Tant Mieux Pour Moi !

Now that the ashes of what was once a black fire have been gusted and blown away by ataraxia, I can in all confidence say that I am exactly where I want to be. Standing in the eye of the tornado that is life, it is explosively calm. I look up to the sky and smile. It is just so…serene. I smile inside and out, but I make sure that the sardonicism of my inner one is clearly heard.

I need to write more often, not only tales and stories, but reflections. It's time I took Sara's advice and wrote everyday. I have promised myself not to indulge in self proclamations and anecdotal recounting of who and what I am, because in doing so one really runs the risk of rubbing shoulders with mediocrity. So, my reflections will manifest layers of my being, just like my stories did. I honestly don't believe that I possess any wisdom worth sharing; I can only observe reflect and write.

I've been handling my writings here in a solemn way that implied that I am some brooding individual. I am not.

That needs to change.

Random Thoughts:

Quintessential pleasure and happiness in life for me is doing something I love and am passionate about, thus writing + politics = kickass job. This job has become as important to me as the Blue Suede Shoes were to Elvis.

If I were to state one reason that makes me want to be Batman, Bats has a thing going on with Wonder Woman. Period.

Bruce (a.k.a lucky bastard) and Diana

Yes, I do realize it's a comic book character, but still !

The Song: Passe Le Temps – Souad Massi. The ineffably beautiful lyrics and the bewitching music, make for an amazing early morning or late night drive tune.

Chronicles of the Bat; Part one: Gotham was a Piece of Cake

Well, I got a PS3. God, I should have gotten this splendid machine way back. Simply, the second you hold the gorgeously designed stupendously comfortable controller in your hands and start playing, all problems and nuisances seem to disappear and whither away. It has brought back a fun a factor I had forgotten about and obviously direly missed. It has also in a way, brought inspiration.

As a result of playing a game for 3 nights in a row and of course eventually beating it, I have admittedly grown a bit of an obsession with the main character of the game, who in fact already is a childhood hero of mine. The game's name is Batman: Arkham Asylum. Enough said.

As I assumed the role of the Bat for the length of the relatively short game, a cartoony light bulb formed on the top of my head but was only lit last night when I was in bed and in desperate need of sleep. I stayed up till 9 am.

So, I'm putting off two pieces that are to be the epitome of my emotional evolution and writing skill, just to write this one for fear of its volatility. I'm not sure if this piece classifies as a burlesque, but it’s a different approach of testing my abilities as a raconteur. This fan-fictionish piece should – if satisfactory – be a part of many, and it for the purpose of the story will include Franco-Arab slang…

A huge mansion stood tall at the far end of Qattameya Heights in El Tagamo3 El Khames, Cairo. The Mansion was dark inside and out, whereas only one room seemed to be demonstrating forms of life and was indeed quite noisy.

"Ya akhy 7aram 3ala 2ommak!! Kharrag ya 3am abo sha3r da we nazel Bogy!! Law makansh bas el wad Bogy da Zamalkawy…mesh moshkela ma3lesh, el mohem el montakhab"

An excited man sat on a lazy boy with a can of coke in a hand and a slice of pizza in the other watching a soccer match, which was now a 2-2 deadlock, infuriating him. He was in his mid-thirties of dark rugged and fairly handsome features, but an onlooker would not see that given his current state. He was only in blue and white striped boxers and was shouting angry profanities at the LCD TV. Abruptly getting up to wash his hands and to get another can of coke, he looked out the window, grimaced and blurted out a 3 letter common Egyptian swear word.

"Yel3an abo de shoghlana ya akhy! Ana mesh fahem eh elly ramany 3al araf da!"

Across Cairo's sky was a floating giant turd, which – without Cairo's polluting fumes and numerous interfering lights – should be the Bat-signal. It was a turd only he could recognize…

Having washed his hands in a hurry the hero grabbed his Bat-Cell and phoned "Abd El Kerim" a low-ranking police officer (Amin Shorta), with whom he agreed to raise the signal whenever there was trouble. He does however recall that the signal was Abd El Kerim's idea, instead of simply just calling him or sending him a text message:

"Ya beh mana mesh beyeb2a ma3aya rasid we kalemny shokran bakhalas-ha 3ala Mourad basha (his superior officer) wel gama3a, wenta 3aref el as3ar el yomeen dool 7ara2a. Hala2eeha meneen ana wala meneen, enta 3aref enny akhdemak be 3enaya ya basha, bas eb2a edeny 7a2 el mowaslat bas."

"Hmmf...Mashy ya Abd El Kerim"

"Basha?"

"Na3am"

"Howa enta labes keda leh?"

"…"

After having to last through a whole minute of "El 3abd wel Shetan" instead of a normal ringing tone, Abd El Kerim didn’t pick up.

"God damn it!!"

He decided to get ready and geared up till the idiot decides to pick up. A big vintage grandfather clock overshadowed the main corridor connecting different sectors of the mansion together. Standing in front of the clock, the dark hero placed his right hand on the clock to get his print read, hence opening the secret door behind the clock, which is the entrance to the Bat-Cave/ Mansion-Garage.

"Your version of Windows is not genuine. Please insert disc #2 of Windows Vista Bat Edition to install Print Reader"

"Ass!! God damn this downloaded garbage!"

The Bat however always had contingency plans. He reached to the side of the clock and pulled a small lever. A small laptop popped out of the middle of the clock, he was going to enter a password manually.

"Umm…what was it again?"

