The dark holes in my white T-shirt


Image Credits goes to

#14 Can’t Escape


I woke up from my usual nightmare, a childhood trauma that blocks my mind from dreaming of everybody’s unicorns, fantasy, or gatherings. My body quaking on 8-Richter, dark memories flooded in out of my sick mind. Minutes passed, my body went silent. The adrenaline’s effect wore away, and my brain quashed the anguish within. I stood on my legs normally. My room was drowning in my overused clothes; ants and flies colonized the leftovers either on the ground or on that table whose broken glass always hurt me. As a morning greeting, the stomach-churning smell of the spoiled food, sweaty clothes, and invasive insects crept into my nose, torturing my lungs with a nurturing dosage of poisonous air. This deathless death symphony was cutting the strings of my lungs and replacing my blood with some dark liquid full of self-loathe and insecurities.

That day I had to get out of my room; that is, I had to fake smiles, be humorous, and maintain a fun atmosphere. While approaching the bathroom, I noticed my disheveled hair in the last piece of mirror remaining on the wall. I noticed my despicable, ugly appearance glaring at me with red eyes, penalizing me for not ending his life… penalizing me for keeping him alive, for making him a silent witness to calamities, and for making him feel worthless 24/7. I saw the insomniac nights he spent on making suicide plans, thinking of someone’s comment on him ten years ago, or reviving dark childhood memories as a dark circle below his eyes. The dark huge dark scar beneath his eyes reminded me of everything I always escaped from; I realized the failed suicide trials when I saw these cuttings on his arms, noticed the abuse scars on his body as burnings and wounds around his body, and I felt disgusted from the stark stretch marks on his belly. I discovered how living in such an isolated, dirty environment transformed his white, bouncing skin into a hideous jungle of stained face and randomly-grown hair. But it didn’t surprise me, for I am with him since the beginning of this metamorphism. I was with him when he had to suffer abuse, bear alienation, and practice self-loathe. It is no surprise for me to see his slim body walking with some blood clots everywhere. Maybe those aren’t real clots yet screams for help, and maybe his slim body reflects his thin self-confidence.

11:45 AM

I had to get out at 12:00; I had to decide on a mask to wear, something that could hide my shattered self-confidence and trap my dark thoughts, for they aren’t acceptable in social occasions. I needed to get out to feel surveillance cameras watching my movements, hidden microphones recording my words, and special AI devices analyzing my attitude. I had to prepare my always-fun jokes, my awkward humor, and my chaotic thoughts.

I felt the water tap very warm, as my body’s temperature was in extreme cold. I washed my face, feeling water turning into dark, dirty water after hitting my face. I kept washing my face and washing my mind, yet I had never achieved the latter.

11:53 AM 

Seven minutes left. If I had arrived late, I would have been, as always, dubbed as irresponsible and immature, but if I had arrived on time, I would have been also dubbed as irresponsible and immature because they don’t judge the attitudes rather than judging me. That is, I was called a fake individual if I achieved, true if I cheated, honest if I lied, actor if I said the truth; I was the opposite of everything in their prejudicial eyes, and when it comes to something good, I’ve never done it out of passion or love.

11:58 AM 

Two minutes left. I was done. I took my white T-shirt on. It wasn’t white: Life did its thing on it. Dark holes dominated its fabric: each one represented a memory, a night spent crying, an offending insult that made me awake for days, a scar on my body as a result of abuse, or a scar on my mind as a result of insecurities, self-loathe, or hate. I carry everything with me, to always remember and to always bully myself when it’s time to be happy or laugh. I take everything with me, to sneak meanwhile gatherings and cry alone in some dark corner. I walk with everything, to remember everything and avoid forgiving.

12:00 AM 

I arrived. It’s time to fake and find a space for another dark hole in my T-shirt. Bye.




Bad Romance


Photo Credits:

I turned the lights off, only looking at the burning candle at the end of my room, for candles are the most common sign for romantic settings. I sprayed flower’s aroma and ecstatically felt those tiny, cold droplets touching my skin. That day, I did the strangest thing on earth. I wore the best attire of mine, dressed my hair, looked at the mirror manifold times, and put that deodorant, perfume, and etc. I was preparing myself for an emotional date with “the most awaited.”

I opened a champagne bottle, felt the ice between my warm hands, felt its smell wrinkling my nose, and heard the gratifying fuzzes of carbon dioxide escaping the liquid, for it was endowed freedom, and if someone was endowed freedom, they would escape what traps them… they would escape thoughts, analyses of people’s reactions and social status… they would escape what obstructs them from being themselves. The carbon dioxide cannot bear dissolving more, and on the same analogy, someone would have to run away from what dissolves their personality, silences their voice, or quashes their ability to self-express.

Anyways, I always deviate from the flesh of my story to speak about irrelevant details or throw random dark thoughts. Pardon me, it’s a habit that distinguishes my different type of personality. I poured ten or twenty millimeters into my glass, and the same I’ve done to the other glass. I waited for some minutes, with a smile on my face, and finally, the awaited arrived! It’s has been long since our last reunion, so I had to tell background stories before starting our conversation, telling them how I changed, how my world changed, and how every cell of me reacted to its new world. I had to tell them the differences between my former dark thoughts and current ones, to tell them about how I redefined myself, redefined what makes me happy, and redefined what hurts, and they kept astonishingly listening, giving me their usual smile, but that day, I felt their smile a grin.

I knew that smile extremely well. It has been a sign of seeing me different, and with months away, that smile was a big, wide grin.

“Shshshsh…. I grabbed you a gift, and I’m one-hundred percent sure it suits you! But please open it after you force me to leave.”

I was surprised… it was so affectionate, to be honest, and I was in need of such surprises.

We kept chatting for a long time, and they were too gentle, too calm, and too decent with me. On the other hand, I was overreactive, speaking about what hurts or what mends openly, acting the scenes, and disclosing what my internal had hidden. I noticed how did they gradually lose interest while speaking with me, how did their smile turn into a mixture of frown and a scowl, and how did they glare at me sometimes until I stopped talking. I stopped talking, afraid of losing this awaited meeting and afraid of anticipated leave.

“Whatever changes occur, whatever worlds you live in, and whatever eyes you see with, your core stays polluted, your core stays perfectly the same.” They attacked me.

“Changing the settings many times, yet having the same results at the end of the day, doesn’t imply anything but having a flaw in the system, a virus that contaminates your surroundings as soon as possible.” They kept attacking.

“You are the virus, you are the pollution, and you are the main culprit in each story! You are a toxic virus, a cancerous mass, an alienated piece of shit.”

I was about to collapse, but I kept listening. I always listened to them saying such words, but it was franker that time. It was true without modifications, without fearing that my feelings might be hurt.

“Do you recall that time you came and cried to me because you believed in a fallacious conspiracy? You, with the most stupid way, thought the world is planning to defeat you, making your life a symphony of melancholia. I knew you were craving care, craving love, and craving many things you were deprived of, but you acted like a nauseating whore! Attention-whore!”

I started to cry, trying to stop them from speaking, but they didn’t stop. They kept telling me how I ruined, ruins, and will definitely ruin my relationships, how I, with my own will, alienated myself, how I preferred unwanted nicknames to be respected, and how every time I tried something new, I failed. They told me how I destroyed my own self-esteem until I became uncertain about the definition, and how I was guilty on every occasion.

“Stop! Stop!” I kept shouting, but they kept pointing their fingers to me, kept unburying my thoughts.


I was full of anger, and without thinking, I held my glass and threw it on the mirror talking to me. I wouldn’t have a date for months now, but I would stay collecting more stories for the next date. I will keep collecting more self-loathe and self-bullying stories, and I would wait for my every new date gift: a new package of insecurities.



Photo Credits: 

The weather deceived me with its seemingly fine wind, so I didn’t take my scarf nor my jacket with me. I didn’t know that the sly wind would penetrate my skin and echo among my bones, and I didn’t realize it would force my body to shiver, coerce my teeth to harmfully vibrate, and push my mind to repent going out.

Analyzing the weather, keeping track of forecasts, doing some intensive research about weather conditions, and actually mastering the “study of weather” didn’t help after all. Anyways, thinking about my decisions would do nothing, would make me agonize in the streets, or would make me lose my battle against cold, or would leave me a dead corpse in the streets. I was stuck, and I had, as usual, to find the path home, but those lamps were flickering in protest and alarming me of potential dangers, those leaves were submitting to the rage of nature and hitting me harshly in the face, and those streets were empty.

All whom I know were intelligent enough to understand how devastating it would be that day, so they all had leather or wool jackets, yet some stupid guys —like me— decided to shelter themselves from the cold; they were yelling at some fire they created to stay and give them some warmth, were holding each other’s hands, were assuring each other, and were believing in a non-sense hope: survival.

The scene of me shivering around the fire is emblazoned in my mind. The pain in my bones elicited manifold thoughts, evoked numerous memories (that I wish I was diagnosed with Alzheimer to forget them), and drove me to reevaluate myself.

I used to stay around the fire, with some light T-shirt and summer attire, and “those” (They deserve to be nameless) used to stay with their jackets and pullovers on, and I used to shiver, and I used to be that week companion. They used to mock the fact I always went out without protection, that I always made the same mistake, and that I was trembling. When I was kindling marshmallow for the cohort, I used to take the worst one without complaints, for I was the best to kindle marshmallows yet the least respected individual to receive a good marshmallow.

The fire was burning as me internally, and it consumed my energy as it consumed the wood. The fire relentlessly resisted the bleakness of the weather, and I relentlessly resisted “their” bleakness, yet I was turning into ashes slowly. Very slowly was I turning, and very slowly was God signs telling me how erroneous my decisions were. I didn’t realize I was metamorphosing since day one, with every time my body reacted to the cold weather or cold feelings. I didn’t happen to understand how mistaken I was to stay around the fire, even if it is endowing me warmth. The fire gave me the warmth I needed to stay, but while giving me this warmth, it threw me with its flames and burns.

Yes, the fire was my first shelter, but it was my first bully, my first hater, and the first thing to deceive me. Yes, the fire gave me what I needed, but it consumed me while giving it to me. Yes, the fire was the best friend in the times of letdowns, yet the worst being in every time.

