Dots and spaces

Five minutes to midnight…

Stains on the pillowcase that are my tears

Five minutes after midnight…

Tears I cried for such long years

I cry as if I am consumed by guilt

It feels like I have nothing left

And I weep for all that I could lose

I wail for the star that awaits up ahead

My hand trembles…
It feels as if I am overwhelmed with grief
As I go on crying

My heart slows the beats…
As if I am faced with hate
As if I can’t collect my remains

It is filled with confusion, this moment
It is strange how my memory keeps points of light
while around me deep shadows growl in rhyme.

I can’t see…
Strange how I can still breathe…

I feel like I am going to die
I am about to call on my repentant sins

But my world is resounding with relentless ticks

I cling to my dream of a forever

I am a believer, I know
But how could I still be so unsure?

My lips are dry… I need a smile
These chains around my heart… I long for an escape
Where is my voice? I cannot hear a beep…

Where is the real me I really want to meet?

Breaking loose…
Setting free…

It sounds so personal, yet, in a way, it has nothing to do with me…



That is fairly easy; because I love it. I adore it.

I love my idea of “a writer’s life”, the expression of looking at the far horizons, but really looking into the depth of thoughts, the time at nights that is so sacred in the company of only a pen and papers or the fingertips on a keyboard. Mentally going after each word tying them together, then breaking tie and trying again.
All work to get the desired combination of words.
Ah. Words.
I love how they pull me out of bed after many failed attempts to sleep in order to write. I love the texture of the paper, light, crisp and soft and how it smells. As if something important is about to be written.
Because something always is.
I trace down their ancient history and praise their contribution in making us what we are today.
I even love when a sentence or a whole paragraph look all wrong. My annoyed tongue-click comes followed by the bored motion of scratching out the part I don’t like.
Sometimes it is a single line across, in case I was struck by a change of heart. Sometimes, I find peculiar pleasure in obliterating every last bit of it.
I love how it is always on my mind, an endless string of thoughts describing things. A scene, a time, a feeling, listening to my own my as it carefully plots down the words, without a pause, so good. Fit for a novel.
And I love how they seem to preserve a certain state of mind, express a thought or a stray memory.
I smile at the edge of impatience in them to be written.

My own time is when I am writing all alone, the house dormant around me. The dawn is changing colors outside my window. The Early Risers squeaking the songs of the morn. A single cry of a crow. A low thrumming of a distant motor. But here, inside my room, the silence is so complete it drowns the persistent ticks of the clock. Lifting the pen off the lined page, and listening. To the external sounds and my brainstorming arranging and rearranging the words.
Ah, how I love words.
This relationship is a complex. At times we are gliding along just fine. My ink is generous, the words are satisfyingly cooperative. We are both very happy with this private companionship.
But at times they are crazed. They elude me. They lure me out, knowing that I’d wholeheartedly take the bait, and when I am there at my desk where they want me, they go play hide-and-seek.
Heartless, overpowering little cowards!
I find myself short of breath, short of patience in that pursuit.
When I want a spot of peace or looking to get some sleep…
It’s painful. It’s beautiful. Either way, I love it.
And there is really no one true why to that.
It happens in a moment. It takes you by surprise. And there is no escape.

I know I will never stop, I know this fascination is eternal. In every sentence I like in a book and underline… in everything these glorious words project into my head…
The images… the ideas…
A creation… An end…
A laughter… A tear…
A mockery or a sense of honor…

This is the sum of my secret life with words.
It is a story of adoration that has no end. 


A Thought…

I dreamed I was missing. In the crowd there was emptiness that was once my place.
I woke up to the sea launching its cold cover over me, fear wrapping toothy roots around my lungs. I could not breathe.
Then my eyes opened to a brightness that for a moment didn’t seem real. Once everything fell into place, fear became panic trembling through my bones.
I was so far away from home.
I was wide awake, all alone in this exile of emptiness.
My legs dragged themselves away from the lapping sea, the clinging sand creeping on me, stinging my skin as I walked to where I knew not of.
I tried  to find my way out of my torture, but I was far too weak.
Pain had eroded all that once supported me.
So, I cried. My legs gave out. I fell to the damp ground as I let more tears wash over my face.
I prayed that these tears would drain me out, would eat away my features and more beyond that till I no longer existed.
Time ticked my days away as the tears kept coming. I didn’t know what day it was or how much longer it was going to last.
And then, as I was at the point of breaking, something incredible happened.
I had been blind until your light came over my sight. I thought I had gone deaf, till I caught your whisper calling my name. I was half senseless, but then I felt your touch breathing life back into my cells.
You kneeled before me and took my hands. I looked up into another sea that was you
r eyes, gentle and endless.
I smiled finally, believing that now this emptiness would be no more, this gloom would no longer haunt me.
“Take me home, my beloved” I said to you “Take me away and turn this hell into paradise”