Never having had to use this utility before, the Bat had of course forgotten his password. That's when the "Have you forgotten your password?" button shone like a full moon in a starless night. He clicked on it and the security question accordingly came up:

"What is my favorite animal?"

"Duh, that's a no-brainer"

"Puppies"

He thanked god for putting an easy question for himself to remember later, or else he would have had to break in his own crime fighting headquarters. The password was sent to his e-mail: bat_ass@ hotmail.com, he retrieved his Bat-Cave password and eventually entered.

"Goaaaaaaaaaal" he heard the joyful cheers echoing all around.

"Shit"

By snapping his utility belt on, the Bat 5 minutes later was dressed to kill, literally. He hopped in the Batmobile, grabbed his Bat-Cell and phoned "3obad" again.

"Ba2et tel3ab boookaar, we beteshrab joon wookar, agogogogogo….BASHA!!"

"Makontesh betrod leh be#$%#@$#"

"Ma3lesh ya basha, kont malhy fel match!"

"Hmmf...olly, fe eh?"

"Fe 3arka fe share3 metwally el motafare3 men share3 el haram"

"Mate3rafsh feen share3 metwally da bezzabt?"

"Wallahy 3elmy 3elmak ya basha"

"…"

The Batmobile's powerful engine roared to life, and he started heading out of the mansion"

"Goaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal"

Slicing the unforgiving Egyptian roads like a chainsaw cutting wood, the awesome machine started its journey to the destination where citizens are to be rescued. A quick fuel stop was needed first though. As the car approached the gas station, one of the workers made the well known victory sign with is fingers, which is a way of asking customers whether they want 92 gas pumped in their cars. That Batmobile's glass is tainted black, so Bats had to pop the hatch open and nod to the worker indicating that he does want 92. The worker shook his head in response.

"Kheles!!" the worker proclaimed smiling

"What the ass!! Then why was he leading me on? Is this some sort practical joke? Why can't they hang a sign instead of this bullcrap?"

The car screeched away heading to second nearest gas station. Valuable time was being wasted.

As he was getting his car fueled in the next station, a worker kept harassing him with different oils and accessories for his car.

"Monaqqy injection el mator?"

"Shokran"

"Zeit tash7eem sawareekh el 3arabeya?"

"Shokran. Mesha7am"

"Fawa7a?" the worker smartly dangled a small air freshener that looked like a bat hanging upside down in front of Bats"

"Hmm…bekam de?"

"Khally ya basha, wallahy khally, 8 geneh bas. Ahem, lamo2akhza fel so2al ya basha bas enta labes keda leh?"

Out of the station and on the road, Bats rocketed through El-Da2ery, making good time.

"By this rate, I'll be there in no time"

Bats spoke too soon. He had totally forgotten about the police checkpoint that is usually active at this time of day. The Batmobile stood motionless in traffic jam over the Nile. There was no other option but to wait. Accordingly, the caped crusader decided to listen to some music to kill time. He switched the radio on…

100.6: " We 7obbo leya ya alby kan…7ob emtelak "

104.2: "Hello hello helloo…you are now with Khaled Mat..."

"Hell no"

Quickly realizing that there's no need to be upset, Bats punched a couple of buttons on his car computer and it started writing his favorite playlist on a disc. Yes, the Bat has a gadget for everything. About 10 minutes later the traffic jam had unraveled and he was fast and steady on his way.

"UD tiss, UD tiss, UD tiss…" a car full of young guys listening to loud house music was speeding up next to him and for no apparent reason was trying to overtake him. It seems that the lads were turned on (sekhno) by the mobile's speed and their macho competitiveness kicked into drive.

"This is too easy. I'm the God damn Batman $#$#%$" he spoke the truth. Without sparing a moment of his precious time, Bats eased the Batmobile past the over-excited youth and practically drove circles around them.

"Easy as pie"

"Teet teet teeeeeteeeeetet" accompanied by the usual right blinker - left blinker was the response of the defeated vehicle as it drove away. Very creative indeed…

Not much later the Batmobile was slithering its way around El Haram Street looking for Metwally Street.

"Elly yes2al maytohsh" he pulled over to ask fellow citizens for directions. Big mistake.

Half of the directions he got actually described the road to nowhere mentioned in many songs. The other half however started with "Bossssss", and people saved no effort in this opening word, thus spraying it on the Bat's face instead of saying it. The particles landed on the covered and uncovered parts of his face, and were equally disgusting. The Bat had to use his superior detective skills to piece the directions to the street, occasionally having to filter unnecessary comments said by pedestrians such as:

- "Howwa ma2alaksh feen?"

- "Leh?"

- "Howwa...enta gayeb el 3edda de 3ala kam" accompanied by an intruding head inside the car.

And of course a personal favorite:

- "Howa enta labes keda leh?"

He finally knew where the place was, drove there and entered the street. His keen senses and sharp eyesight instantly led him to where the fight was, he slammed the breaks, hopped out of the car and ran towards the crowd.

As he drew near the crowd an old guy intercepted him. The old guy. The old guy who magically appears in every fight to solve it. One would safely assume that there's one planted in every street for that sole purpose.

"HOOAAB, raye7 feen?"

"Raye7 al7a2 el nas de"

"Laa..makhalas etsal7o"

"Ezai, da fe nas say7a fe damaha"

"De kam ta3weera, da kalam faregh matakhodsh fe balak. Aslohom gabo le ba3d nas, bas khalas 7alenaha be 2amr ellah" the freaking "negeeb nas" theory.

