On the obscure idea of self

February 12, 2017 § 1 Comment

Two roads present themselves in front of me, each advertising their streetlights with banners saying, “Join us! We are more appealing!” I am conflicted, or perhaps, I want everything.

I’ve been doing better than most days, or years, really, lately. Despite performing less than my potential, and working less than I ought to, and doing less than expected, I feel better. Perhaps it may be the overshadowing attitude of apathy in my perception, or perhaps it is simply that I have accepted currently and forever that I will never know. Because I will never really know, and because everyone only thinks they know – which may be the only thing I am currently truly certain of – maybe that is the reason towards my blissful apathy.

I am not apathetic, now, in the sense that all my care for the world has vanished, or is in the slightest slowly diminishing. Instead, I now more than ever want to pursue the humanitarian career, the only one that always made sense to me since childhood – the only career I never truly understood yet felt gravitated by – for all other careers I am interested in are but hobbies. To perform on stage is a passion I hold dearly to my heart, because of many reasons which entail acting as though I believe in something, and believing in it so truly that I become another person. The idea of being someone that other people believe me to be is very appealing in its mockery of human judgment yet also frightening in its defiance of the definition of self.

The apathy I hold for this world is one that has not blurred all perception, for I still care for the needy and the helpless, as I ought to. Perhaps I feel this way because I was taught empathy since a young age, even in school, and even in my line of work and discipline. Perhaps, as well, I feel this way because even the worst people I have met feel this way. Charity is easy. Treating those close to you well is not easy.

Because I believe no one can ever be certain, and that certainty (even this ‘certainty’ of mine in this thought is flawed in its essence because perception and character change overtime) I think that now I can present myself as I wish. I feel that now I have secrets because I can choose what people see and do not see. When one tells me they love me, I tell them they do not, and even if I do not spew it out loud, I do think it. Because they do not know me, truly, expect, what they think they know. This thought has been in my head for years, but it was never clear as much as it is now, and perhaps that is because it was never true then. I never hid anything, then.

When you are bored of life you must find a way out of this boredom. You’re not doing yourself a favour by lying down, bored. Unless you’re lying down and thinking, or not thinking at all, or doing anything other than thinking “I am bored”, then you’re really not doing yourself any favours. I started perceiving life as a play, so every moment is dialogue, every day is a scene, and every period of time is an act. Life is no longer boring, and happen there be boredom,then your life is simply experimenting with the theater of the absurd.

This begs the question: who are we, if not a collection of everything we have encountered and learnt and can still recollect in our memories? A friend told me a few days ago that we only assume people have specific intentions because deep down so do we. By that logic, if I were to assume you have bad intentions, then so do I, even if I had to dig down really far to find those intentions, but so do I. However, it mustn’t always be the case, for I let go of the masochistic attitude of assuming I am inherently bad. Perhaps a simple answer to why we guard ourselves is that we no longer wish to be let down, or in my case as of now, no longer expect anything due to apathetic attitudes wherein a person’s intentions or goodwill no longer matters. Simply taking precautions is what truly matters, but it mustn’t interfere in our experiences.

I still remember, and hope to never forget, one of the first classes of Literature in high school, when my teacher said (whom I love dearly and whom may be reading this right now), that one of the most important things we should do as students of literature is to experience. So I went back to my parents that day and told them my homework was to go to the cinema and to experience life more. I have been experiencing more since then. I have been much more daring since then.

By writing this it may seem I am sharing too much of what I ought to keep private, but life is short, and I couldn’t care less. I could, actually. But I also know that I write for myself, and by reflecting or trying to understand a few matters in life, it may spark a thought or so in someone else who comes across this — that ‘someone’ will most probably be myself a few years from now, if I am still alive and decide to read this.

I hope that graduating from university marks a sense of independence I have never experienced, one that is greater than all travel and all opportunities – one that is infinitely greater than this.

The roads that nag on me are almost here. I must choose one. To sacrifice my minute life for others, or to consume as much as my soul can take?

The answer is clear.

On pseudo-intellectuals,

December 19, 2016 § Leave a comment

I haven’t written something that is in article-form (for recreational purposes) in a while. I often write short anecdotes on life, or spaced sentences (poetry) or just attempts of personal reflection. Yet, I find it in me now to write something that is beyond a tweet or three, or even just a paragraph. Therefore, the following paragraphs or thoughts may not go about in an organised manner, and will have no sources.