I took another decision: continuing the venture alone even if I would leave those friends huddling around the fire or even if I would perish alone. Perishing from the usual cold would be better than flames; even though cold is excruciating, it doesn’t leave permanent marks like the fire’s flames. I decided to leave the fire, to leave the shelter because I was losing myself V e r y S l o w l y. I decided to fight, for fighting alone without psychological pain is better than fighting with a cohort while suffering from internal pain…

So, while walking, I gave them a look. They didn’t change. They were the same as years ago, same fake smiles, same fake feelings, and same fake everything. I didn’t stop. I kept walking, kept approaching home.

In my way home, I found a cluster of butterflies around me. They were flying smoothly, unaffected by the wind. They were around me all the time, preventing me from experiencing desolation, and they kept the same pace —never speeding up, never slowing down.

I kept talking to these butterflies, filling my time by expressing some trapped thoughts. Unlike the fire, those butterflies listened without judging, smiled without faking, and even mocked me without offending. They mocked things that made me laugh from my heart, unlike the fire which stressed my insecurities and destroyed my self-confidence —hey! But the fire was fun, wasn’t it? The butterflies were very true to me, and they advised me to stop doing “bad” things, unlike the fire which kept throwing me with flames without telling me about those “bad” things.

The butterflies helped me overcome the bruises of my previous tyrant and paved the way in front of me to flourish. The butterflies were a realization checkpoint for me, a sign of change, and an impetus for forgetting the fire.

I didn’t feel myself resisting the fire nor felt the harshness of the road. I only felt love, hope, and support. Those butterflies guided me home, and I owe my safety to them.

Like any being, I experienced Genesis. Yes, I am now brave to disclose all that fire did and to admit all what butterflies had done, do, and will do. I was created from the ashes.

For every butterfly flying around, please stay there… sometimes I’ll need your guidance, and I always need your support.


Under the rain


Morning, it had rained yesterday. The assuring smell of the rain wrinkled my nose and attracted me to walk, or to be precise, wander in the streets, but soon enough, the obnoxious scent emitted from cats’ desperate search for food ruined my imagination. In my city —and typically in most cities— hungry cats hopelessly spend hours searching for food, yet after poverty prevailed, cats find nothing but blood-stained, torn clothes that are a result of violent abuse, broken pieces of glass that hurts the cats’ endangered bodies, and spoiled remains of food. Cats, hungry for food, unbury people’s stubbornness, reveal people’s darkness, and unveil hate. Cats, hopelessly seeking nutrition, are courageous enough to ambush people with utterly uninviting questions… with questions about morality, principles, and reality. Cats are the agents of the truth yet happen to be the least respected segment in the community because they are dirty, hungry, and honest. Cats are the agents of truths, yet in current times, truths are very less rewarding than lies.

Anyways, as a typical “passive” citizen, I decided to stop thinking, for if I deviated from the cohort’s path, I would be alienated, persecuted, and maybe killed: killed by words before swords.

“Cats? Ridiculous!” I kept repeating

“Such calls for truths aren’t helpful. I don’t want, in any case, to miss the joy of wandering in the streets and being surrounded by the rain’s smell,” I, as always, produced a lie and trusted it to move on.

I took on a blue pullover and a black trouser. To be honest, people don’t like my taste in clothing, and they always attack me with harsh comments whenever they see me; however, I don’t try to change my attire, for it is a part of my not-going-with-the-flow identity…  for at least, I’m not wholly abiding by the majority’s orders, and at least, I am myself. In my town, people hate those with long hair, hate those who are different, so they hate me, and for hate, I don’t care, and for people’s comments that are based on irrational traditions and myths, I don’t care, and for people’s evaluations of a person based on an appearance-related criteria, I don’t care.

“At least, some part of me does not go with the flow,” I convince myself, or I lie to myself, or I fake myself because I might happen to act differently just for the sake of pleasing my ego, of telling myself that I’m superior to others, of seeking attention: “Oh my god, why you are different?!”

Every time I decide to go out, these waves of conflicting ideas, of people’s comments, and of my own self-realizations try to obstruct me, so I close my eyes to avoid looking in the mirror, to avoid seeing my disheveled hair and poor-looking attire.

I finally escaped the battle inside and welcomed the whiff of the rains, neglecting the scent of the remains. I took a deep breath, a mixture of roses, rains, and tiny water droplets. I exhaled a mixture of polluted air, for my lungs, breathing hate, contaminate the air. I took the first step outside, legs shaking and body trembling. I took the first step outside, yet I’m still trapped in the same town, in the jail, but at least I will have the joy of wandering in the streets, of not thinking about cats, trees, hair, clothing, or people. I will just think of rain and its smell, of its pureness and crystalline-appearance. While wandering between small ponds, it rained again.

Under the rain, I will wash myself, my sins, and my faults, and on the other side, I will pollute the water, the streets, and the environment, for in this town, I am toxic and will spread my toxicity if washed… for in this town, I will impede the current from going if I deviated… for in this town, I’m the bad model of a human being.

Under the rains of water, I might stand in front of tornados and never shake, but under the rains of words, I collapse, fly away, and conceal my identity. Under the rains of water, I am true, I am washed, and I am real.



The Cracked Portrait


Image Credits: Portrait Drawing – Portrait Of A Shattered Youth by James Tetreault


The smell of my chaotic room was killing me. I hadn’t opened the windows for weeks, and my leftovers pervaded the floor. The obnoxious scent of that pizza slice lying on my table was torturing my nose, and it blocked the view of the dark-green sofa behind it with the hordes of flies and bugs flying around it. Beside the table on the floor lied a small piece of candy, a clone for ants. It was a forbidden area in front of my apartment’s door, so I had to cross it whenever I secretly wanted to receive a food order. I used to hide behind the door and don’t ask for change because I’d have felt an utter uneasiness if that delivery boy/girl saw the humane crises in front of him. In other words, I didn’t deserve to ruin their day with my dull outlook.

I had acquired yellowish red eyes due to my addiction to Netflix and reading stolen PDF novels written by Dan Brown or Stephen King. My steps were slow, and I was suffering to get my remote control to watch the latest news, for I stayed home for two weeks and blocked sun rays from reflecting off my black eyes. I wore a torn white shirt. Was it really white? It had random stains: some thick red sauce from my meatballs meal, dense chocolate dropped off my usual Nutella toast, and oil from fast prepared noodles. I didn’t visit the shower for two weeks, for I was terrified of water, of cleaning myself. Why on Earth should I clean myself while keeping a swamp full of noxiousness under my skin, among my bones, inside my heart, and within my groins?

My noxious vibe, uninviting smell, and pale body alienated me. It is scary to see myself in the mirror now or even to see my reflection on a metal button or a pan. I was a typical corpse, yet ain’t I? I had escaped the world for two weeks, blocked all my so-called friends on my social media accounts, didn’t have pure air at my apartment for long, and had my interactions and social activities with Lucas King’s 10-hour-of-sad-piano video, my novels, and random episodes. I consumed many pots of coffee to keep myself awake, for I was horrified that I, at any moment, might curse those angels coming to take my soul. I consumed many pots of coffee to retain my consciousness, so I’d be able to drown my notebook with those blue tears, which people call “ink.” I consumed many pots of coffee to escape sleeping, as I was scared from sleeping, from seeing my usual nightmares again and again, from seeing myself suffocating in a narrow cell, from seeing myself drowning ceaselessly in an infinite ocean, from seeing myself pleading for help in a secluded desert, from losing myself in a whirlpool of childhood fears, insecurities, and depression.

Yet I was running out of coffee, drugs, and air. I might sleep at any moment or die at any second. I had only two choices: to fight in light or to die in darkness. I didn’t like to lose nor to surrender, but I believed my body doesn’t deserve anything but to perish in such a dirty, disgusting, inhumane place. My mind underwent anguish.

“I am losing my life, destroying my body, killing my mind, and conspiring against myself. What should I do? Will I have to get back to life? Impossible, I can’t withstand people anymore, nature anymore, and even those inanimate stones. Stones obstruct my way. Nature tells me that life is beautiful. Nature shows me my reality, my darkness, my abhorrent attitude, and my apprehensive thinking. And people! People are nothing. People are nothing, and I don’t want to be a piece of nothing. I don’t enjoy those vain congratulations because they internally had an air of envy, hate, or self-loath. I don’t even like condolence because people, driven by their greedy nature, want you to give back —Fake feelings, then!”

My lungs were getting torn, my mouth vomiting dirty blood, and my whole jumping of ache. I coughed, throw out blood on the blood-leftovers-stains-filled carpet on the floor. I should open the window to escape this torture. I need air. I need pureness. I need hope. I desperately gathered myself and walked towards the window at the other side of the room. My slim legs were itching me, were cursing they belonged to me. My hands kept trembling, losing its energy, losing its blood. I shed saliva everywhere; sometimes I dropped droplets of mucus. I had no control over my body, but I kept approaching the window. Did it seem very far? Was I dying?

Ouch! I stepped on something. I heard it cracking. Some tiny pieces of glass cut my feet. I screamed of ache, but my scream wasn’t audible. I didn’t hear myself, but I kept screaming. My face was turning red, and my throat was blistering, but I heard nothing. I looked beneath me. Glass was everywhere. Oh! I stepped on the only thing in this world that might have given me power. My only concern was the piece of myself that I just broke. It was a portrait of myself. It had a crack on its midline. My blood stained the portrait, so it changed some of my features. One half had an innocent skin face, a fat, reddish cheek, a glittering eye, and white teeth. The other half showed nothing but some red and black colors. That portrait remarked the transformation of myself into nothing. It showed me how darkness and self-torture destroyed me. It proved I didn’t deserve life nor having the portrait at my messed up apartment. I cried, but with no tears. I cried, screamed, and agonized, but with nothing.

I picked up the portrait and continued deciding my fate. The window was a few feet away. Freedom or another chapter in my book was going to be written. I didn’t think of anything. I didn’t think of how light contributed to my dreadful situation. I didn’t recall that I cried under the light, walked alone under the sun, and chatted with others with the aid of the light from my laptop’s screen. I didn’t recall I was alone under the light, sad under the light, and alienated under the light. I didn’t recall that light showed others my disheveled hair, my unwanted attire, and my ugly face. I didn’t recall anything about it to keep walking, to reach the window, to end this… I am tired!