"Ma3lesh fe nas gheltet we lazem tet3akeb" Batman was justice's fighting front.

"Ba2ollak eh, enta 3ayez tesagharny odamhom wala eh!! Ba2ollak gabaret yabny" now the "tasgheer/takbeer" theory.

"…Mashy ya 7ag" he didn't know what else to say nor do.

"Teslam yabny, yalla etekel 3ala allah men hena belly enta labso da 3ashan el 3eyal hatetlam 3aleek we mesh haye3ta2ook"

"…"

Mentally worn out, Bats walked back to his car, his head down. To him, this had been complete and utter bullshit. He reached the car, took a look at it and let out a loud sound occasionally used by Egyptians to express extreme anger or irritation which sounds more or less like a pig's snort depending on the power put into the nose-mouth inhale technique. The Batmobile's rear left tire was held by tire-cuffs (Kalabshat) and of course a ticket was spit glued on the car's hatch, because the car was double parked.

"Yeah, throughout my crime fighting campaign I'm expected to beat up thugs, bring down criminal gangs, while managing to stay alive AND parallel park? I hate this city"

During the next 10 minutes the Bat investigated where the officers were so he can set his car free, and discovered that they won't be around till next morning because a high ranking official was arriving for a business dinner at Mena House, and they were all moved to organize the traffic in that area and provide security.

Of course the Dark Knight could've simply gotten a gadget out of his utility belt that would unlock the cuffs, but superheroes are not above the law.

"Taxi!!"

"3ala feen?"

"El Tagamo3"

"50 geneh"

"40, da meshwary kol yoom ya za3im"

"Khalas ne2sem el balad nosseen, 45"

"…Mashy"

Bats entered the cab, rolled his cape (which was then gray with dirt instead of black) inside the car and slammed the door shut.

"Salamo 3aleko"

"We 3alekom el salam"

"..."

"2alla…enta labes keda leh ya beh? Enta kont fe 7afla tankoreya wala eh? He3 he3 he3!!!"


"Ugh…"

The Song: Never Know - Jack Johnson

Wasted Blood...

This one is inspired by my newfound favorite sport, and of course by one of the parallel versions of myself…

I stood in my corner motionless as I watched him approach from the other end of the hall, and instantly wondered why I was standing there. The pitchy cheering sounds snapped me out of the long daze I've been in ever since I set foot on this ring. The champ pranced about as he drew nearer to the fight zone, waving to his fans and occasionally shaking hands with a few lucky ones. Just like a king acknowledging his subjects, I thought to myself. Watching him get closer in a confident fashion instantly sent a cold chill down my spine, he was one big guy. Worried but not scared, I kept telling myself that I have the speed and more importantly a killer right punch. Failed attempts at self reassurance…

The question came to mind once more: "Why in God's name are you here?". That is probably the only question to which I knew the answer, yet never seized to ask time and again. Questions that start with "Why" never seem to have answers, and when they do, the answers are hardly convincing, hence sending my mind to madness instead of sought serenity. That is why I hate questions that start with "Why", always have and always will…

This specific repetitive question however remains the exception, because the answer comes instinctively and it lights the abandoned room of hope in my house of despair. You see, I believe that I once had the perfect life; to me it was at least. It was nothing exceptional, but it made me happy; it was my exceptional life. Like everything else, this too had to end. Why it ended is of course a question I never ask and never will, and the reason to that is quite obvious. So, lost and disoriented I stood there in my corner because what remained of my former life and self was my pride. Pride is all I had, and it is why I was embarking on this challenge. Pride was my only hope at any fresh beginning, and if that came at risk of getting maimed and mangled in public, I didn't mind. Ironically, this fight was my only chance; it was the double edged blade I held on to in resolution.

Upon announcing my name on the microphone, I was jeered out of my contemplation for the second time. I looked up only to see my opponent had geared up and was walking towards me. He said something about murdering me, but I couldn't care less. His threats didn't matter, because my fight was never with him, so I just nodded and smiled. I tightened my gloves, put on my head and mouth guard and hopped a few times in place. "Here goes" I said out loud…

The bell declared the beginning of the first round and I was already dancing around my opponent trying to find an opening, while the champ moved slowly and wisely strategizing. I was eager and excited, almost like I had a point to prove, but to whom? As the anticipation rose I started seeing faces and images of my past in place of my rival. I knew this would happen; in fact I wanted it to happen. That is the fight I was there for…

Reminded of an unborn future by a dead past, my anger was fueled and I charged my memories almost insanely. The mere sight of them set my heart on fire and tore the last strings that tied me to reality. To my utter surprise, I was unable to land a single punch. I didn't know whether I was deliberately missing or the fighter to which the memories were bound was simply too fast. In retaliation my memories hit back hard in all the areas I left uncovered during my rampage. My memories were punishing me…

I managed to last the round and retreat to my corner in anguish, the first round certainly didn't go well for me. I felt throbbing pain all over my body, yet it was incomparable to the pain I felt inside, as a result of the battle in my head. I stood up and walked back towards my opponent while the bell sounded once more…