My favorite times

Do you not think that rain is the most fabulous natural phenomena?

I love it. It always starts with hesitant darkening of the skies, grey clouds slowly invade the peaceful blue, they settle over and conceal the sun behind the thickening veil. First a single flash of lightening catches my eyes and holds me mesmerized for a moment as if I was hit by it. I walk closer to the window and closer still until I am totally pressed against it. The thought of me must be looking like a freak in the eyes of the onlookers doesn’t even pass my mind, for I close my eyes and listen to the distant approach of thunder. Deep threats in the belly of the sky. On first impression it feels like an ice cube gliding down my spine, but then fascination takes over, and I start wondering… How could such invisible self-producing force create terror worse than the sounds of shooting war cannons? It is scary I know, and Mamma, while it’s on the going, walks unsurely around the house, her eyes cast downward, her legs stiff  and lips uttering murmured prayers. It is like the sky is falling to the earth. But to me…oh, it is just beautiful.

I love it. And I hate when the sky clouds over and it just doesn’t rain, I feel like looking up into the grey sky and yell “What the hell!! Are you messing with me lady?”

Rain makes me think of Allah, so merciful and unforgetful. Rain eases the ache of thirst in the deprived throats, rain gives hope to the poor who can only live on planting, rain puts out fire. Those people, in our daily busy lives, we hardly think of them, but Allah….He is great. He feels your pain, too, because the sky cries when you are hurt and can’t say a word. Think of the world after the rain. The nature’s true colours, the green of the leaves, the brown of the trunks, the wonderful scents, the clean streets, as if Allah is reminding us of how the world should be, beautiful. It’s kind of a reproach. Threats, He can take us all out with a fierce torrent.

I always see clearer through the sheet of rain drops, the rumbling of thunder in my ears. As if I am a part of something MASSIVE and my troubles…well, they pale in the face of this enormity. And as I listen to the drops thrashing down the surroundings, the lights dimming, the world growing quieter till all is hushed, I feel the stirring of inspiration some where inside.

Don’t you think as if the world is stretching out a hand and offering us a chance? A chance to start over. To do better. To put a limit to our ego. To find our faith… No wonder they say “God was recognized by sheer awareness”


And I dream almost constantly of rain, the freedom of standing under it. Beauty. Therefore I often cry in those dreams or when it’s raining for real.

it is painfully long, but for a  reason I wanted YOU to share my thoughts with.

So what comes to your mind when the world is taking a shower?:)

A Peasant’s Tale

It is a strange thing to wish to die. Strange to see the jaws of death open wide, see the bottomless darkness inside and find your heart with numbed fear. Instead you are eager for the point of that brief pain…

  I am a single tendril of the wind, weakened by ages of weariness, renewed by divined wills. I blow around all the four directions, moved by a perfect system set by the One God.
I have no home.
I am always on the move.
But now I stand still, watching a crack in the system I have always worshiped in the poise of a man standing at the very edge of the bridge’s rail. I know who he is.
His back is hunched, his skin is reddened by the sting of sun, his hands are roughened from the handle of his ax that had grown a part of him. And many times I have watched wrinkles form around his eyes as he squinted to the sun of every day’s end and inhaled air he had once so loved and smiled.
I know this man, yet it is hard now to recognize him.
He is stooping, he is beaten, the arms have lost the support of muscles, the face has forgotten how to draw a smile, and the eyes… striking in their haunted gaze.
The river stretches quiet below his toes, deep and thick with bottom that no feet can reach. He doesn’t look down, he stares ahead , lost to the world, swept aside by the tide of the oblivious crowd.
But we both know what shall take place. We both know and it can’t be saved.
It looks like it is too late.
So before I take off like I always do, I stand still, a different atom in this strange atmosphere, and I listen on his thoughts…