I am in my last year of studying English Literature and Translation (at the bachelor’s level) and my appreciation for written words has decreased, quite ironically and even surprisingly. That is, of course, not to say that I appreciate celebrated international, and even timeless, works any less than before – I appreciate them a lot more – but simply saying things, or writing things in a proper manner no longer excites me or leaves me impressed. Instead, it leaves me feeling sometimes sorry for the person writing.

Anyone with proper training or just experience can write a good sentence. The degree to the fluency of the sentence differs from one writer to the other, and of course that ‘difference’ is what distinguishes a good writer from the rest. What I have been observing over the years, and I am in no position to generalise this (because my readings are limited and I do not find myself to be in such authority) is that many people often think that writing full sentences coins them as intelligent or of high intellectual status. For example, if someone were to write Facebook statuses in formal English – by not using slang terms or emojis, or even missing any full stops – then they are someone that is ‘intelligent’. Similarly, because someone simply writes a long post then they must be right. But that is another topic for another day.

Many of the general Arab community view speech that is bombarded with complex words an intellectual one, although the very purpose of language is to communicate, and if one were to aimlessly throw around complex words, then they are defying the very purpose of language. If one were to write an academic paper, or to speak to someone from their field, then they are free to use as many technical words as they wish. But using the same words to the public is useless; they would not be understood. Ironically, some of the people who agree with me on this, would also quote famous intellectuals – be it Machiavelli, Tolstoy, or Sartre – going as far as idolizing them, and presenting their views on to you as though they are divine. This, again, goes against (my view on) intellectualism. Anyone can read Tolstoy and quote him. Anyone can read a few pages of Sartre’s essays and act like a professional in the field of existentialism – going for sometimes hours – and passionately defending what they believe to be their view, despite it being Sartre’s views.

The great thing about ‘intellectual’ conversations – compared to others – is that they jump the further step into questioning and sharing the information at hand. To say, “I have read about this enough to speak of it” or “I have a degree” and even “I interviewed the best” is hypocritical. It is all well and good to say this – of course a degree offers one with a lot of authority on the matter – yet denouncing the second party’s opinion or ideas – given that the topic is not scientific (although science is based on questioning everything) – defies the very purpose of the conversation, given that the party’s intention is to learn and share valuable information rather than debate out of the ‘intellectual’ conversation. The hypocritical stance taken here by the pseudo-intellectual is speaking of values (that are actually others’) that they do not act upon.

Any student who speaks well, or writes in proper English, or memorises a few words from the dictionary and reads a book about Plato can win a debating competition. However, to have a genuine conversation that goes two-ways (a student to student rather than a teacher to student) must be one where both parties remain humble. Simply put, acting ‘civilised’ by speaking formally does not mean one is actually more civilised than the other. An easy example, which is common amongst Arabs, is that speaking English in a ‘local’ American or British accent often classifies this person as more educated than the one who speaks in an Egyptian or Jordanian accent –or even no English at all– although this is not the case.

The pseudo-intellectual say they speak for the people whilst covering themselves with a coat of fancy words to sound authentic. Yet, ‘actual’ leaders use simple and emotional speech to reach out to the masses. One of the situations that made me feel ‘sorry’ for someone is when Umm Kulthoum and Abdel Halim were mentioned – celebrated Egyptian singers as well as two of the “Great Four” – and the person looked at me and condescendingly said, “Oh, you probably don’t listen to them.” For some unspoken reason, it is a shared view amongst Egyptians that those who listen to dead artists have ‘high’ taste in music, and are therefore considered ‘classy’. Don’t take me wrong, my father and I discuss and rejoice in Abdel Wahab’s music at least once a week. But simply because I enjoy listening to an already celebrated artist, or in some cases an underground artist, does not mean that I am more ‘classy’ or even smarter than someone else. To enjoy going to galleries and to appreciate art and paintings does not mean that I am more deserving of respect than someone else. To enjoy certain mediums of entertainment does not mean I am better; it is simply a preference.

Perhaps this is the point of this ‘article’ or these paragraphs: it is that simply doing things that are viewed as intellectual does not make one an intellectual. I obviously, as aforementioned, do not have the authority to say who and who is not an intellectual, yet the purpose of this writing is not to define what an intellectual is, rather what an intellectual is not. It is noble to read, and speak well, yet the purpose of these readings and speech must be genuine (if even to defeat an enemy) rather than to simply ‘show off’, or act as an entrance ticket to a certain ‘type’ of group that is scarce in the community. I’d even go as far as terming the pseudo-intellectuals as the nouveau riche of the intellectual community. Simply put, it must be quite tough to abstain from ‘bad’ art because it does not fit into someone’s perception of how an intellectual must act and be.