I decided to take it slowly and give myself a chance to counter instead of hasty bashing. Quickly I circled the champ again waiting for him to initiate the attack, and he didn't disappoint. Right before his first punch landed on my face, I could swear that I saw myself throwing it, as if I was fighting a mirror. I stumbled back and moved towards the ropes just to get a better look, and I was right. Instead of the skilled fighter I saw myself standing there only a bit younger, which in fact wasn't a bad thing. After suffering from an instantaneous shock, I grinned at myself. "I know your every move" I thought, "I'm way ahead of you". I closed on my mirror reflection and engaged in a brawl with him. This was an opponent I thought I'd be able to take down, and he sure deserved to be taken down hard. It took all my might to keep up with him in a fight, it seemed that it was in fact him who knew my ever move. He knew exactly where I was going to hit and where my next step will be, whereas I had no clue what he'll do next. Forced to switch to a defensive mode, I was once again being pummeled by my younger self. At that point I had realized that I had one more round of torment to go, and I had no idea who I'll be facing next. The thought was almost thrilling…

In a split second I heard a loud popping sound, followed by a punch to the face that sent me flying to the ground. I tried to get up, but searing pain shot through my right shoulder. Realizing that my shoulder was dislocated, I lay on the ground in agony listening to the countdown that had just started. I didn't want to end the fight, but given the excruciating pain I didn't know if could proceed. My muscles were going into spasms and all I could think of is how much my shoulder hurts. "Four" the referee shouted prompting me to take a quick decision, which in turn led me into the abandoned room of hope. Ironically, as I drove through roads of physical pain I for once forgot all about my emotional and mental one. It seems that my head was not the only torture chamber…

One round was all that was left, and I decided to go thru with it. I got up using my left arm and nodded in approval to the question posed by the ref.

"Will you be able to carry on?"

I let out a loud sigh of relief when I heard the bell announcing the end of the second round, before having to fight again. As I walked towards my corner, I wished to see my coach standing there. He however – like many others – had abandoned me. So, throwing in the towel was not option, even if I wanted to mid-fight. After taking a couple of breaths, I thought of popping my arm back in place, but I had no idea how and I would be risking messing it up further, so I decided not to.

The thought of either my past failing me, or me failing myself was not pleasant, but it hardly mattered now. There's a world outside my head, and a life after the one I had. I sat silently waiting for the bell to kick off round three, for that is when the real fight began…

Having to fight without my stronger arm was infuriating seeing that I finally had my eyes on the prize, but it wasn't a total loss nevertheless. I walked over to my contender looking him in the eyes as I closed in, and all I could see was an ugly grinning big guy. No faces, no images, no former self…

I made my way halfway through round three trying to avoid direct contact with the champ, who had by then figured out my weakness. No different than all those who lurk in the shadows of my past he wasn't finding any shame in hitting me where it hurt most, the only difference however is that this guy was real and he was with me in a ring where I can actually fight back and inflict damage…

As the fight approached its end, I knew that it was a lost cause. Hindered by my handicap, I saw no possible come back. I was finally bleeding for a reason however, and that was my silver lining. No more wasted blood…

Another hefty punch sent me flailing across the ring, followed by another cheap shot to the back of the head. I tripped and landed on my deformed motionless arm. I heard yet another loud pop. I felt sudden relief to my right shoulder; my shoulder was somehow partially popped back. It felt like a miracle, but I felt it was about time things went my way. I got up and rotated my arm in a full 360 degrees with minor pain. I smiled at the champ…

"Thank you"

The champ wasn't able to survive his countdown; his head lay at my feet. Knocked out…

The jeers became cheers…

What happens now?

The Song: Stranger Things Have Happened – Foo Fighters

When Time Smiles: Ten Past Ten

This is the first part of a small experiment composed of two pieces. The other piece however will be posted when the time is right. So, here goes nothing…

A slight squeaking sound broke the silence in the empty room. He stopped in the center of the room and faced the only wall that had an ornament hanging on it. It was a vast room empty of any items, except for a clock hanging on one of its walls. The clock had a circular black frame surrounding a yellow background on which funny looking black numbers stood, in what looked like assumed dancing positions. A child's clock.

The clock read 8 am. Sunlight had just broken into the empty room through a small window on the wall opposing the clock He sat in patience watching the clock. He had just started watching time.

The next morning he woke up as early as he had woken up the previous day, washed up had his breakfast and made his way to the room where the clock hung. He entered, faced the clock, and started observing seconds push one another out of the day. Young at heart and age the child was angelic; an exceptionally good looking kid. He pushed his curly red hair out of his face uncovering wide innocent blue eyes that seemed to glow like sapphires. He sat with a blank stare on his freckly face, a stare that hid an aging mind, a mind that was far older than his heart. Sitting motionlessly in a wheelchair he watched the clock tick away, Every tick banging inside his head like a bomb explosion. He observed the last shattered pieces of glass on the clock, where a covering used to be. It took place a couple of nights before he started his daily routine; the clock plummeted to the floor shattering its glass covering, among other things…

It became a habit of his to spend his days in this room watching the arms do one lap after the other, and listening to the constant tick-tocking to which he became very familiar. He was never a talker, but ever since he became a time-watcher, he stopped saying anything at all. He would occasionally catch himself whispering "come on" to the clock, never really knowing why he says that, or what exactly he is requesting of the clock. Maybe he was wishing for the arms of the clock to stop, and turn in the opposite direction to a time where life hadn't yet taught him lessons he wasn't ready nor prepared for. He may have also been wishing for those tick-tocks to accelerate and bring about answers to the infinite unanswered questions his cranium holds within, to bring about a cure that might reverse the aging inflicted on his once young mind. He needed one thing he can comprehend, something he can understand...