Finally, I opened the window. The air started filling my lungs again, replacing scent. But it’s useless. I fell on the window. My portrait fell from my hands, causing a loud sound on the street. I lost the other half of me. I started losing my coffee effect. I was collapsing, so I closed my eyes not to feel anything. I should’ve known that Angels would come to me in light; they are pure, not like me. I closed my eyes, hearing a dog barking in the street, hearing people shouting at me, hearing some knocking the door and trying to break into my apartment, hearing my heart beats pumping blood to my body. I closed my eyes and went into a very deep sleep…



That car waiting for me…


I was waiting under the flickering light of a lamp resisting the blowing wind. I didn’t have a scarf around my neck nor a wool pullover; I only had a black-leathered jacket. So, my shivering hands were aimlessly squeezing my jacket, seeking warm. Sometimes, I quitted hugging myself to rub my hands. I tried walking around, but it made me more desperate. There were many people walking around; I couldn’t understand their warm exchanges nor decipher their whispers, giggles, and cries. Simply, I couldn’t hear them. I heard nothing but silence —sometimes cars crushing stones or trees swooshing to protest against the wind. I had to cover my face whenever a car passed me: its flashlight tortured my eyes.

I waited for ten minutes, my blood circulation getting slower due to the gradual decrease in my body’s temperature. I needed a cup of hot, sugar-free coffee or a hot cookie, but I was afraid to leave the place. I was told to wait there, so I obviously had no choice. So, my body protested against my vainness and uselessness: a migraine made me suffer from any sound or voice, from those horns coming from the traffic jam on the other side of the street and those inaudible steps of people walking near me; my eyes forced me to see the world blurred; my legs were too heavy to stride, too weak to walk, and too afraid to die. My body started to fall. I began to conceive hopeless scenarios:

“If I fainted here, would someone take me to a hospital? Would they cry or feel sad for a few days and then be because I won’t annoy them anymore? If I am lost, would they immediately search for my corpse?”

Twenty minutes passed, I was falling. I gave up on my OCD and sat on the pavement. The dirt stuck on my jeans and jacket were itching my body, were destroying the cells in my brain, but I had no power. Again, I obviously had no choice. I got my knees close to each other, covered my head with my hoodie, and drowned my face in my hands. I slept on my knees, in the middle of the street. I was waiting for a car; my home was so far. I was like a distant star… a distant star turning into a dwarf, but the universe was too crowded, too busy, to notice its transformation. I couldn’t take out my phone out of my pocket because my pale hands were freezing. I had to wait for the car’s random, dissonant, irritating beeps or for my pal’s deceptively warm hands patting my shoulder to return me back to life.

Moments passed, my soul flew out of my body. No, I didn’t die. I was used to escaping my body, so I could watch the world around me… so I could see people conspiring against me… so I could disdain the callous cold that penetrated into my bones… so I could show hate to the horns that enjoyed torturing my ears.

[The soul is narrating right now]

I stood beside my body —who was shaking —waiting for the car. People were giving my body weird looks; some discriminators loathed seeing a seemed-to-be homeless occupying a part of the street; some kind-hearted individuals said “Hi” and offered help, but my body didn’t respond.

After an extra ten-minute delay, the car finally came. My body’s thought-as-to-be close friend got out of the car, super-confident and in a casual attire that shines youth and outgoingness. He looked around him, strangely scrutinizing my threadbare body dying of cold. He shouted my name several times, and he began to become angry.

He was used to that. He used not to wait for me for anything, be annoyed from my presence, and underestimate my dreams and doings. He was used to mocking anything I did in my life, even it was just sleeping, humiliate me in front of a random little kid in street, an official from our school, a friend of his, a parent, a girl, or even a cat preparing for giving birth. So, he didn’t wait for my body, and I, driven by curiosity, wanted to know the subtleties of his reaction. I often suffered from his as-he-denied-it-not-to-feel-ashamed bullying, so I used to leave the place, but he, on the other hand, used to continue making silly jokes on me, talking like a super girly girl who broke up with her boyfriend whom she discovered cheated her, and generating more, as he considered, fun about my spontaneity, wear, and —as he always described— awkward behavior.

Immersed in memories, I didn’t notice the car leaving. I had two choices: returning to my body so that I will take another mean of transportation home or following that friend and invisibly entering the car.

I was in the car; I didn’t think that much. Curiosity was always killing me. The car was a perfect contrast to my body; although both are inanimate, they shared many things. The car was warm, unlike my body whose blood stopped circulating because it lost hope. It was full of life, music, and whiskey, unlike my depressed body who had no interests beyond writing suicidal notes. The car had a lot of lights, unlike my body, whose lights were turned off since the first letdown. The car had a GPS to guide it to any destination, unlike my body who used to aimlessly wander in the world. The car had sensors to keep its passengers safe, unlike my body who, obstructed by his social insecurities, couldn’t even interact with a tree. The car, although automated by an algorithm, had a driver who would save it from having an accident, unlike my body who had no one to warm him in the cold.

[The soul is still the narrator]

I was in the car, and I listened to cheating, lies, and deception. That so-called friend proved the truth of my assumed doubts, and he kept laughing on me, complaining that I always was a lunatic, irresponsible individual, and insulting me with words regarding my mother. I knew this since the beginning but I was convincing myself it ain’t true. I stayed for one hour in the car, seeing our friendship shattering slowly, seeing truths, seeing all his lies. He complained about our “not rewarding” friendship, that I was used to sharing depression with him and he was then fed up, that I used to speak from my side and not asking how he was doing, and that I was a “jerk,” who has zero experience in life but profound experience in depression. I stayed for one hour, flashbacking twenty years of fake friendship, crying about every moment, and repenting for the confidence I had put in him for years. I stayed for one hour, but I discovered the truth of what I thought of for years.

We finally were home. I couldn’t stand seeing him leaving the car and telling others, who might ask why I didn’t come with him, that I was an irresponsible, childish, reckless individual. I flew back to the pavement, to where I waited for long, to where I waited for someone I thought of as a friend.

It was late. I shouldn’t have stayed that long. The street was dark, but the place where I left my body was carved on my mind. I went there, but I didn’t find my body. A mafia group might have stolen it to sell my organs, or someone might have told police about a dead body.

I am currently trapped in the world, coerced into seeing betray, hate, maliciousness, and lies. I am currently trapped in the world, can’t escape to heaven nor return to my body. I’m currently flying around, crying because I have lost everything in a night. I’m currently a dead soul.


Chains… (Chapter one)


The sun was setting slowly, taking the last golden ray of that pure light; darkness crept mischievously into the empty streets, providing the desired nature for “conspiracy.” No one can see, no one can, as usual, rebuff. Trees were swooshing, begging the sun to stay… begging the sun to protect the world from maliciousness, loathe, and despise. Birds were cawing, alarming the inhabitants of this splenetic country to huddle in their homes: they won’t be able to witness the crime of this day. Roaring between the bleak aisles, the wind was yelling for help… yelling for truth. The Sky started pouring its crestfallen tears, drowning the streets in dark-natured rains. As the city’s inhabitants, the sky despondently felt solicitousness and welcomed the sinister moon. On windows, sinful droplets of water blurred the view.

“The moon’s weak light enlightens the weak souls…. It only resurrects the obsequiousness of this world,” this sentence was carved on this horrifying country’s inhabitants’ mind…. it was carved on the widowed Mary’s mind, who had a little girl.

“Mom, Can I go to the playground.” an innocent girl smiled at her mother’s haggard face while entangling her long black braids.

“NO! It’s prohibited: minorities are everywhere,” Mary’s black eyes stared at the little daughter’s glinted brown eyes.

“Min-oo-r? It’s a hard word. What does it mean?” The girl’s white skin seemed to be shocked, afraid of her mother’s changed facial expression.

“Evil groups of people who don’t obey the majority’s laws and rules. [Mary’s voice became intense.] They are the devils of this world!”

“Devils? You told me before that we can’t see them.” She perplexed with a soft confused tone.

“Ugh… There are the Devils we can’t see, and there are the HUMAN Devils, the people who force others to commit sins.”

“Why do humans become devils?” the girl felt the cold sneaking into her brown pullover.

“Because they don’t follow the Lord!”

“How could people not follow the Lord. You told me that he created us and died for us?”

“Because they are foolish. [her voice became intense] they are sinners! [screams] they are going to hell!”

“I hope Lord tell these [Mirrorities] to stop fearing people. I want to play outside.”

“It’s Minorities! You should know these words… you should know your enemies very well, or with their frowzy tricks, they will attract you to join them. Once you join, you will be full of sins… full of darkness. You won’t be my lovely daughter… you will be a disgusting rat!”

“I am sorry, Mom,” the little girl threw herself into her mother’s arms, shivering and horrified of the outside world.

Oppression will inspire the urge to discover, the curiosity to experience, but sometimes we think that we are protecting our kids from the outside world, but the truth is that we, unfortunately, are motivating them to make trespasses and mistakes. We are driving them into hell while we fallaciously think that we are protecting them.  

“Now go to your bed. When it is the day, they hide… they are afraid of the sun… the truth they refuse to accept.  You can go out then. God bless you.”
“What truth?”

“You are too young to understand.” She kissed her forehead. “Don’t bother with that. I don’t want to lose you like I lost your father. They killed him.” Mary resisted crying in front of her daughter.

“But-.” She was trying to find out a method not to miss the innocent date with the kid on the house in front of them.

“No excuses. I don’t want to lose you, sweetheart.” Her tears were glistening.

“I am sorry mom. I love you.”

“I love you more than the whole universe.” She approached her little daughter and squeezed her between her arms as if she was hugging her pure heart. Then after a long moment of tenderness, She smoothly kissed her little girl’s forehead again.”

“Good night. God bless you from this world.”

Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward – Psalm 127:3  

Mary recited the Bible’s verse in her mind, convincing herself that she is following the Lord’s orders.

“Good night, Mama.” Her charming voice and her innocent smile threw relaxation in her mom’s anxious face.

“I love you, baby,” her mom replied.  Her heart throbbed rapidly, telling her that it was the time to be worried about her daughter.

With cheery steps, the little girl Jade smoothed to her room. Her white, pink-dotted dress was flying, and her lush black hair was swinging; she was too innocent to decipher the meanings of her mother’s complicated words. The corridor’s blue, white-dotted walls reminded her of the playground’s stones, the place where she was going to meet the boy. Afraid to miss the chance to meet that boy in the nearby neighborhood, her steps became a little bit slower; her pace reflected how confused she was. Find a way! Her heart told her….her heart inspirited hope in her.