An Arab and an Israeli Meet

March 21, 2016 § Leave a comment

This is based on a true story.

The night wrapped its arms around us as we ran, and the wind came scorching through. We entered the bus, and as we socialised surrounded by the walls of the world, one exclaimed, “You should visit the Holy Land!”

Seated on the floor, I felt a breeze amidst a sea of people, amongst the warmth of laughter and short introductions –amongst hopeful diplomats and young adults. Once hearing his statement, I stood up.

His associate exclaimed her desire to visit my country, which they had stolen decades ago –the same land thousands had died for, millions had their hearts torn and stepped on by their guns. She exclaimed her enthusiasm to visit the ground where her people had tortured my own.

“Oh, why don’t you?” I replied, dodging the overwhelming elephant in the room.

“Because of security and stuff.”

“Ah, yes.”

Of course, it was security that prevented her from visiting.

Forty minutes later, we arrived where everyone was dropped off, and the four of us remained, split into two. Cousins, they’d call us, closer to one another than the driver who dropped us in the middle of God knows where.  Thrown out of the bus into the black pit of the night, and once again, hugged by the cold, we recognised that all four of us arrived in a foreign land.  We had no other choice but each other’s company.

Two, and two, from each side, like a moving box, we walked and talked. I heard laughter from behind me; we joked and talked about God knows what. I could hardly recall any of our conversations, for the elephant that walked beside us spoke louder than our hearts. I feared for my life, and certainly did they.

“I’m balding; maybe I’ll start wearing a hat like you when I’m older.”

Funny, he thought himself to be, as though acting ignorant towards the scarf I wrap around my head.

Continuing the play of stupid-pretend, we proceeded to walk.

Seashells: To Fling Or Not To Fling

October 19, 2015 § Leave a comment

Hum of Sihinaya

Memories are sneaky little things. They creep up on you when you’re not noticing, then WHAM!You suddenly find yourself drowning in waves of painful, bitter, beautiful, melancholic nostalgia. It’s not like as if you always intentionally recall these memories anyways. Well, at least I don’t. Sometimes, I’d just go about with my day-to-day business, with say, my earphones plugged in. My playlist on shuffle. One jam ends. Another comes on. Or so I think it does. But actually, it doesn’t. Instead, what is randomly selected next isn’t just some song. It’s a trigger. And before I can press pause, the trigger is pulled and a bullet from the past hits me right in the heart. At times, it’d hurt. This is where memories cheekily come into play, in the midst of this pain. They’d sneak out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks. They, no, I… I can’t…

View original post 591 more words

a short welcome

August 17, 2015 § Leave a comment

It’s finally quiet enough for me to flood paper with ink. The weather is clear and above me flows a sky that resembles sea water flowing through a filtration tube. The people walking during the current stillness of the day appear relatively large, as though actors glaring from a billboard. The air is damp, though not more than my nose. I think I’m going to get sick. I see the reflection of a toy on the ground as though its surface were a new mirror. It fascinates me how such shine and cleanliness translates to gratitude from surfaces.

Writers like to write at ease, sometimes stress, often in a mode of a complete overflow of emotions. Yet I, not a writer, am writing whilst not having slept until the sun’s rise – supposedly exhausted after a long day and night, then day, though as of this moment I am all else simply lost in this so called act of ‘writing’. It soothes me to attempt to write about writing because one is often, more than not, compelled to speak or discuss or even participate in that which they are familiar with. I have taken a deep familiarity with writing. These feelings aren’t deemed mutual, however. Writing has abandoned me. Or perhaps I have abandoned him. Writing, if it were to take the form of a sex, is male to me. Because I am in some ways in love with writing.

This is the first time I write in months – this way, in such a format – during such a place and time. It was unaccounted for and untied by deadlines or obligations. It knocked, and I responded. I can see the sun. It looks like the inside of an egg – and I needn’t mention the standard name because if anyone were to read this, they’d know what I’m talking about. You know. I like it when I don’t feel obliged to explain things. Like this.

I am simply glad this happened. After a long wait, you’ve been missed, fellow voice.