With a worrisome eye, his mother watched him sit in the same place every day for what seemed to be an eternity, never knowing what to do. She recalls trying to hide the clock away from him, but she also recalls the consequences. She remembers standing behind the room door, hearing him sobbing heavily in the same place looking at a circular spot on the wall where the clock used to be. His mourning never stopped constantly tearing at her until she gave in and hung the clock back up, bringing back what seemed to be her child's happy self. Only interrupted by food and sleep, the child remained the same without a revelation in sight…

One morning however, the child woke up to a slight beeping sound. He opened his eyes trying to trace the source of the sound, till he saw a colorful digital watch on the desk next to his bed. He got up in a hurry, grabbed the watch and examined it. It was a blue watch themed after his favorite cartoon. He cried his mother's name out loud till she walked in the room, and gave her a big hug. The mother smiled, for she had a plan to save her son and it seemed to be working. He put the watch on; it read 7:25 am. Not much more than a half hour later, he was in the room in front of the clock synchronizing his watch to the hanging clock. Disappointed and hopeless his mother stood outside the room, watching him with tears in her eyes…

As the days passed, he seemed to get weaker and fainter. He was tearing at the seams that connected him to reality. He ate less talked less and thought more, exhaustion was playing dirty tricks on him and he was obviously losing the waiting game he initiated. One morning however, his digital watch kept beeping to no avail, for the child overslept for the first time in so long. He woke up mid-day the next day totally unaware of what happened to him and looked at his watch; it read 12:15 pm. He hurried to his clock to double check, and it read the same. Convinced that time changed only when he wasn't looking, he started spending less and less time in the room and even gave up his watch. He spent more time being a kid once again, away from the clock…

Long later as he was passing next to a now deserted room, he stopped. He decided in all curiousness to step in and see where time is now. "What time is it now?" he joked to himself. He opened the door, wheeled himself in and stopped in the center of the room, like he used to. He looked at his clock and smiled. The arms of the clock had stopped. Time didn't go back, nor did it fast forward, it simply stopped…

The clock read 10:10. Observing the arms of the clock closely his smile became wider. "It almost looks like a…" he chuckled out loud and hurried out of this room to his room. Having grabbed a black marker from a drawer in his desk, he made his way back to the clock. He stood before it for the last time. He uncapped the marker and tried to reach the watch, but it was too high. He sat there for a few minutes, thinking of what to do next. With all his might he used his arms to support him to his feet, stumbling and tripping in the process. Falling to his knees one time after the other, he almost gave up but the urge of reaching that clock kept him going. He was now crying and clawing at the wall, trying to get in a standing position.

Before he knew it, he was leaning on the wall, standing. Tears of agony become those of joy. Using the chair as support, he stood in front of the clock. Using the marker, he drew two adjacent dots above the arms of the clock.

"I guess time does stop just to smile at you" he said happily.

Leaning on the wall, he limped on his good leg out of the room where time smiles.

The Song: Here Comes the Sun – The Beatles

Masterpiece

Written a little over a year ago, this piece remains the dearest to my heart. If I am to restart writing, there is no better way than to publish a piece that I wrote as a totally different person. This piece was a turning point in my thought, and my writing approach...

The person writing this piece is long gone, but the emotions left buried within the words are resurrected whenever read...