Curiosity and hope orchestrating her mind, she couldn’t stop thinking of solutions to make her first date… to watch the admirable sunset while touching the sky with the swing on the playground; she drew ethereal scenarios under the glowing sun. She really wanted to go out before night. Our hearts are our most lethal enemies. 

She entered her room, a small pink room full of teddy bears and girly stickers. She threw herself on her bed, drowning in its squishy cushions and mattress. She gently took a breath and began to scrutinize her cutie room, figuring out with whom she would talk: the fluffy bear who shares all her childish dreams, Cat-woman’s toy who helps her to find a solution for every problem, or the “totally spies” trio who join her in every girly activity. While looking at them, the luminous pieces of her toys took her attention; they were orange as the setting sun. When the sun sets, meet me around the swing, the boy’s words echoed in her amiable mind.

“But it’s dangerous,” her mind resisted and started dampening her body activity.

“Stop being a kid… your mom wants to protect you, and you won’t harm yourself,” she kept convincing herself.

“But-” Her mind tried to object

“stop giving excuses, Jade, you are old enough to be responsible,” her heart controlled her. “A moment with someone with you love worth some sacrifice,” her heart is now leading her.

With an emotion-oriented person, disasters MUST occur. Coercing her mind to accept, her heart made a perfect plan to escape…

She stood up suddenly and approached her half-opened room; her mother had always been telling her to keep it open. She exhaled to decrease the size of her small belly while slightly pussyfooting out of the room. Tiptoeing through the corridor, Jade sneaked to see where her mother was. Kitchen and bathroom’s lights off, she crept towards her mother’s bedroom. Through the bedroom’s also half-open door, Jade saw Mary preparing to sleep; she was yawning while preparing the bed. Great conditions! Jade took a deep breath and advanced to the house’s door. Love teaches things you have never imagined to learn. Putting her exquisite scenarios in front of her eyes, she kept motivating herself to escape… to go where her heart lied. The corridor looked infinite, and the fear symphony played in her heart was killing. Love is a sacrifice, anyway.

“Tick.” A sound erupted near her. She suddenly turned around and stared at the sound’s source; it was her mother’s room!

“Uhhhm.” She sighed, kicking out fear from her trembled heart. Her mother had just turned the lights off. It’s your chance. She swallowed, hoping to digest all the horror within her. The door’s lock was capturing the light in her tiny eyes, magnetizing her to break the RULES. Finally, she was there, in front of the door.

She looked around her. “There is no one… it’s the chance,” her childish nature controlled her. With a grin on her face, bright eyes, and an active body, she powerfully and curiously opened the door and ran away. Love is blind.  

“Wumpth,” the door’s sound thundered Mary.

Suddenly, Mary opened her eyes, heart thumping in fear. Your daughter, her heart told her that Jade is not safe.

“Jade! Jade!” Mary stood up and ran around the house, worried about her little kid. “Jade where are you? Jade… Ja-aa-a-de.” She opened her room and didn’t find her. “O, my God. She will definitely be kidnapped, and she will be one of them.” Then, she ran to the house’s door; she was shocked when she saw it open. “No! No! No! O, my God. She didn’t listen to me. Demons are everywhere.” She began to lose her voice, crying and screaming her name…

Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. – James 4:7  

Calling the police or running out the house to catch her daughter, she opted to stay at her sanctuary. God will save her, but he wants me to pray, she thought.

Trapped in an open Cage (Part Three)


Trapped in an open Cage (Part 1)

Trapped in an open Cage (Part 2)


“Hi,” I replied with a fake smile on my face.

“My name is Rose. This is my friend Emily. Who are you?”

“Umm… Umm.” I couldn’t speak.

“My Name is Mark. And he is Cave. Nice to meet you.” Mark saved me.

“Nice to meet you too, Mark. How did you get here?” Rose said.

“Actually, I don’t know. We were just walking. I guess we are lost.” Mark Said

“Good News, Emily, we aren’t alone now. We are all lost! Welcome fellows!” Rose said in an optimistic, sarcastic tone.

I smiled, and we all smiled. Rose seemed to be funny, and Emily seemed to be introverted like me… introverted, calm, and shy like me. Now, we aren’t lost alone. We won’t suffer from fear, think of death, count the number of movies we didn’t watch, and so on. We are having other two admirable adventurers with us. It’s a chilly situation, but the circumstances are Amazing!

My rapidly beating heart started to cool down. I was listening to that interesting conversation between Rose and Mark. Perfect Match, I thought.

“So, Are you a team?” Mark said keenly.

“You have really excellent observation skills.” Rose mocked him.

Impossible their dialogue change into a one like ours. I secretively smiled, imagining how would I reply to her. “Such a *****”

“Ugh. Umm. Actually, I am just trying to make a conversation. So, will you continue to laugh at me, or shall we have fun while walking?” I like the way he follows to ask for a request.

“Umm…. Uhm… I think we MUST HAVE FUN! Sorry, Mr. Observant!” She laughed, but this time, we all laughed.

The conversation continued as Mark requested… converting into something satisfying for both. They started with the boring questions. Where do you live? Do you have Facebook? Instagram? What’s your best food? Then, they shifted into the real questions, the questions for which they desired answers. Do you have a boyfriend/girlfriend? Do you believe in relationships? What characteristics you wish be in your lover? Etcetera and Etcetera.

I was just looking at their faces, trying to read them… read what secrets they hide, what they are feeling at the moment, what their facial expressions tell about themselves. I was trying to intrude into their lives and find a similarity between me and them.

I first looked at Rose. Her brown eyes were glittering with enthusiasm and passion. Her white face was shining with hope. Absorbed, a calm, soft whiff holding affection hit me. Her scarf was chasing her dark-brown tresses, indicating her valor. Her tiny freckles on her face were in harmony with her pink dress. Now, I know that she looks like her father. Yet, her eyes and mouth shape are inherited from her mother. Rose hides her fears, feels uncomfortable, and acts to be confident. But she is enjoying the conversation.

It took me longer than useful to decipher all that her face hides, and she noticed me. She felt embarrassed, and for someone brave like her, this won’t be easy. I felt the anger in her eyes.

“Dave… I mean C… C…”


“Oh. Cave. It’s not common to see someone with your Name.”

“Never Mind. It’s Ok.”

“What’s wrong. I noticed that you were absorbed in scanning me.”

“To discover you…”


“Ugh… I’m kidding. I was just grabbing your attention. I felt ignored a little bit.”

I didn’t want to go into that scenario of “Wow! How did you know? It’s Amazing! Ok, can you tell me what I am feeling at the moment?” And Etcetera and Etcetera.

“Stop being childish,” Mark whispered in my ear, and his gestures told me to SHUT UP!

“Ignored? No… you aren’t. you are just shy, and I didn’t want to annoy you.”


Mark interrupted me.

“I am sorry. Cave is kinda weird. I weird out from him sometimes. He doesn’t mean anything.” Mark said. It’s gonna happen a lot.

“What a coincidence. Emily is also-”

“Weirdo, shy, and afraid.” I interrupted.

Emily and Rose looked at me. “To discover you” I heard the bells of this sentence in their minds.

“And she is facing troubles in her life. I can figure that she looks like her mother.” I continued confidently.

Rose was amazed, and I captured the light of Emily’s eyes looking at me.

“Uhm. Did you know each other?” Rose perplexed.

“Nope,” Emily replied.

“No.” I said, but my heart said “Yes.”

Suddenly, silence dominated. There was a bright stone on the ground; its lights were telling me that this coincidence is going to be flabbergasting. I kicked it, wishing to have a true read as I had with Emily and Rose.

We were only walking between the trees, trying to avoid the hot rays of the sun by walking in the cool shadows. Mark’s eyes were castigating me. Oh… I cut his astounding talk with Rose. Shame on me. I am a bad person. However, it’s ok for me. I am indifferent at all. I only need to escape from this place, and they are just chatting about useless stuff…  they are flirting!

Ugh… What about Emily? What’s she thinking about at the moment? Why doesn’t she join us?

I looked at her. Her tan-colored skin was emitting sadness and melancholy. Her black, short hair looked desperate. I captured the light of her completely black eyes. The light looked poor. There was a fake smile on her face… fake as most things she tells people about. God! It’s too hard to read her face. I can’t decipher what does her protesting hair tell about her history or what does that dim light in her face tell about her condition. It seems like she really wants to be lost her. It’s ok. She had been lost for eons.

Her dark-purple, long dress matched perfectly with her slow, hopeless steps. Dark purple equal dark light, dark hope, dark happiness. Air was vigorous, but she was too strong. She looked too mysterious. One of the too few people I couldn’t read…


          We kept wandering, and I kept only reading them. I was totally immersed…

Mark’s voice broke the silence. Again… he saved me.

“Guys. It’s getting darker. The sun is sitting, and there are no lights here. We gotta return.” Mark said.

“Do you know the way to get out from this spacious shit?” Rose perplexed in a quite tense voice.

“Uhmm. Nope. But we might follow our footsteps.”


“Yesterday, you were Mr. Observant. Today you are Mr. Intelligent.” Rose laughed out loud.

Mark just looked at her. Don’t curse, please. She isn’t me. Please.

“OK.” He replied quietly, trapping all the anger inside himself.

“Oh. Sorry. But I and Emily have followed our footsteps previously, and Guess WHAT?? We are with you, stuck in the same place.”

“Ugh. So, we shall just wander hopelessly.” Mark said Sarcastically.

“Do you have any solution?”

“Actually, I have!” I interrupted her.

“What?” Both said immediately.

“Why don’t we check Google maps?”

They were astonished. “How didn’t we think of this before?” I heard their minds. I immediately reached my phone. Shit! It was off.

“My phone is off,” I said.

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

“Me too.”

“Oh! Wonderful! Now we are isolated from the whole world, trapped in an open desert, thirsty, hungry, and suffering alone.” Rose said angrily.

“I feel that we are going to unidentified destiny. We are just moving without directions or even a map. I am afraid that we will just get lost in this spacious desert.” Mark added.

“Rose, Mark, please be quiet. Let’s think of a solution instead of wasting all our energy in shouting.” I told them calmly.

Silence dominated again. But now, his twin also dominated: darkness. Only the moon’s light was our friend. It was getting terrifying. We got close to each other, and we kept walking only. I was looking at the sky, losing myself between the stars, and waiting for the call from the sky.

While beholding the stars, I noticed a source of light far away.

