Rocks of Pride

I cherish every single word I have posted on this blog, and that is precisely why I chose to post this...

He took off the gown of wisdom, and bowed

bestow your beauty, return my kingdom, as you once vowed

this wretched war is yours, are you not proud?

cuts, bruises, blood and scars, a girl crying loud,

look at her as you did me, the day I tried, the day I died

is she not you, a shattered wave, a broken tide

a black spell, a foul crave, crashing on the rocks of pride

for in the dawn of the brave, men who defied

the charm of a pretty queen, as she wept and cried,

rains of gold kill the wealthy and seas of gluttony run dry,

grey grows old and empty, and your velvet demons die

look at me, watch me be, behold your champion fly

gone is the time of courtesy, and dead is every lie

Listen

Midnight Filosofía

There's something about driving that brings out the little Nietzsche in me, that tireless thinker that ends up eating up all my head noodles. And when that happens I get grouchy, coz the noodles wrapped around my cranium go in circular zigzags all the way to the ticker at the center of my chest.

I believe that bastard thinker is trying to bite my heart.

Listen.

i want the red underwear back

We live in crazy times, I swear. Things are not the way they used to be when I was a kid, it is called growing up they'll tell you. Agreed, but that's not just it I believe. The very texture of man has changed; we have evolved, in oh so many ways.

Now, an alien in red underwear should start looking for a new job, because a black president just got hired as superhero. Girls* are not the only emotional blackmailers out there anymore; there are now nations that pull that nifty trick off, the whole shabang, crying and all.

It is as if the molten sea of lava that used to be our collective communities has just, and I mean just, solidified. To each his mess, I used to say, as long as we were separately afloat and astray, but now, we're connected. You don't need a titanium ship to cross over to someone else's mess, you can just walk there.

But despite this bizarre human-cocktail, we have grown more apathetic, because when subjected to a larger amount of incomprehensible misery, one tends to resort to escapism, usually manifested in imposed apathy.

Get this, a crowded room, full of people who very much abhor the stench of one another, but can't be bothered with neither the idea of getting out of the god forsaken room, nor perhaps de-funking it.

Crazy world we live in.

* I love girls though, even with the blackmail.

Watch.

Home.

A city never dies. It grows old, but a city is immortal. One moment separates the fabric of time, yester moment was home and the next it is not, for a city can grow cold with age. My city once begged me to stay as I packed my bags, my memories clung to my feet, and my baby sister squeezed me ever so tight, she broke my heart.

I tried to kiss her tears away assuring her that I'll be back, and I left a city behind, home.

I'll never forget the first day I set foot away, an alien, in a world void of memories. I walked under cloudy mellow skies, in awe, a novice, relearning life; away from roots I had planted so deep back home.

But, you see, a city never dies, because regardless of where you are, home fights for dear life inside you, vigorously, giving your lonesomeness a bittersweet flavor of anguish. All that I held dear gave me features in a city of blank faces; I was color in a blank white page.

In color, I found home, away from an aging oriental city. But the fact remained, my love for the beautifully flawed warm cozy city was irreplaceable.

Simmering cold pearl showers couldn't change my mind, but they cloaked my features, and home couldn't recognize me when I returned. The warm city had grown cold, my memories turned against me, and I stood at square one.

Time however is a friend, and it was all I needed to rearrange the jigsaw I believed made sense before my departure. I am who and where I want to be now, and for that, I am very grateful.

Home can give you the cold shoulder, but it will never abandon you.

Listen.

Maybe..

He woke up one day, looked ahead, and started running. Sweat and tears they're called, but to him, they were elation, they shed away all those years. Years that made him older, years that heaved down his powerful heart.

He ran, the wind killing one frown after the other, neutralizing his memories. One would think that memories are either good or bad, but the truth is, good memories can turn bad.

Not that he ran away from anything, on the contrary, he ran towards an armada of unborn memories, a family. He ran towards a silhouette his mind has done such a good job in creating, but failed at giving features.

Life is simple to him, not complex, help one another, smile, fall for one another and try. Why it has to be otherwise, at any given point in time, was beyond him.

Identity mattered no more, man needs not a name when alone.

A cliff.

He jumped, and plummeted to a new day.

Sleep, tomorrow might be the best day of your life.

Listen.

perspective is a talent...

It occurs to me every now and then that writing can somehow be fraudulent. You see, no matter how candid you try to be, some parts of you will never meet ink. Conscious may your choice be or not when you conceal remnants of who you are, it happens. Even in writing this piece, I am nowhere near candid.

I hate it when I impress people for reasons that, to me, don't describe who I really am, or for choices I deem natural. I'd certainly hate it if someone reads this and thinks highly of me, and I'd also hate it if someone comes to the conclusion that I am a humility-faking pretentious douche. It happens though.

How many times have you been perceived wrongly, or hated for who you're not?

To be seen with one, desired eye, is impossible, and to be seen by numerous impaired perspectives, is frustrating. Paradox, mayhaps, but equilibrium in turbulent times like these becomes an effervescent elusive dream.

The going will get tough, you'll kneel, you'll cry and maybe even pray, and if someone is there, you'll be seen for who you really are and vice versa. Is this how it has to be, is it even fair? I know not, and I can't be bothered with the idea.

At my age, I'd say I've seen my fair share of faces and taken a good amount of blows to my ego. I've seen my armies in defeat and have discovered grave errors in my judgment and at other times, my ways. I have witnessed my dreams barely escape murder and have run towards one mirage after the other. I have a little spot with my name on it at square one.

At the end of the day, here's what I know for sure, I am smaller than what I'd like to believe. Don't get me wrong, this is no self-destructive depressive thought, but perspective, if you will. I am but a kid, regardless of what I've been through.

To each his misery, but at the end of the day, some fight bigger fights, noble ones, those are the fights I've been looking for all my life. Belittle not your own sadness, but view it for what it really is, and in that you will find faith.

Listen.

Dear Lost,

Listen to a beautiful song, so beautiful it saddens you, brings a tear or two to your eyes. Listen to a song so sad, it crushes you on the inside, then listen to a happy, cheerful song, and laugh hysterically at your dismay.

And sooner than your tears dry up on the fallacious smile your face has, somehow, depicted, you think, then believe, that you're lost. You dress up, drink a beverage of your choice, known for its mood-altering ability and head on your way.

On the road to your destination, you take a look at the sky, and it almost always doesn't suit your mood, but occasionally does, when you really want it to. Then, a thought driven memory cuts through you, slices your soul, bringing it down, leaving you hollow for the day.

Your troubled mind mumbles a loud "nobody cares anyway" only to be outdone by another song. Another beautiful rose in a musical garden. But this rose, you wore for a while, you had it in your hair or pinned it to your shirt, and never went a day without it. You are now without it.

You listen and see that your blood on its thorns has not dried yet. And you cry. The second regret sits where your soul once was, you're jolted by a friend so full of life, regret scurries back the saddest corner of your heart. You wear that old smile again and greet the friend.

"I wish..." you interrupt your soul's shy, muffled, cries for help.

Dear Lost,

Make a wish for a change, for you are human, and should find no shame in a wish. It will come true, sooner or later, I promise. Lost is a path, not a place. Lost is a path to your dreams, what you wish.

Dear Lost,

You're not lost, and I am your friend.

Wessam.

Listen.