It all starts and ends with a sigh.
God sighed into Adam and he came to life. Mother sighed when the last push was over and I was born. And I sigh now, but I don’t feel it.
I am looking at you.
Who are you? what have you done with the one I’d once knew?
Unanswerable questions, I wonder how many times I have asked.
 I see the world is increasingly taking after you. There is something dreadfully wrong
The air is tainted with smoke, the water is stale, murky with sneaky poison, your features are changing grotesquely and you are ugly like a nightmare from realty.
 Oh, Great Mother, you once upon a time were a lighthouse of goodness, the beams of light that no body could put out, the one component that gave everything else sense.

Oh, time is treacherous, it feels like it never happened.
 I witnessed your rises and your falls. At your core I choose no where else to go.
What is it that altered you?
Do you now feel old? Do you now feel the weight of time?
Are you about to buckle under this burden?
Do you know who am I? Do you remember my face?… or have you forgotten?
  The years I broke my bones building you
  The times when I suffered to hold the columns of your greatness upright
  The centuries I bowed my head in respect, always loving you even when you shut the arms of comfort in my face.
  And when you stepped on my spines to reach for the stars, spilled my blood to mark your territories.

Who was there for you, Great Mother?

Don’t turn the other cheek! How dare you deny me?!
It is me!!
I made you… I charted your plan on the desert sands. It was with the sweat of my brow that it became green. I constructed your cities, brick by brick… Taking pain and insults for the sake to see you great.
And I loved you.
 From your short nights to the hard sun…
From your soil and dazzling gold…
From your floods to reemerging of life… 
While your bones rusted and as I scuffed them clean…
Your lapses and regeneration of your cells…
Along tunnels of darkness with ends of blinding joy
I may not know the reasons for my many questions, so I won’t ask you why or press you to recall what happened.
Because now as I stand on the cliff of mortality and take a look around you, knowing that you’re mirroring so much that is happening beyond you I know that it is no longer a matter of what or why.
It is a question of when.
A moment, a drastic detour, another sigh, but I am sure that it is the truth beneath the mask of lies.
It all happened when your eyes were blindfolded, and gave in to the resistance of the current…
when you like the way you held the sword of power and went around acting like a god.
when you lied and said “I am doing it for others”
when you thought you were here to stay
when you shed my skin and looked down on me
when you turned your back and put on strange ropes, built towers and dams, believing false promises
when you held a gun against a poor soul… and when my trees were bared and you did nothing.
One fallacy after the other
And when you walked down the road of forgetfulness…
You’ve forgotten who you are, what you were of
You’ve forgotten the beauty the beauty I still see in you
You’ve forgotten that you were people who once worshiped this river and lived on hopes to see the dawn spead its rays over this land
You’ve forgotten that you knew how to love, and were in harmony with all else
You’ve forgotten what I am to you and took the turn of sorrow with no apparent
Who are you? I hear you wonder
Well, I am life and now you seem to be losing that too.

Then he took the plunge, closing his eyes in surrender to the inevitable. A fall as silent as the fall of tears in this vast emptiness.
What a tragedy!

Other winds catch at me, trying to carry me along, but I am adamant. I want to stay. Even though I am but air, I cannot be contained.
I cannot be tamed.
And maybe, just maybe I will grab the peasant in time.
Maybe I will heave a sigh of freshness into this messed-up world.
My tears dried and I glided forward, certain that rotting in place is like the impact of whip on naked flesh… hopeful that this death would spring a new life.

A Letter from a Heart to a Nation


 ,                                                                                               Dear Egypt

You are upside down again, withering with the fire of injustice, randomness, insecurity and distrust. So sudden it all happened as if you have pulled the rug from beneath my feet.

I am confused.

I don’t know what to do.

My exams are gripping my nerves in a vice of tension. I am cool on the exterior, but waiting for the last second to tick.

We are alike that way, you and I.


How long has your anger boiled low?

How long have they kept your mouth stuffed, your eyes blinded and ears ringing? Off-balance and unsure.

How long have your subdued people protested with silent cries? Believed what they were told, their stomachs filled with venomous lies?


How long, Great Mother?