رفات الذاكرة

January 3, 2015 § Leave a comment

أرجوك، متعيطشِ
خليك واعي و متستكبرشِ
الدمعة من عنيك متستهلش صدقني
أنا هنا، تحت التراب واعي
أصل كلامي لسه فديواني
مش همشي
في كلماتك و صورك و ذكرياتك هتلقيني
أرجوك، بتوسل إليك متعيطش
دمعة واحدة لو وصلت للأرض تنبت زلزال
سيول، إعصار – فاهمني؟
بلاش يا حج مش ناقصني
أنا هنا بمشي
زي زمان شُربِنا للببسي
قبل ما كبرنا و قلنا مش صحي
بس فالمكان ده مش تاعبني
خليك فرحان، أرجوك متعيطشِ
ده عادي
كلنا بنموت – طبيعي
بس أنا الي كنت بدري
منتا دايماً سابقني قلت ﻷ مينفعشِ
المرة دي أنا الي كسبتْ
و أنا الي متْ، بَقُلك عادي منتا هتلحقني
بس خليك شويّة
عوزك تجيلي بتقارير عن المستقبل الي هيفتني
خليك و متعيطشِ
أنا هنا مستنيك
هروح فين يعني؟

I’m the weak one this time, Love.

December 23, 2014 § 2 Comments

This is a letter to you, Love. I don’t know if you’re an emotion or a trait or a feeling or a disorder, but I write to you despite the ambiguity of your form. You’re not very liked, for a name so powerful. Isn’t that weird, Love?

I wonder how you feel sometimes. I wonder if you’re sadistic in the way that you untangle palms which once embodied locks or if you cry out of misery when lovers separate. I wonder if you throw arrows in the form of a flying fairy called Cupid. I wonder if someone saw you one day, and decided to call you that. Maybe you do have a form; one other than that which crawls and thaws in the midst of ourselves while we try to rest asleep, other than that which creeps when the sun sets and even during the earliest of times. A form that’s as physical as any tangible object can be; maybe even a person.

I wonder if you’ve ever met someone, Love. I heard that angels could mould themselves into humans, as homunculi would. Have you, Love? Did you ever need to embody yourself onto an observable form for someone or some… thing?

You appear in levels, and then all at once, which I also find weird, Love. So much about you is eerie, in a sense. You’re… uncomfortable. I hope this isn’t taken as an offense by you, I only find it fair that I write as honestly as I could when it’s a letter directed to you, out of everything else – or everyone else, we haven’t agreed on what you are yet.

Will you ever write to me? I wish you could speak to me, Love, instead of poking receptors in my brain. I thought I didn’t need you, you know. As uncanny as it is to admit, I can release dopamine without you, but your dopamine is different. Maybe its colour is pink. Maybe that’s why they associate you with pink and red shades, or perhaps it’s due to the colour of our blood and how they associate you with the heart. What do you have against our hearts, Love?

You both fight all the time. My stomach too, you seem to have unresolved issues with it. Is that how you flirt? You release ticklish butterflies to peep around as cameras and throw bombs at safes we thought were protected. You’re weird, Love, and not very romantic, you know. It’s a little unaccounted for, and actually palpably rude, how you’re almost never invited but attend anyway. I suggest you attend one of those posh morality classes; you’re probably rich from all of the lives you’ve broken. If money in your world were measured by oceans of tears, you must be more than a billionaire. What do they call who’s richer than a billionaire? You’d know.

I’m not as cruel as you, but you’ve taught me some horrid techniques, Love. I’m quite ashamed to admit it, but here we are. You’ve taught me to be the strong one. That’s how I’ve passed all your tests so far; that’s why happiness is as bright as it could be in my life. But I think I’m starting to fail, Love. It’s worrying me. Maybe this is why I’m writing to you. I think I need your help – wait, no, what if you ask me to sell another part of myself as you did the last time? I can’t afford to lose too many pieces of myself, I only have one self, you know. I can’t mould myself into as many forms as you do. I’m still human, need I remind you that. I’m handed this one body, and soul. I don’t know if you know, maybe that’s why you’re a little harsh on us humans. Do you do that to animals too? Are you more than one? Are you a nation of Loves? Are you types?

I have so many questions to ask you, Love, but if you’re busy as I’m sure you always are, I can reduce my inquisitiveness into one.

When will you leave me alone?

Where Am I?

You are currently browsing the Other category at Swords on Fire.