“Guys! I think I found the way to return!” I said happily.

“Where? Why the fuck you are silent!” Rose shouted.

“Look there.” I pointed to the source of light.

“Wow! Darkness! I think we gotta walk in darkness.” Rose mocked me again.

“Stupid. Didn’t you notice a light there?” I said wisely.

“I see it!” Mark shouted.

“So what?” Rose questioned.

“So, it means that there is someone there. Definitely, they won’t let the buildings without proper lights in the night. I believe that we should follow the light’s source.” I told them.

“Let’s go!” I added.


Sighs… (Chapter four)


Sighs… (Chapter one)

Sighs… (Chapter two)

Sighs… (Chapter three)


Diaries: Chapter two

I know that Jonah was a young kid, and I know that kids aren’t, at any case, murderers or haters, and I know that he didn’t hate me because of a fault that I had committed against him or slip-ups I had done. Come on, I couldn’t walk or speak. How could I commit anything? And I know that we were both suffering from similar circumstances, but I don’t know why he thought of hating me, why he thought of killing me, why he should pass all anguish to me, why I should drink from the same toxic glass, and why I am coerced to be this loathed Elizabeth, and I really don’t know why he didn’t try to love me. I may support him and help him with his life. I don’t knoww why he preferred hate and killing to loving and sharing troubles with me, and why he was afraid of telling his truth in order to get some support. But I think that he had his OWN reason. Maybe it’s because my parents thought of Jonah’s birth as the most execrated mistake They had ever done.

My mother and father didn’t love each other at all, and my mom was coerced into this marriage, as she wanted to escape her family’s ignorance… she hoped to get her salvation ticket from the daily torture she receives in the home. She also sought what she really needed and didn’t have in her home: wealth and welfare. And this seemed affordable for a rich man like my father. My father, a forty-year-old man who is diagnosed of chronic diseases, felt being obliged to this marriage, too, as he demanded a beautiful lady, my mother, to only gratify himself without committing sins (Job well did! You didn’t commit a single sin to commit multitudinous sins!). Also, he wanted someone who would care about him, and he craved a child to prevent his brothers from inheriting him. This seemed like a vile business deal: I will save you from your loathed home and give you some money, and you are going to prevent my brothers from inheriting me and satisfy my lustful nature.

Literally speaking, my mother was sold. My father paid a lot of money and jewelry to my grandfather in order to have his agreement on this marriage proposal, then my grandfather forced my mom to break up with her lover and marry my father.

Jonah was abhorred from my both parents, my father’s siblings, and my mother’s siblings. And I think you know that my parents detested him because he was the only reason for them to live together and my sister’s and my existence. My father’s siblings were paupers (but my father was rich because he was only working in Dubai), and they really coveted my father’s wealth, and Jonah deprived them of all these exquisite dreams.

My mother’s siblings had only girls, and only my mother had the boy, the beautiful boy from the first pregnancy. I should admit, Jonah was beautiful. Seems Ok, yes? but for an ignorant community like theirs, it was a disaster not to have girls, as girls as always are considered as a shame. Thus, they thought that my mother went to a sorcerer and asked him to prevent all women in her family from boys.

Jonah was despised since the softness of his nails without any reason. He faced a lot, and he used this experience against me. But I think he got bored of being the victim all the time, and he started to act as the guilty since my birth, and he really was proficient. We are all victims of other victims.

Yet, this is not an acceptable justification!!

That’s enough about Jonah. I have given you the thing you need about Jonah without any prejudice or modifications to make you see the picture clearer. And now, let’s discuss my part… let’s talk about my influenced-by-Jonah life.

I grew in my home, surviving death two times and bearing all that mentioned above. I was a very normal girl who didn’t, at all, understand the struggles between my parents, why my mother was always sleeping on the ground, and why my brother was always breaking all my toys, but I was always feeling terror. I had heard a lot of weird sentences that I couldn’t understand at all:

My father: “I think that it’s my right to make you sleep in our bed, not the ground!”

My mother: “I want to end this gloomy life. I hated you and hated your life”

My father: “Hey! Let Elizabeth cry and come to my room NOW!”

My mother: “I can’t bear this. I don’t want to do it anymore!”

I had these girl and innocent interests of making pink always involved in my dress code, drawing my country’s flag, monuments, and some sketches that are illustrating poorly-drawn characters, and wishing to be this Alice in Wonderland or this long-hair princess in “Tangled,but, all these wishes were gone with my first Jonah’s gift for my sixth birthday: my nickname, “the nauseating.”

Jonah kept calling me with this nickname until I felt that’s my real name is “the nauseating,” not Elizabeth. He used to tell anyone who meets me for the first time about this nickname, supporting this claim by providing evidence. He used to tell them that I wet my bed every day, and he was making fun of my scruffy and baggy clothes, and he was alarming all to avoid being near me because my hair that’s full of lice might infect them. I really didn’t want to be this nauseating girl, but I had no care from my mother, and I was always afraid of Jonah, People’s eyes, and tomorrow… where I may meet a new one, and he is going to tell all about these nauseating things. Jonah did alienate me, and he didn’t want anyone to love me, thinking that he may grab all the attention back to him again. This was obvious in my school, as he told all my schoolmates about me, and he used to find out new techniques of practicing bullying against his sister.

In school, my classmates sent me to the back of the class, avoiding all my disgusting effects and the lice’s possible infection, and I had no friends or could make any friends. My schoolmates’ parents told their kids to avoid me: I am a student who is sitting alone, wearing scruffy clothes, had lice in her hair, isn’t clean, introverted, and doesn’t participate in sessions. These all might influence their children and make them like me. Being hating and avoiding me, the children thought of making fun of me, and Jonah supported them. He taught them this cursed poem:

The nauseating is sitting there;

she has a disgusting hair;

All must avoid her.

The nauseating is sitting there;

her clothes are scruffy,

and she is uglier than our bulldog Murphy.

The nauseating is sitting there;

she is crying all day

and childishly causing dismay.

We wish she dies Today;

we will be happy and say Hooray.

Reading the last verse, I presume that this poem is chilly for young kids. But I know that they really didn’t know what this means, and I know that the only thing they know that they know that the song, or the poem, is hurting me and making them laugh.

This poem ruined my childhood. I wish I died that “Today”. But you know? it’s not my fault to have a careless mother. I know she is suffocating; however, letting me be the nauseating and not blaming Jonah is not the “solutions” for her disastrous problems. This nickname wasn’t Jonah’s only gift, as he used to give me long-term gifts… a daily dose of depression and crying. What a gentle Bro!

I remember who painful it was when Jonah pulled me from my long hair, and I remember how scary it was when he locked me in my room, prohibiting me from Sponge Bob Square Pants, and I remember that he was doing this daily. I remember that he was saying “Good Morning to me” after taking a photo of my wet bed. He had a special album of these photos that were shared with my classmates, my relatives, and anyone who could love me, telling them about my nickname and singing this poem. I also remember that he didn’t feel satisfied my ruining my self-confidence in the class by this nickname. Generous, Bro!

Jonah used to visit me in my class to tell my classmates about “Elizabeth’s new jokes.” He had taught them how to make fun of me and how to make me silent all the time. Through intruding into my life and knowing every single thing about me, Jonah divulged all my embarrassing secrets, and I felt that I am like a secret office whose key is in its keylock. Jonah worked hard to destroy me in the class to prevent me from making any friends in my first year of school.

I know that Jonah wanted to revenge for himself, as he was fed up with the role that amiable, heartbreaking victim. I know how excited he was about being the criminal! And I know that he was working passionately to replicate his childhood with his own touches that is full of antagonism.

Jonah made me forsaken, introverted, antisocial, hated, disgusting, and afraid!

And all what happened next was only some hopeless solutions for the problem.

For a child who bore all these tragedies and didn’t get any piece support, I demanded something that could help me forget… something that I could pour all my anger inside without hearing any yells, screams, or weeps… something that’s not weak like me. And it was Food. Food is my solution to end any sadness tormenting my mind or hardening my heart, as I used to overeat until I feel that I am going to faint. Overeating would make me think only about getting rid of these huge amounts of food inside my belly and forget about all my problems. Not only that, food, for me, was a method of revenge. I usually imagined Jonah as these fragile biscuits. I used to put these biscuits inside the very hot tea (Torture), wait for them to sink in the cup (Dying), then take them out of the cup and throw them in the nearest rubbish bin (Letdown and hatred). But this didn’t seem great all the time, as I was putting on weight, squandering my perfect body and the fast speed that always made me win any race and my health. I started to collapse…

Three years after…….

I didn’t only gain some weight, but I also got a special gift for my ninth birthday: Diabetes. Now, I have a reason for not joining activities in my school, not going there and here, and being only in my home without doing anything. Thanks, God! But I had no reasons for feeling ashamed without doing any shameful thing, and I had no reasons for getting these hurting injections, and hearing my parents cursing life and circumstances whenever they see me. And with diabetes, new ornate presents were gifted to me from Jonah.

Jonah wasn’t a miser at all. He used to feed me his daily meal of loathing to be replete until he cooks up another meal, as whenever I feel hungry for depression, I will receive my meal. Thus, being diagnosed with diabetes – because of the obesity caused by depression – wasn’t enough for such a generous person. He really wanted to put his creative touches and give me his usual, special gift… another reason for despising him, agonizing from life, and crying. He gave me a new nickname: the fatso. And he gave me a new poem:

Run. Run. Run… Escape the fatso;

She is big as elephant;

Her belly is enormous.

You may think that she is pregnant;

beside her, you are a poor ant.

Her face is ugly;

She is nasty like a monkey.

Run. Run. Run… Escape the fatso;

She is disgusting and fat.

When she runs, she causes horrible splat.

Yesterday she was the nauseating,

Today, she is the nauseating fat!

Run. Run. Run… Escape the fatso!

A new nickname and a new poem mean a new stage of depression and suicidal thoughts… another disease that will ruin the last remaining thing of my life.

I was very fat, and I didn’t know why. But with this poem and Jonah’s daily does, I started to figure out my horrible condition. I started to hate myself and my body, and I lost the last bit of self-confidence. I became uglier than before: someone with big buttocks, cheeks, and belly. Not enough for someone failed to kill me!

Jonah didn’t only bully me in the home, but he also made fun of me, using really funny methods, in family gatherings and the school. He wanted to destroy me, and I really remember the three stabs that made my heart bleed silently.