Oh, how I love your sun-tanned face, the scent of your breath and the strong life of you once-worshipped Vein. My favorite joy is to take a walk along your lines, feel your agelessness wrap around my heart. I wonder at your beauty as the sun dips low and think that there must be a God, for you are a work of art that can only be wrought by the hands of the Divine.

Every night I sit and watch your face as you rest your bones under the rising moon, but still I can feel vivid beating through you.

I lay awake and know that my night will not end unless I see your sun slanting through my window.

Oh, I know I will forever love you.


But suddenly your features crease into a frown. I feel you shifting. Your grounds are shaking

“What’s going on, Great Mother?” I ask, but an answer, you do not give.

I watch in terror as your people turn against each other, the earth is rippling, the unity is breaking as your breath growing heavier upon my skin, molding my lungs.
“What’s wrong, Great Mother?”

Your Vein is seeping dry. You are growing older and older by the second before my very eyes.

There is nothing I can do, for you are not the one I used to know.

Everybody is angry, they are fueled with rage.

They march destruction through your sturdy, ancient streets.

It is like a demon has possessed every pair of eyes. Everyone now is an enemy to the other.


Are you so very sick, you are releasing your caged frenzy upon us?
Do you hate us so much you look like you are asking God for a final flood? One great death and we all shall be no more?


I wish I could somehow relate to the labor you are going through.

But I am filled with accusing frustration, and it is directed at you…

 Maybe we are all punch of cowards, but you could have said something, done something?

Why have you kept silent that long? Why don’t you ever let your cry echo through the walls?

How come I can no longer get in touch with you while I am so much in love with you?

How come you are not listening?


What now, Great Mother? Are you still thirsted for more?

I have so much bottled up that if said, would block the eye of your sun.

All I want is your ears and hand. Is it too much for the thousands of years we have shared?


Oh,Egypt, how I long for your hopeful smile.

It’s all so dark around me. I need its light.


Without a smile, without a breeze,

Without a leader. Without my sight…

I’d shed one more tear as I say

“Oh, how I ache to relate to you…”




Lost and Confused.


A few days ago I was on my way to my best friend’s house. I have not seen her in a long while and I was half skipping the paces to get to her house, glad that finally we both are free to spend a long time together. So there I was walking happily on the pavement when suddenly a young man, dressed like any regular young man with his sun glasses on and a jacket in his hand, walks out of the garden (we have an awful lot of gardens in my neighborhood) that lines the pavement I was walking on.
The only difference was that I saw he was walking with only his groin exposed (if you get my drift).
I don’t know how I did it, but suddenly I was hurrying along the opposite pavement, for a moment feeling that I was walking with bloodless body. An invasion of numbness.
I am not here to tell you how I felt then, because what I felt can’t be described without getting violent or disrespectful in words. And that is not my style.
But I will give you a hint. I felt dirty, I felt that everybody on the street knew what has happened, I imagined that every pair of eyes was looking at me with contempt, thinking me low… thinking that I had asked for it!
This isn’t something a girl can easily get over, especially a girl like me, who have encountered sexual harassment before. For a whole week I kept waking up with the image of that young man hitting me in the head upon opening my eyes. I swear!
I am not scarred by it, I am not afraid to go out into the streets. I am only felt with mortal rage.
Mum raised me to worship two things in this life; Allah and respect. And I have dealt with everything with respect allowing no one to step over me in the process. But to be VIOLATED like that when I have done absolutely nothing to earn it, and WORSE to not being able to do anything about it.
It made me hate and curse myself. I should have yelled, called him names, made a scene. I should have demanded that he be insulted the way he insulted me. He should have been made an example of!

I am here, because I am every girl and woman. I am the victim, and I am best friend with a childhood friend who came across such sordidness a week before I did.
And I want to do something about it. I want to yell it, tell every one. I want to stand on a stage with the entire university gathered before me, and tell them how a woman really feels when something so dirty happens. And I want it heard in every language, because this … this… I respect you too much to say what this really is.
And I wanna know why.
I want to do it, because now written words are as good as silence.
But I won’t be able to do t alone.
I don’t care when, I don’t care how, and I don’t give a damn what people may say or think. Something simply has to be done, we are on the verge of writing a new history, and not speaking up about such a thing I believe is plain cowardice. A new definition of retardation.