A torn diary of a dead man

I refuse to hear the sounds of misery so I place my fingers in my ears … My eyes, however, how can I close them when they are the lucid witnesses of these crimes? They saw the unfair wrists pulling down the mistreated necks and the empty mouths are talking instead of speaking up.

Ropes are hanging down from our dead trees and dead men are sat on fire by the dancing red heads for their hands have only stolen their rights. You see, the scale is off balance and no one wants to give the law a call.

When the sinners are trying to make juice out of the wine our sky refuses to give us life. Now, is it fair when the pearls sleep in peace in their shells and our army of orphans are making sand castles? Am I misguided for holding my book of poetry in hope instead of the book of religion?

Don’t you bother … My ears are closed. You can only answer me when your mouth is empty but you can taste the salt in that orphan’s tears, your neck is being dragged in humiliation but you can look up to the sky that looks down on you, when you see humans burning but have no water to save them and when you can see through eyes like mine.

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Dear diary

The more I am aware of my existence the crazier I get … I chose to see without the seal and accept them; those who live between us, I mean. My behaviour has changed since I became more aware of them. When I go to wash for the Maghreb prayer I move subconsciously in the bathroom in circles and my mind wanders off to discuss stupid small worthless conversations which are not related to each other. Maybe I’m taking them out of my system?

When my mother wakes me up for the Fajer prayer, I wake up laughing at her and I stay in bed till my mind wakes me up, I don’t remember laughing at her. In my prayers, I remember silly matters and try to hold my giggles by pinching myself. Last night I lost control over my body and I danced almost like I gave in to the music and my hair got messed up like the hair of a mad woman’s. I see my mom sometimes looking through the window with a fragile look on her face and a broken back, she looks too disappointed.

Last night though, I had the sweetest dream and I asked myself in my dream – “Am I dreaming? This is too good to be true … It is real!” Then I woke up and my mind made up its mind to check my arm. Yes, my mind, my soul and I are three individuals sharing a body. I couldn’t move my right hand at all, I tried to imagine it opening and closing but it doesn’t work. I thought “Is this a nightmare?” No, it is real. It’s six am in the morning and I am crying. I tried to move my fingers with my other hand but they won’t move, they were stiff and hard, I feared that they would break. I tried moving my wrist but it falls till the very end as if it’s dead. I tried to wake my hand up but there was no use. When I felt it, it felt like it’s another person’s hand, a Mannequin’s! It didn’t feel human at all, I felt betrayed.

I started to cry like a mother would on her dead child. I stopped to finally conclude – “My dream, it was too sweet, someone was trying to keep me in it so they can manage to kill my hand. Who was it? Why? What do they want?” I didn’t sleep yet, I’m too frightened! Oh please god, oh thank god! I won’t sleep for I fear the death of my hand!

Yes, it is me.

I got used to the darkness and I have made friends with my demons. I accepted the monsters who are inside of me instead of fighting them. Yes, I feel good about giving up. The light now hurts my eyes and I am too busy curing my headaches to dull the pain. Yet, I want to feel something, even if it is anger and loathing …

I’m dead rotting down here with false expectations and hope that is forever lost. I have lost the will to live and to be better. My fears blossom inside of me like flowers and I think they are beautiful. My kind sadness became my inspiration, I’m lucky that he visits me from time to time. I begun to appreciate my nightmares, for they give me better stories. My days though … They are all the same; pale, old, dusty and people are the wind.

My mind is filled with traps, dungeons and old castles with secret rooms and cold prisons. My thoughts are easily disturbed like the surface of the water, therefore I appreciate the screaming silence. I don’t want to be saved for there is nothing to be saved. I am the ruins; it is all black, burnt down, broken and abandoned. When you look in my eyes, you’ll see nothing for there is nothing inside, nothing good.

I’d rather stick needles in my heart than to feel neglect or attention. Poison runs in my veins instead of blood and apple chunks are cutting through my throat, I shall not speak but I shall release it from its leash to let it feed and grow from time to time. Maybe I have lost my self for good but I am too numb to care. Let it be, what is the worst thing that can happen?

Confusion

He was standing there waiting for her, searching for her face in those blurred faces. He caught her at last and she from under her shades has caught his eyes whose patience was wearing thin and that overwhelmed her as she smiled out of true happiness. That smile of hers made his lips wave back with hope but her smile soon had faded into deep sadness due to the clarity of the situation; he can’t be hers and that made her furious. His smile faded too like sunset when her two seconds smile was gone.

His eyes followed the confusing movements of her lips and that left him thinking with mixed emotions. “What is it he wants? … Looking at me with those puppy eyes … The fool thinks I would fall for such an innocent look.” He evoked her emotions with his playfulness and that has offended her most. She refuses to submit to any kind of power and him trying to do so without even trying made her hate him most. “That smile has slipped my face”.

For reasons she does not know and can not understand, she envied him. “The way he looked through me made me feel naked and exposed as if he can see my soul through transparent glass and that scares me most.” “Does he look at all women that way? Of coarse he does, he lied to me without saying a word!” She forces on a face of apathy but sadness breaks through like the truth and light would find their way through the cracks. “Every time I see him I stand straight pulling myself together … It’s stupid and pathetic.” She wasn’t all together! She’s a paradox in a human form.

“We just can’t be together so let me be …” She is grey and he is spring, she is darkness and he is light, he is hope and she is despair, he is the dream and she is a nightmare, he is whole and she is incomplete, he is strong and she is broken, he is very alive and she is dead, he is loved and she is a stranger. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

What can she do but to avoid looking into his deep eyes for they only made her feel pain, for they are one of her new fears and impossible desires. The quiet ones … Who are they but over thinkers? They would make great writers too, since they’re bad talkers. Here’s a little secret; they are not quiet at all their emotions are screaming inside shaking them and choking their throats as they ignore by trying to look calm and together.