One day, I entered my class where I saw all my classmates pointing and laughing at me. They were signing that poem. I didn’t realize why they were pointing at me until I saw the board. It was before the starting of the first session by 10 minutes, thus no teachers or anyone is supervising. Jonah was using the computer that was showing a video on the board:

(A black background with a white text)

Once upon a time, there was a big elephant.

This elephant was huge, and he used to eat every single thing in front of him.

(Then, the video showed my picture while I was eating, and a lot of Chocolate was inside my mouth.)

This elephant is called Elizabeth…………………

I couldn’t continue the video, and I escaped the class, feeling my warm tears on my cold cheeks, and ran to the nearest closet. When I reached, I looked in the mirror to see my sweet face. I saw my brown hair that tried to hug my brown tearful eyes. I was exhaling and inhaling sonically: a fat running for a long time without breaks. Then, I started to feel that I am losing my consciousness.

(No, No, No. I am not going to lose my consciousness and wake up in the hospital wondering about what happened, then receive mental support, then the story ends. But I always did that.)

This situation and this video made all my classmates afraid of me, and they looked at me as this gigantic elephant who would eat their breakfast, hurt them with her big hands, scare them with my ugly face, and chase them in their nightmares. So, they started to bully me (they thought that they should start before I do this), and they began to create their own jokes. Jonah was a just a stimulus, but he was the main reason and the most hated one!

This stab taught me how to escape, how to cry, and how to be alone with a reason, and it taught me to stay in the closet for a long time to escape the world and be with myself to talk, cry, or support myself.

Time passed… It’s Halloween, and my sister joined my school!

All girls were wearing awkward outfits: lovely Dora in a horrific cloak, Funny Patrick with scary teeth, pumpkin masks and grim reapers, and Witches. But I haven’t worn anything, as my normal clothes and my normal style were horrifying. The school had a special atmosphere, and the teachers were giving us candies and sweets for free. The school seemed to be a place for playing, tricks, and games, and I really liked this atmosphere – not for long.

I was walking with my younger sister, who was dressed like a witch, to my classroom, as there were a lot of candies and I hoped that she will take some of them. She was full of love and enthusiasm for this celebration, and I really felt glad for her sentiments. But all this was gone when I entered the classroom. I was shocked…

A giant poster featuring an unpleasant photo of a dirty pig was put on the wall, and it was surrounded by a horde of students, and it had a severe caption:

“Exclusive photos for Elizabeth Stewart. Copyrights are reserved.”

I, as always, collapsed and headed to the closet, but this time something different happened. My sister ran to the poster, cut it was her little fingers, and stared at the students like if she was telling them to stop doing this. Then, she ran to the closet to talk and support me, and we had a talk that changed my concepts about the world:

Anna: “Elizabeth, why are they bothering you? Did you do anything wrong?”

Me: “Actually, I don’t know why they are doing this, but I know that we still young kids, and we don’t know what’s right and wrong. So, they aren’t meaning to insult or defeat me. They are just having fun but in a wrong way. You can ask JONAH! He may tell you what is going on!”

Anna: “Jonah? I don’t like him. I sometimes feel that I hate him. Don’t be sad, please. They are all bad boys. Please, don’t be sad at all. I love you, and I will help you with Everything, Elizabeth!”

I started to cry; and immediately, Anna hugged me and patted my back and shoulders, saying with her soft, sympathetic “Shshshs… Everything will be ok.” Then, I begged her: “Anna, please, don’t let me alone. I really need you by my side. I need love. Promise me.”

Anna: “I promise you.”

Then, she squeezed me in her arms, then I felt that I am full of love and hope only. Sorry, Anna for everything I did against you. I really love you, but you did some mistakes.

Now, I had no solution to end this. Only one thing that may end this life.

I really was fed up with all that Jonah did and all his modifications and creative touches to humiliate me more and more, and I really hated being weak and fragile.

One day when all were sleeping, I went to Jonah’s room which was enlightened. I knocked the door, then I entered without having his permission. His room was very strange, as it was my first time to visit this room. It was expansive and full of things (a lot of cartoons, some tools, and some objects). When I entered, he looked at me and didn’t say a word, then he returned to his laptop and continued doing what he was doing. I sat beside him, then I said: “Jonah, can we talk for a while. I won’t take a lot of your time. Please”

Jonah: “Sure, but me fast because I am not free for your useless stuff.”

Me: “I feel that you hate me, and I also feel that all my classmates hate me. What did I do? I really don’t want to lose my brother.”

He gazed at me then said: “Ummm. I will tell you the secret, and you should know that it’s something out of my control.”

I was stunned for a long moment, and I looked at him with interested eyes.

Me: “What Jonah! Please tell me…”

Jonah: “Because of this.” He was shaking my big belly, and he laughed out loud (Yes, it’s called lol)

I really didn’t know what to do, but I did one thing that made me lose all my ego.

I begged Jonah while I was crying: “Jonah, please, tell me why you are doing this. How can I improve myself? Don’t laugh at me, brother.”

Jonah: “Look. To have an answer for this important question, you should something impossible. You know what it is?”

I felt the surge of hope flowing through my veins, then I nodded frequently, opening my eyes, and said in hopeful tune: “What? What can I do?” I felt that my tears are vanishing for a while, and I thought that Jonah may tell me the truth.

Jonah: “You need to get rid of this.” Pointing at my belly and laughing more out loud.

I was shocked, and I really didn’t know what to do, but I just ran out of the room, heading to my friends: my thirsty blanket who used to drink my tears and my strong bed who used to hear my silent cries.

These are the three situations that made me detested Jonah, but they aren’t the only. My next nickname (The current one that’s used to call me while I am writing this book) is the most significant nickname in my life…


Welcome to the end of the first part of my-influenced-by-Jonah chapter.

Sighs… (Chapter three)


Chapter one

Chapter two


Detective Drake rushed to this advanced computer system in the headquarter in which all the data about crimes, including crime scenes, corpses’ photos, and the taken judgments, are stored secretly. The aisles, with their poor lights in the midnight, white and boring tiles, steel walls, and ultramodern surveillance cameras, seemed to be like a maze in the most developed era. Sweating, worried, and scared, Drake was striding fast as if he was chasing someone. In his hands, an enormous, brown book lustered; there was a golden lock on the book’s face, and it was opened. What a sick owner.

Drake kept running until he reached the desired room, and he felt the wind going through his black jacket, alarming him to be prepared for what is waiting inside. He put his hands inside his blue jeans’ pocket and took his special ID, then he put it inside the scanner, waiting for the second step of safety. Once it was verified, he wrote his special 15-digit password, then he put his eyes in front of another scanner. His reflection on the mirror seemed exhausted; his white skin was turning into this tacky yellow; his disheveled hair is congested with dandruff; his brown eyes craved sleeping. He sighed waiting for the door to be opened… waiting for the most secure room in the country to be opened, and after his exhalations caused this fog around him, the door was finally opened.

Immediately, Drake entered the room, feeling this chilly air that’s used to protect computers from overheating inside his dark blue pullover. Because he is working on one of the most enigmatic cases, Drake felt that fear caused the red, orange, and green lights to flicker in protest, and he thought that notifications and signals’ sounds are only a hopeless SOS. But all these feelings were gone when he saw the desired computer: Murder Cases. Unhesitatingly, he rushed to the computer, and when he sat down, he looked to the book in his hands, and he typed with his cold fingers:

“Jonah Stewart.”

Sighs… (Chapter Four)

Sighs… (Chapter two)


Story’s Chapter one 


Diaries: Chapter one

Since I was an embryo, I heard these struggles between my parents inside my mother’s uterus, these usual weeping of my mother when she receives her daily dose of heartbreaking, these mother’s plans of leaving the home and escape to nowhere, and these groans when my father whip her with his harsh bat, or when my elder brother kick her out of his room to have this fallacious privacy, and I felt the tears going on her belly, the fake pets to congratulate her “Congrats on your new baby! God bless her,” the earthquakes that threatened my existence caused my mother’s failed trials to kill me, as she hated life and thought that I may be her successor – thought that I might be this slave for my husband and sons and lose my feeling as a human being, or I might be this self-loathing female who thinks of killing herself more than thinking of eating – and this disturbance when she was running from my father’s bat.

Yet, this is not an acceptable justification to pass perish to her daughter, me, and make my life gloomy without any reason. I know how harsh her life was, but I don’t know why my life must be harsh, too. I felt like I am replicating the same life– not exactly: she had put some modifications to increase the drama, make the torture more traumatic, and make it more emotional. The more tears, the more empathy. What an emotional story! I don’t even know if it was her mistake, their mistakes, or my own mistake, and I don’t know why I fought to survive this life, and why I didn’t hang myself with that umbilical cord… why I didn’t use the reason for my life against me to end my life. Ummm, I mistakenly, unfortunately, and unluckily thought that life in freedom without this Endometrial surrounding me and this darkness prevailing would make me experience the real freedom with all its benign meanings. Hmmm, but I didn’t realize that I am being promoted to another stage of captivity.

This was for the before-birth stage, the stage in which I was only hearing about catastrophes and feeling them. Now, let’s dig deeper into my after-birth stage, the stage of experiencing catastrophes by seeing, listening, touching, feeling, and smelling…

Unlike all my siblings who were born in the countryside by this poor midwife, I was born in this modern, civilized Dubai. I was the second of an older brother and a younger sister. Life seemed to be usual, as anything in my life… seems usual from the outside, yet it’s burning from the deep insides, and no one suffers from ashes but me, the matter which is unmercifully incinerating in peace. And my place of birth, something I haven’t chosen, stimulated the hate and envy from my siblings, looking at me as this arrogant girl who was born in a different place from them and trying to prove, meaninglessly, that they are better than me. Honestly, I didn’t see it as an advantage, but they saw it as a disadvantage for them, and they tried, with all possible means of defeating, to defeat me.  Ohh, I am not trying to be a drama queen, but I am only writing what I feel and think regardless of anything else.

Not only that, but also my mom had given me more care than my elder brother – actually, I didn’t have the MORE CARE, but it was the normal care that a newborn baby should be given. I don’t remember anything, but my grandma always told me what really happened, and she had taught me that I am too certain about my decision to hate my brother Jonah.

