8 سنين (فرع مصر الجديدة) وأقرر إن ده مقر سكني الجديد بعد بيتي..

أنا مش طالب كتير.. بس وسط كل العك اللي بيحصل في الدنيا والتعقيد اللي الواحد بيواجهه في كل حاجة كل يوم.. مفيش قدامي غير مخيلتي اللي بيها هاسهّل على نفسي.. 

Vision Through Blindness

I thought I could take a break from writing about dismissive thoughts and attitudes and start writing about more cheerful, hopeful ones. It was not the thought that drove me to write, I just needed a push in the right direction, and it was given to me by someone who knows the pathway of both roads.

The fact is I am more accurate and descriptive when it comes to writing about dark things. I seem to be feeding on darkness and abysmal matters. On the other hand, there seems to be a chaotic; and rather unobtrusive style of writing when I am happy. There seems to be no organisation, which is understandable given that my emotions are at an all-time high sometimes, so I kind of not try to specify my writings.

There has to be some kind of drive or force that directs me to be in either of those paths. The same kind of facets and situations happen to me every day, yet I tend to channel them differently most of the time. I do not see where I am going or where I came from. I happen to be a realist/hopeful type of person. In other words, I do not think about the future, yet I know the end of my current day; or at least have a certain vision of it. I find that neither pessimistic nor optimistic. I find that as ME with no labels. Living for and by the moment.

But why am I clinging to my dark side? Why am I defending its existence through and in me? Because it keeps me alive. It keeps my creativity in check. Because I have never experienced one day without it. It is an inseparable part of my being. I want it there throughout my journey. I want it to accompany me through my happiness and suffrage. Comfort and boredom. It has to be there with me. It sort of balances out the equation. The Yin and Yang type of thing. “Hello There”.

Maybe this kind of writing will not be manifesting itself in the coming days on paper. But I know this much; that in reality I will always be representing my smiling, open version of me. Come to think of it; is it some kind of hypocrisy to do so? Doing what you do not feel like doing? I think it is the complete opposite, because by that you will be spreading something more positive and instilling something more relatable to whomever meets or interacts with you. By that you do something maybe less recognizable than doing dark and twisted things. 

But at least you will be affecting each and every person individually, helping them to grow from the inside and realizing that it is okay to be weird. It is okay to be sick-minded, keeping your sanity intact within you. Such act has its own magnitude and grandiosity in itself. It is a self-proclamation. It is your re-birth. It is you and the anti-you. It is your nature.

Lamentations

I couldn't find refuge in you.. I didn’t find in you the calmer to the maddening silent whispers inside my head..

Disappointed.. Weakened.. Distraught..

I now come to my full numbed senses as I stroll by the images of our memories..

I laugh..

I sigh gratefully..

I cry endlessly..

I look at you in the darkened hollow void I call my room.. I never hear a resonance from you.. Not an echo..

I turn my head away expecting to meet your eyes but I see myself.. Again hollow..

What if I had a recorder embedded within me to remember everything you lay upon my ears.. Never to fight again..

Sickened by your twisted methods.. Creative demonic schemes.. But still drawn towards you..

Do you miss it terribly?

Go.. Seek me elsewhere in your memory palace!

Grey

I am the shade of grey

The unpleased pleaser

The shadow of the sun

The nightwalker

Whatever takes place amidst the rubble

A curtain, that is me

A hollowed curtain

Which does not make premonition

Rather bleakly borders what lies in between

A rampage of minds that is

A disgraceful harmonious chaos that is neither black nor white

But a shameful tyranny of colours

An array of disheartened souls that will crush

Like a stampede of elephants they rule

Blessed with tusks that make Xerxes cower

They are the wolves I tell you

No longer blinded by humanity

Only guided by anger

Both are ashamed of the other

But what shame does it bring; if it was not unto 

themselves?

What shame if not the shame of ignorance?

The shame therein lies upon the mob

The believers

What do they believe? I can never comprehend

For they are non-existent

As come other prophets, carrying wine and words

‘Tis the irony of life

A Moment

And she looked at me. Still!

No. She dissected me with her eyes.. 

Scanning all my imperfections. She knew all about them without me ever telling her. Even if I wanted to I couldn't; for my breath was still in my lungs, trying to escape my ribcage yet embracing the moment fearing it might not come again.

I was not aware of anything except the silhouette surrounding her gazing face.

Everything around was a shade of grey. Everything around was disappointed in me as all the attention I gave at that moment was focused at her. 

They were jealous. All the objects and all the people.. 

They were jealous of me and her. 

Her eyes were not moving at all. The muscle that held her eyes was very powerful that I felt its presence. As if a tentacle grew out of that cave and grabbed my soul. 

But I feel alive. God do I feel alive! 

And on that moment, I am perfectly ready to fade away and die..

Image from Hannibal series

Fragment: A Poem

Whole, my son,

Accept it whole,

I beseech you; do not live in a hole,

Where you will find nothing but rot and pain,

Where you will find nothing to gain,

I come from a distant land where I was told,

That I will come across feats to behold,

Though I arrive sceptically to the consensus,

I will end up feeling reckless,

Albeit a new quest will arise,

If not, I might find it a pleasant surprise,

It will be a long tiring road,

Decided I to hop on its abode,

But fear not my loyal friend,

You will reach but a dead end,

As you stumble across and see,

That all of this is shaman mystery,

Driven by angst and pursuit,

You will find nothing but theft and loot,

People gathered at Doomsday will ask,

Who in his right mind would delegate such task?

That we all live in a hornet’s nest,

Where we all fight in a worthless contest,

It is He who would dignify such answer,

Before we all fall like a body infested with cancer,

Cremated beyond recognition; that is life,

Yet not fazed with such ill strife,

We carry along with no remorse,

As we intently grow more coarse,

Benign, adamant and content,

Turned malignant, sardonic and contempt,

Might we succeed in the end?

Or will we die as we contend?

It is the journey, the long walk,

That makes us endure such distant talk,

Yet the thing of which I am certain,

All will prevail, before the fall of the curtain.

 Jackson Pollock's Ocean Greyness