A mere fraction of darkness, a minute yet dividing moment of pure dark engulfs the globe. The moment perfectly embraced by the arm of dying light from one side and the arm of re-born darkness from the other side. A paradoxical hug, the moment just in the middle. Then the moon rises… The bluish white beam cuts the early night sky with its translucent illumination, just like a beautiful pearl shines at the bottom of the ocean when its shell finally reopens. One may wonder, in the middle of the darkness, why does the moon rise, why does it bother provide even the faintest of light. I say darkness is the master of the night, and at many times its most loyal lover. Nevertheless, even darkness needs to see… Like a champion archer the moon sends an arrow of light slicing space with deafening silence. An arrow of light so bluntly sharp and piercing, yet it is not sent to kill. It is not sent to ignite inferno. On the contrary, perfectly carved out of hail by the angry vengeful god of snow, it is sent to cast cold apathy and indifference upon its cursed target. A target yet unknown to the arrow of moonlight, that seems to have a mind of its own by now. A mind that is flooded by an insatiable thirst, ironically however…thirst for warmth and heat. The reason behind that thirst could have emanated from the jealousy of the cold moonlight that has the desire to eradicate and destroy every drop of warmth, or it could have emanated from moonlight's nostalgia towards being once a warm ray exploding from the core of the sun. The reason however, doesn't matter… Like every predator looking for prey, cold moonlight seeks the most vulnerable target, a target easy to control, and suck the life out of. Eventually and after a long journey…moonlight spots a dark seemingly worn down and old house, standing in the middle of deserted land, surrounded by leafless menacing tress. The predator feels its prey cowering inside the house, it circles and circles…and through a small break in a cobwebbed window covered by dust…moonlight enters. It finally finds something to quench its thirst with… Through the deep darkness of the room behind the window, lay a lifeless table, chairless and dull. In a room with nothing else lay this table abandoned for what seems to be years, from the look of a thin layer on the table. Through blurred visibility this thin film is apparently a film of dust. With no defined outline for this table, nor any remarkable observation, on can instantly notice a lonely figure standing at the far edge of the table near the window. At the far edge of the table… stood a glass of water. This is where moonlight chose to land… In a period of no more than a fraction of a second, the cold rays of the moonlight smoothly penetrated the particles of the glass. The glass breathed in…inhaling the cold rays. Moonlight in mere seconds shredded the glass' soul to pieces and put it back together as quick as it had shredded it. Yet the glass' soul was not put back in its old form, for it is now united with the cold seemingly illuminating light of the moon. The glass is now alive, again… Now in a dim circle of light one can see enough of the glass and a small part of the table on which it stands. The glass was fractured, suffering a massive crack running through its body, a scar to its already damaged ego. Empty of water, the glass was void…hollow, full of nothing but vacuum. The picture of the glass already shoots pain and hurt through ones being, but what hurts most…the glass stood in the far corner at the edge of an already empty table. Standing alone in the corner, the glass absorbs every drop of the cold light…savoring its bittersweet taste, enjoying the illumination, even if it was cold or bitter… For the glass felt lonely before the arrival of this light, the glass felt used, manipulated and sucked dry. The glass felt useless, forgotten. Why was I left alone, the glass a wonder…Why is it that when I was broken, cracked, I was not molten and reshaped? Why was I left? Why did they let me drip and lose my essence till there was none left? Why was I abandoned and left to bleed my soul out? Why was I left till it was too late? Questions to which I have no answers, yet the questions themselves have become an answer to why I have backed down to this corner… Why I stand at the edge with a strong desire to shatter on the floor I behold beneath. In my corner I stand in the embracement of the sides of the table, seeking protection, or the illusion of protection. At this point illusion and reality have merged like fog and morning breeze, creating a blurry yet soothing atmosphere. Ironically the sides in which I seek refuge and protection are the biggest temptation to seeking my own demise…enticement is my dilemma… Apathetic cold is all the glass has right now, it is the new refuge. It provided the glass with new ways of survival, filling its cracks with bitterness and anger. Vacuum is now replaced with newfound independence fed by the anger of hurt and the vengefulness of paranoia. Let me savor the bittersweet taste of the cold, for once let me be… Let me find myself…let me rediscover who I am… I may not remember what I was, but I enjoy what I am becoming now. I feel better than I ever have, I may not know how I felt before but I feel right. I know I'm better, I think I'm better. Let me savor the cold. I can't see any other road. Let me settle in my corner. I am this corner of the table. Darkness is now dying, and light is in rebirth. As darkness hits the grave, light grows in its cradle, as it is now the early morning sky. Dawn is here again… The champion archer is now walking towards the place he came from, as the arrow maker is now on the horizon. The archer has vowed since the beginning of existence not to ever meet the arrow maker. For the arrow maker has gifted the archer with the arrows it uses every night, under oath from the archer that he will use the arrows the same way the arrow maker would. Thus the archer wouldn't want to face the wrath of the arrow maker, when he discovers how the archer has been misusing the arrows. In another fraction of time the globe is now engulfed in yet another dividing moment, but a moment of pure and absolute light…the sun rises. The arrow maker is on his throne again in the morning sky; he looks at the opposite end of the horizon and can only see the trail of the fleeing archer. The arrow maker feels the agony of pierced souls by the archer's arrows. The archer has fragmented what was once whole, but that is a fight with the archer to be fought on another day. Sunlight doesn't need the time taken by moonlight to find its target, for it is not preying; it is already feeling miserable spirits and is on a set course to right the wrong the cold invoked. One specific sun ray has set sail toward the deserted house where the cracked glass once cowered. In the clear visibility of the morning light it appears that the deserted house in fact stands in the middle of a group of small herbs in need of care. The once menacing leafless trees tremble and twitch and the brown empty branches start acquiring a slight green color. The house itself is a beautiful two story masterpiece…an antiquity to be admired. Despite a few broken pieces and fading paint, it still appears as a beautiful mansion. It is the house every child had ever drawn at the age of innocence. As the sun ray arrives at the house, a small family of four stands at the door carrying luggage. A family is moving in… Sun light floods the house, leaving the darkest coldest room till the end. The dining room. Sun light moves in this room from the same place moonlight invaded. The broken window. As sunlight enters, early morning dew had already broken down and molten the cobwebs and dust covering the passage. Pure untainted light finally enters… With light in the room, visibility is finally clear… The dull table is actually a piece of art, full of drawings and beautiful carvings of angels and flowers from the center out. A mahogany beauty…What was thought to be a thin film of dust, is a beautiful hand knit white table cloth spread on the table with grace… There still remains a dark cold spot on the table however…the glass. It had absorbed the darkness and coldness and felt independence and self worth, but by dawn the glass felt lost again. It had all become bitter now, apathy is not sweet anymore. The once fractured ego was obviously mended wrongly. Is it too late again? By the sight of light, the glass starts remembering, missing and knowing. I miss who and what I was and what I was, but I need to know what I was. I want light. I gave darkness a chance. My fractures despite their temporary relief are still there. My ego has stopped me, I need out. I need to know…ask…help. I want this…light…I want help. I can ask for help. I want out. The glass exhales cold apathy and inhales the warmth of a beating heart. The warmth it once had. With every breath the warmth expels the coldness, and the glass shines. The bluish white light is now golden orange and the glass joins the rest of the world. The glass is now part of the world again, no more missing out. The glass remembers. What was thought to be a crack in the glass body is in fact a beautiful painting, a pretty glass staining that is only on this glass and none other, making it unique and one of a kind. The void in the glass is in reality pure essence of life. The glass is full of pure sparkling water up to its top, which had been impossible to see in the dark cold light of the moon. The glass was gorgeous. The glass remembers. It remembers the beauty it always had within. The glass remembers.