Two years for a child means to be loved and to receive proper care, but for me, it means two trials to murder me. My elder brother wanted to be the center of the home’s attention, alone. (What an attention-whore!)  Thus, he hated my existence, and he wanted with his innocent mind to finish me. A young kid, who should only think about cartoons, fictional characters, talking to fairies, and fear this fictional character that mother’s use to make their kids finish their plates, thought of killing his younger sister and has been taught the meaning of hatred…

The first trial occurred when I was one year old. My brother had persuaded my mom that he wants me beside him while studying. Babies are angels, and I love my sister, He told my mom with his soft tune, and after a lot of talking, smirks, and warnings to take care of me (My mom doesn’t want to see me be thrown from the window again.), he finally made it and took me to the living room where he was studying. Once we reached the crime’s last scene, he scanned the house. Grandma is sleeping on the sofa in front of us; my mother is preparing launch; my father is working on his study; and the television is opened on this old, boring series, indicating that everything is okay, and my grandma is there to bear witness and manage any unexpected action. Well, circumstances are on my brother’s side to commit this hellish crime and end my life, thinking that he could gain attention by killing his sister. He looked at me with his glittering eyes, giving me a desperate look, and then all of sudden pushed his pen inside my mouth, choking me to death and breaking this warning of “Don’t put the pencil in your mouth” that’s written on his killing tool. I started to yell and suffocate, but he seemed determined with this heinous trial, and he was increasing the force as if he were coercing me to eat this pen. The scene was chilly, a kid killing his sister. And I am certain that you are clever enough to realize that I wasn’t killed. My grandma was shocked by my tiny screams. She rushed to me and saved me, as always, from him, repeating this boring scene of scolding and threatening him whenever he makes mistakes. The air returned to my small lungs, altering this blue color of my skin to my freckled white color, and I had another chance to survive… another chance to witness devastations.

I presume that life is a synonym of surviving and fighting.

Second – that awful second-  is a failed trial that destroyed all the relations between me and my brother. I was two years old, and I could walk, and I could say my first words “Mama,” and I was able to recognize pain. My mom was pregnant with my best and only friend in my life, my younger sister Anna. (Don’t worry. She has her own chapter.) This seemed like another threat… another superstar in the arena is coming, thus some lights should be directed to him, and “this-person-who-is-called-my-brother” would lose some of his lights. My mom was always telling him that babies have special powers, and only God can control them while they are inside their mothers’ wombs. So, he didn’t think of killing my sister; instead, he thought, and he always thinks, of killing – sometimes destroying – me.

The plan was too difficult this time, as he had squandered a valuable trial, and he doesn’t want to lose this one. I was playing with my toys in the living room, and around me was my grandma who was looking after me. This-person-who-is-called-my-brother were watching us, waiting until grandma’s attention is lost, thereby he can perform this kill. He was squatting, hiding behind the wall, and stretching his left hand, shaking it and showing a sparkling thing, something that grabbed all my attention. It was awesome, and as any kid, I was astounded and wanted to have a better look at it. Awesome trick, young boy!

Once he had noticed that I am approaching, he ran to the bathroom, repeated the same trick, waiting for me, and he was really clever to make me follow him to the bathroom. When I entered, I could hear the sound of water that’s filling the deep bath and saw it going out, drowning the white floor, and I noticed the sparkling thing floating on the water. I have never gone to the bathroom alone, thus I felt that it’s a gigantic place full of towels, house-cleaning tools, and water, and it sounded incredulous not to find him around, but I didn’t care. I really need to take this thing! As I was approaching, I felt the bright rays of the object getting inside my retina increasing the size of my eyes and making feel the chanting happiness. I felt like I am achieving the best dream in my childhood, and finally, I touched it, and I wish I hadn’t. Suddenly, this-person-who-is-called-my-brother ran towards me and held me from my legs. I really was astonished, thinking that he was trying to help me. He seemed to be taller than me, and he could easily carry me up with his strong muscles to reach this gift.  My lovely brother! But all these impossible dreams vanished when I felt him throwing me into the bath, making me drown in the chilly water. I looked at his full-of-antagonism eyes, and I wanted to tell him that I trusted him, but I couldn’t because I haven’t yet learned to say ‘betrayal’ or ‘help,’ yet I have learned the feeling of seeking help and detesting betrayal. He immediately ran out of the bathroom, slammed the door behind him, and closed the lights, making me suffer in darkness, as I was trying with every bit of strength to overcome water to survive, and he stood in front of the bathroom’s door, acting as a guard for the invited grim reaper, waiting until hearing silence, indicating that his mission is delightfully accomplished.

Nevertheless, my SOS’s sent a hidden signal to my mother’s heart – My mother was always hearing my inner cries, thoughts, and the silent shouts of pain. She threw the spoon on the pan, leaving the most precious thing she used to do in her life, cooking, and ran around the apartment, calling my name until she stumbled into Jonah, and she asked him with a scared tone, “Jonah, where is Elizabeth? Did you see her.”

“Umm, I don’t know, mom. She may be playing with her toys or doing her girly things.” He said in a vexatious tune, avoiding looking at my mother’s eyes, as she may know what’s really happening.

“Why are standing in front of the bathroom? Is your sister inside?”

Now, I was dying, taking the last breathes, and hoping that my mom would save me.

“Nothing, mom, I am just standing. It’s ok.” Jonah said hesitantly.

“Let me enter.” Said determinedly

“No. It’s dark inside. The monster may take you.” He said in a convincing voice, preventing her with his small hands from entering the bathroom.

But she entered the bathroom by force and saw me.  Once he entered, she was stunned for a long moment, mouth opened, eyebrows raised, and eyes stared. This frozen scene didn’t last for long. My mother rushed to me, taking me before the scythe of the grim reaper takes me, endowing me another chance for life. While holding me in her arms, she looked with her frightened eye at my afraid green eyes. Now, I felt the air flowing through my tiny lungs for the second time, and I felt the beauty of adventure.

An infant survived death two times. What an amazing story you should write!

Hmmm, sounds miserable, and you may think that my grandma is the reason why I hated my brother because she unveiled these secrets, but this is false… a lie I was always using to avoid telling the truth, as whenever I tried to tell the truth, my mouth froze, and my tongue turned to the heaviest thing in life. Even if the stories and the reality were harsh and rigorous, I don’t usually build my arguments and feelings using them (No, no, no. This story is real, and my brother had confessed to me.); however, I only depend on my feelings, as they have never fooled me like humans, and they were, most of the times, too true.

Trust me, nothing has been started yet. This is only a brief introduction of the how-my-life-ended story.  My brother Jonah took a huge part of this story, and this is not considered as a piece of a part, literally…


Sighs… (Chapter three)

Sighs… (Chapter one)



“So, Elizabeth, tell me why you came here. What’s wrong?”

He asked with a soft voice, looking at her glittering black eyes and scanning her threadbare body on the chaise lounge.

“Ummm…Ummm…Ummm, …” she inhaled then sighed slowly, looking at his eyes depressingly, like if she was telling him all that in her heart, but she couldn’t tell.

“I don’t know, I really don’t know, b… but… I should be here…I …” her voice became a mixture of frustration and self-confidence,

“I should receive THIS MEDICATION AND SUPPORT, or I will kill myself…….. I will kill myself leaving all this destruction behind me. I Will Kill Myself,”

She cried with a new-found determination, like a great building collapsing and resisting with every bit of strength, and she stood up, collected her purse, put the wrap on her head, wore her blue, heavy scarf, and ran away, giving the doctor a final look with her opened eyes and stretched body. She glared at him, and said with a decided voice, “I don’t need your useless support. I don’t know why I wasted my time with an oldster like you. I am leaving.”

The doctor didn’t say a word, and suddenly, the door was slammed, and its voice went like a chilly wind through the doctor’s body. He was trembled and amazed…

“Sir, please cancel all my appointments with this idiot. I don’t need any support from such an oldster,” she said bewildered.

The receptionist replied with perfect English Accent. “Madame, behave yourself, please. There is no reason to insult the doctor.”


“Umm… Ummm… I am so sorry, I am just tired. Sorry about that.”

“No worries. It’s ok. I will make this cancellation, but can I ask you for the reason, if this won’t bother you?” He said, looking at her freckled face with a caring eye. But she didn’t reply nor looked at him. Just looking at the ground, as always.

“Well, but Keep in your mind that the doctor’s table is busy for three months. If you would make another appointment, you will need to wait a lot. Shall I proceed with the cancellation?”

“Yes. Just do it.” She said angrily.

“Ok Madame, give me your name and email.” He said confidently.

She gave him all her data and left the clinic, waited until he nodded that the cancellation is done, and then ran away, feeling the freedom flowing through her veins and experiencing a strange feeling.

Through the window, the doctor was watching her while she was approaching her red car – running befuddled and avoiding the unwanted sound of horns and car accidents- at the end of the parking lot. Her tears were drowning the streets, making this illusionary portray of her on the wet ground tremble in fear.

When she reached her car, she took a deep breath, looked at the cloudy sky, and put the keys on the car, feeling victory… the freedom of not telling her truth to someone else… this alluring victory of not telling her secrets to anyone but herself, as she was confident that all will loathe her once they hear, or know about,  the first chapter of her life, this normal, intermediate chapter of sins and depression.

She opened the door, jumped into the warm car, and sat in her comfortable seat like a fish returned to the sea. she hit the steering wheel strongly and sighed, kicking out all the memories inside her heart.  After settling for a while, looking through the window to the rainy nature, and smelling this relaxing whiff of rains, she drove the car, escaping from this melancholy place…


She drove until she reached her secret place, the place which bore witness to all these heartbreaking events in her life. Surrounded by books, thrown writing samples, and an advanced computer system, she was holding her lovely notebook, drinking her usual black coffee, listening to “sad violin” from the computer’s speaker, and writing smoothly, filling the notebook’s paper with her desperate thoughts and the blue tears in the pen’s tube. Better than the best psychologists in this miserable life, she thought. Then, she stood up, went to the window that overlooks the great heights, and gave a long look to the landscapes beneath her. She sighed and took a long breath, feeling the surge of courageousness through her veins. Then she ran to the window…



Diaries’ Prologue

“The events depicted in this story are real. Any similarity to any person living or dead is merely intentional.”

Welcome to my only unpublished book. You should be happy because this book had chosen you. This book tells my story, the story of Elizabeth Stewart, or the how-my-life-ended story.

(Spoiler alert: I will kill myself at the end of the story, so please, read this with a critical eye and don’t skip a single sentence because a single factor can change a whole, gigantic thing, or me.)