The glass stood long on the edge of the table, and in a corner.

However now, light is in the room illuminating every particle and inch of the room.

The glass was on the edge, but the table had always been round.

The Song: Anatomy of a Tidal Wave - Cold

It is all Music...

Throughout the past seemingly long yet quick phase of my life I have come to a realization; a theory in fact. One's mind is like a room, like any other composed of four corners, four pillars. I believe that to each person these corners are composed of specific items that are the composites of his mental and emotional state at the time. These items/pillars may change by time, and they may also remain eternally constant depending on the person. Unlike the average room however, no light bulb hangs in the middle, but rather in each one of the corners. These light bulbs never light up all at once, except on extremely rare occasions. Once one approaches one of these corners it lights up, and the second he moves away it fades to black. When one stands in one of the corners in his mind, he is surrounded by all what this corner entails which in turn can be either very painful or an absolute delight. Consequently I have come to a very pre-mature and humble conclusion. One can either spend most of his time in one corner for fear of leaving it in darkness in order to visit another, stand torn in the middle of the room in eternal darkness, or actually try to trigger some sort of chain reaction by which he lights up all the corners of his mind. I believe that a man, who has the four corners of his mind lit up, has reached a state of vigilance and clarity. This is something I also believe we're all looking for, since no one wants to be stuck or trapped in the middle of his own mind. My current state of mind suggests that the four corners of my mind are emotions, memories, faith and acceptance. Accordingly I have been trying to create a ripple in one of these corners that would henceforth light up my whole mind. Everyone has dark corners in their mind, few dare to visit…

As complicated and philosophical as the past lines may seem, they are nothing but an introduction to the upcoming ones. A couple of weeks back I was taking one of my midnight drives through the city, visiting my usual places of comfort to clear up my mind. It was one of the nights when I stood in the middle of my mind, in complete darkness. The radio was on playing back to back tunes, none of which caught my attention. Suddenly however, one of my favorite songs of all time started playing. It was as if my whole system was jumpstarted and my mind was flooded with light. The music flowing through my ears caused an eruption in my mind, creating a circular motion of light in a square room.

Music is an absolute beauty; it is one of those simple yet powerful pleasures in life. This indeed could be a topic I could write about endlessly, and I would end up not giving it enough credit. Why should I describe something that we all hear and experience daily?

This brings me to my latest and recurring reflection. When I felt exhilarated because of the song playing on radio, it wasn't the song per se that got to me despite what it meant to me. It was actually the fact that it got played at this specific and exact moment, at the time I needed it most. It was the fact that it was completely out of my control, a gift if I may say. Some people actually take signs from these pretty coincidences, I didn't. It just got me thinking about the idea of radio. I believe there's a striking similarity between life and radio. Radio is indeed a lot like life; you have no control over it, not all what is being played is particularly your taste and there are a lot of other people listening. The mere fact that thousands or maybe millions are listening to same thing, just gets to me. It in some way connects all those who are listening. A song that makes one cry his heart out, witnesses the beginning of someone else's love story. You never know…

When I get a disgusted grimace on my face as a result of "my mind on my money and my money on my mind" playing, I instantly imagine a bunch of best friends raising their car's roof. You never know…

There are few things that I never seize to think about however. I always wonder whether someone else is actually listening now to this song. I also wonder if they're experiencing the same set of emotions, or a whole different combination. That is one of the ways by which I believe radio connects us…

One thing I also think about is how radio can also surprise you and throw one of the "lost treasures" at you; in my case it would be "deliberately lost treasures". The fights erupting from those 3-4 minute confrontations are zero-sum and are never in your favor. As I mentioned earlier, songs have different effects on different people listening.The intriguing case however is when one song manifests different effects on one person at different time periods. A song that once placed a person on top of the world, can bury him under piles of misery later in the course of life. Just like life radio will throw at you your worst fears when you least expect it, a song with which you share a love hate relationship. A song that terrifies you, a song that makes you bleed every time you listen to it. This has also driven me to a conclusion. Never go into a battle with your favorite song. You will always lose. I believe that songs deliver endless messages through the lyrics and music. The change in your perception to this message doesn't necessarily mean hating or running away from the song. Never fight your favorite song, you'll always lose. By fighting it, you're simply fighting the emotions and memories to which this song is attached. That is one fight no one can afford to go through with..

Once a favorite song, always a favorite song.

Radio also shows us the people who are hiding inside us; it is all about the element of surprise. The absolute lack of control and the randomness in music create a sense of anticipation and thrill to me. Music played randomly and at distant time intervals shows you the angry, nostalgic, loving, hating, caring, regretful, optimistic, pessimistic, wishful and forgiving person you hold within or in my case, the absolute goofball. You could be all these people on one day of radio, while on another you can be just one.On other days however you can be none…

Regardless of what is playing and in spite of one's particular taste, I believe that it is all music. A hip hop song's lyrics could be what a rocker relates most to and some trance track could be exactly what incites a metal-head's passion…

It is all music, and that is yet another addition to my endless list of conclusions…

Life is a non-stop streaming radio…

It is all music.

The Song: Watch Over You - Alter Bridge

Puzzled no More...

Several days ago, the idea of this piece came to me when I was driving back from work. For some reason the rides to and from work are my favorite parts of the day. Maybe it is because they are when I let out most of my emotions and do most of my thinking. I've been wanting to write for a very long time, because I was feeling very inspired lately, but I never really knew what to jot down. At first the idea made no sense to me whatsoever, but I was still determined to illustrate it on paper. A night ago however it started making so much sense it was overwhelming. It is one of those times when something makes sense only to you maybe, but it still defragments a portion of your mind...

She was sitting in the sand looking innocently with bright blue eyes at the small cubes she had in her lap. She held each cube inquiringly for a few seconds looking at it with questioning eyes, as if asking it what she should do with it. She admired the different shapes and colors on each cube, turning each cube around in all directions. The wind coming from the sea toyed with her soft black hair, making its short black curls dance around in an almost harmonious motion. The breeze sent a cool yet pleasant chill down her little back. She was wearing a little baby blue two piece, showing a slightly protruding fair tummy. She was no bigger than a large teddy bear. Her swim suit made the color of her beautiful eyes sparkle and shine under the sun light. Slightly interrupted by the wind she looked up at the sea, then looked behind her and smiled a big gleeful smile then waved eagerly. A pretty woman in her late twenties early thirties, waved back at her. "Hey hunny!" the woman shouted out from a small distance. She was sitting under an umbrella, reading a book. She was wearing beige shorts, a white sleeveless cotton shirt, and shades. She was the adult version of her beautiful girl, only with shoulder length hair. Her little girl's hair however was a little under her ears.

The little girl looked back with traces of the smile she had still on her face and proceeded with the objects of wonder she had laying on the sand and between her little legs. Seeing the objects laying randomly on the sand, the little beauty started setting them up in a row. To her amazement, she saw that by doing that glimpses of an image she knew so well started appearing. She cried out in a mixture of surprise and happiness. She was surprised to see that something can actually come out of these once mysterious cubes, and very happy that she now knows exactly what to do next.

She started re-arranging the cubes over and over again, and the more pieces she put together of the picture, the more excited she got. She was very anxious to piece this image all together. She had a big inner smile and she was giggling out loud all through her glorious discovery. Her eyes sparkled even more now reflecting the purity an innocence of her young soul.

Little by little the picture was getting clearer, and she could hardly keep her happiness in. She started flapping her arms up and down and singing a beautiful melody only she understood. Her mother turning her gaze from the book that she was reading looked up at her and smiled. Coincidentally, the gorgeous child looked back once more sharing her pride with her mom and shouted out in excitement. It was as if she read her mother's mind, and decided to assure her that she was happy a child; she comforted her mother and found comfort in the smile that she received in return. She was very proud of her discovery and wanted her mother to be very proud as well.

She pinned the cubes in the sand and stuck them together forming a big square on which an image of a yellow star began appearing. The bright star lay on a blue background, yet two cubes were missing to complete the image. She knew the image of the star so well from the illustrated books her mommy read to her every night. She felt that she was making one of those stories right now. She wasn't writing one, better yet, she was in one. She picked up another cube and placed it carefully where it belongs. The bright pretty star was now only missing the cube that should be put in the center, and the image would be complete.

She looked around for the last piece, but she couldn't see it. She traced around the sand with her little fingers, but the centerpiece was no where to be found. She stood up and started circling the cube formation in search of her last piece. She didn't notice the big cloud hovering above them in the sky, which was now blocking the sun. She also didn't notice that her mom had in turn stood up to pick up their things, taking a hint from the shades the big cloud was setting.

She couldn’t believe that she was a piece apart from joy and achievement. She was so close to dancing around and celebrating her discovery, yet so far. She saw herself running to her mom and showing her in all satisfaction, what she crafted. Tears started gathering in the corners of her blue eyes. She laughed out loud, but she cried in silence. She stood there with tears in her eyes, heart broken.

It was as if the sky was also heart broken by the portrait of the hurt child. It started raining heavily. The first few drops landed on the girl's bright red cheeks mixing with her tears, she looked up at the sky with sad eyes. She looked back at her almost complete accomplishment, to make a new discovery. The water was filling up the empty space where the last center-cube was supposed to fit. She hurried towards the yellow star and stood next to it watching carefully as the water filled up the vacuum. She started giggling all over again, for she loved the new image created by the rain. It may not have been the picture she'd seen over and over in her bed time books, and over again in her mind, but it was just as pretty, if not prettier. The small water puddle formed in the middle of the closely knit puzzle, created a beautiful color mixture that made the little girl's heart swell. Just as she was turning around to call out for her mommy and do the long awaited victory dance, she saw her running towards her. "Come on baby, let's get out of the rain" her mom called as she approached. The blue eyed angel said something at the top of her lungs with a big smile and pointed to the puzzle. Quickly realizing the preciousness of this moment to her daughter, the mother took a moment to praise her little girl's success. "Hunny, that is so pretty!" she knelt down to her knees and squeezed her little girl in an intense emotional hug. The child smiled a big innocent giddy smile. The mother carried her little sweetheart and started speeding away from the bright yellow star; her daughter's head was resting on her left shoulder. The little girl was watching the water pour out of the center of her puzzle in a fountain-like motion. She giggled out loud again.

The Music: Going Wrong - Armin Van Buuren

When I write the song or the music, I mean the music that inspired me to write a specific piece. It is also the music/song that I wrote the piece listening to. This time I know I was inspired by a trance track, but the mixture of the music and the simple yet moving lyrics, touched a soft spot.