Hey! You are going to travel through the most surreptitious documents in my life. I will unveil all that you were curious about, endowing you with some depression and hate. You may find some strong language, suicidal thoughts, and anything you may detest, but keep it in your mind that I have intended to use them to portray what really happened, not what you or they want to hear. Ergo, if you are strong enough to read, escape the noise, open YouTube, listen to “sad violin,” and settle alone in a relaxing place in which you can see nature and no one would interrupt you. All mentioned people are those whom you are seeing and talking with every day, and they really did what is mentioned, literally.

My only advice is to bring a snack, prepare yourself, and erase all the previous information about me… about this hated, despised Elizabeth.

P.S: Please, Don’t build your arguments on a single chapter, two chapters, or even a collection of chapters, as with every new chapter, you are going to discover a whole modernistic thing. Also, Reading the final chapter is meaningless without reading all the chapters.

P.S: I recommend reading it as a two-hour-without-breaks story.

Escape the noise…


Sighs… (Chapter two)




Theme Music

Noises, giggles, cries, and numerous sounds create a special mixture of things. Hordes of Black dots – people – vibrate and collide, making these sounds. This is the real meaning of chaos, or just life… This messy world with its ups and downs, high and low sounds, and constant and disturbed black dots only changes when a very tiny piece in this Mosaic changes.  Our life is a special definition of Entropy. Intentionally or not, people tend to alter the state of their world. Believe it or not, there are ceaseless worlds in this Gigantic universe. Worlds are mysterious spaces that are known by only its God, the person who can control this great singularity… YOU. With no restrictions, rules become useless. You are the only one who decides the fate of every single component of this world. Sadly, you are not alone in this swarmed universe: some overlaps do occur. Traumatically, they are not one, two, or even ten overlaps: Tons of overlaps surround your fantasy. Here, you are endowed with restricted freedom. In other words, you should follow this law:

“Causing a change in this space without a permit from the other worlds that overlap you changes their and yours; and most of the times, the connections diminish, and all the lights are turned off.”

No, you still have your own space. Ironically, this minute space influences all this world – even overlaps!


Age is a measurement of how much you lived; it’s a something derived from the concept of time. And… time was always used to describe the rate of change of a being. If there is no change, time will be meaningless and so age. . .

Celebrations and festivals are vague if they were clichés. You should celebrate because the world has been changed, and YOU still as you are, a constant thing, a meaningless being. As it was said, causing a change in your world’s free space affects all. Changing that inner private space impacts this world: those overlaps, and these tiny components, world’s decoration. . .


          Overlaps are others. They should exist in your world, meaning that they should be affected by what you do. Overlaps can be gloomy if there is no change, and they may vanish if this change was harsh. That left space is you, with all your secrets and personalities. Once a tiny change occurs, the whole world changes…



Once you notice a change, celebrate your own new year and sing

“Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way.”

Do … Re … Me


Theme music


Several tunes construct the harmony. A pattern of random tunes, high and low; black and white, establish a special symphony. Numerous keys will only open one unique gate. A mixture of feelings appears in one note. Ascending or Descending; Annoying or Relaxing; you have already listened and felt. Sometimes you are just listening to be touched. Yet, sometimes you are playing for others – or yourself. Roles are useless here. Nothing matters but the symphony itself, your own symphony.


In a dark room, a tiny candle with trembling fire illumines a piano. Nothing is heard but silence. Light appears from the cracks in the wooden door. It appears and disappears frequently until it all went dark. Suddenly, you entered the room, slamming the door behind you. With slow steps, you reached the chair, that black, wooden chair. You sat down and begin playing. . .

“Bring your headphones and listen carefully to these messy tunes.”

 Random tunes, some chords, ups and downs, feelings, repetitive patterns, and some dissonant and consonant tunes – this is life. Each has his unique musical note. Notes differ, absolutely, but all use the same keyboard, the same tunes in a different pattern. Life is fair, just for now. That candle illuminates your note – Yes, the note wasn’t there; it existed once you sat down. On its cover page, you found something written in your handwriting.

“All vanish when the candle’s fire goes. All vanish when the symphony ends. All vanish when you want to re-play. Start before losing.”

Immediately, you looked at the candle. Really, you should play all the notes correctly to end the symphony. You are wondering how could you play the tunes: it’s your first time to see a piano! You tried all the tunes. Patterns were dissonant all the time, but you are learning. Like a baby struggling to walk, you were struggling to read the notes. The candle is being drained as the time passes . . . Now, you know the sound of each key, and you can construct a random pattern of consonant tunes. Something motived you to flip the cover page. A page with instructions appeared with the following instructions:

–  When you are playing, some obstacles will face you: The keys may lag; the chair may be uncomfortable, etc. You should find a novel way to overcome them.

–  You may detest some tunes, but you should play them. If you tried to skip them, all the following tunes will be changed. This might affect your progress.

–  Repeating good tunes is not acceptable. They only occur once, and you should remember them.

Then, there was some instruction to read the note. You moved to the next page. Now, you are knowledgeable enough, put a goal to achieve, and play the keys to construct your own symphony.  You are qualified for life. . .

“Two-thirds of the candle are remaining.”

You are making Beethovenian tunes. Nothing stops you. Moving from white keys to black ones, ascending or descending, you know that white keys, even if they were low, are better than black keys – Light is always better than being lost in black. You are moving from chord to another, playing with both hands. Life must be balanced between high and low tunes, between delightfulness and gloom. While you are playing, you felt tired: tunes are repeating; nothing is new to this ominous life. The note is too long. You are forced to survive. There is nothing to play for… but astonishingly, during that immersion, alluring tunes were being played. Love and Affection dominated the room. Your fingers are dancing. Everything is in its right place. You have a reason to continue playing. . .

“The keys lagged” 

    Like a backstab, the faith made his loathed judgment. These won’t continue or be repeated. Ouch… those are the keys which played that affectionate tunes. You should end the symphony before the candle’s fire go.  The candle is being wasted, and some keys are corrupted. You are doing nothing but lurking to evaluate the state of the candle. Escape the obstacle: Nothing deserves waiting…

“One-third of the candle is remaining.”

Few pages are remaining. You are tired, demanding the end of this hellish symphony. Memories are being repeated by the tunes: these warm tunes, these brave tunes, these passionate ones, and those dim tunes. Some sand covered those corrupted tunes. You are playing just to end the symphony, thinking of all the things that could happen after it. Losing the candle or having it does not matter now. You continued until you reached the last page. Finally, freedom will prevail. You are exhausted, believing that your life will end in front of wretched, old piano. Your fingers are throbbing, like a lonely tree in a huge storm. Finally, the final pitch is played. Wow! The symphony is done! But, wait here… two pages are left. You instantly flipped them. You are shocked…


Really, you are appreciated to reach the end of your symphony. The following is the method to fix the corrupted keys. Also, you will find all the mistakes you did during the symphony and how could you fix them.

Best of Luck, Yours.”

You are heart is beating rapidly. You can’t move. The candle’s fire is going. You are dying, saying your last words and begging the fire to stay.

“Do replica of me to fix all these harsh mistakes.”

“Do replica of me.”

“Do Re-me.”


Life ended as it started . . .


This is life. You first third of life is when you are learning, growing, and building your identity. The next third is when you are fighting, searching for love, and achieving your goals. The last third is when you are remembering all the moments you lived, wishing to leave this life after losing your health and the ones you love.  

Don’t waste your candle; don’t waste your age and life. 




Theme music

The pieces of the chess


It all started with that regular and perfect order on the chess board. Really, it does not matter at all if you were black or white, o-or-r if you were “the preferred” or just “the hated.” The only thing that matters is how you act, move, and respond. Yet, what if the opponent was tricky, brilliant, and professional? Will you lose, resist until you get shocked by several checkmates, or just surrender?

We only look at things from a distant position – perspectives always put the rules. But if we zoom in, more and more until getting very deep … into the core of the things, we will definitely express another meaning, another powerful concept that could change our minds or impressively replace the way we think about the world. It could change us, the whole us!

“Why don’t we play chess?” in other words, let’s look at our lives from the perspective of that normal, traditional chess. Consider all the pieces, troops: the alluring queen, the majestic king, sly bishops, tough rooks, intrepid knights, and the shameful, useless pawns; you are going to experience a great battle. Unfortunately, you know who is going to win. . .

“Bring a snack and settle in. You’re going to play an extraordinary match. “

The match starts. You only have twenty chances, unluckily with the pawns. “It is the first movement. It won’t determine anything at all. I need to move this stupid stuff to free the king, a bishop, or a rook. I am afraid. The knight may be at risk; I can’t move it.” Sadly, you don’t know that your faith fully depends on that “useless” movement, on that mistakenly-thought-as-useless pawns. You just moved a pawn. Then, The other made his. Now, you have completely new 400 movements; Ridiculously, they all depend on that first “useless” movement. You don’t mind; you’re thinking about a way to fix this careless disaster – stop, you don’t know if it was a disaster.

Life continues; you make a lot of mistakes, but you don’t know why they are mistakes. Now the chess board is on a new order: All of your pawns are moved, some moved one step; others moved two. You have moved your mightiest piece, the king, to the middle of the board. “He can’t beat the king. Now, I will move it to take over his rook.” Your opponent knows what are you going to do. He let you, and he did one clever move. Then, you did yours. You took over the rook. You felt the victory for a while. “What is he going to do now?!” Yet, once in a blue moon, his king killed yours. Your heart pulsed at a very high speed – No, it’s not a stroke; you are just shocked. You stopped for a while, thinking of all the wrong movements you did. “The Scenario could be something else if I . . .” Life is wily. It gives you what you wanted, or what you think that you wanted, to take something you really needed. You are immersed in the thoughts of “I will definitely lose. It’s the most powerful piece.”

“Hey, won’t you do your next move, Ha?” said your opponent with a yellow smile.

The game is now bleak. You are playing to end this. Pieces are moving. You want to revenge, to take his king and make him feel how bad it is, how hellish it is. You’re playing like the most brilliant person on the planet. He is eating your troops; you are losing your power. Then, you did the right move! You moved the knight and said “Checkmate!” He moved his queen, and the knight bravely killed his king. Traumatically, the knight died.

Now, you are scanning the board, asking yourself: “What is left over? Do I have any special piece rather than these stupid pawns?” But you did not have. You need to do the most detested thing in the world: working with the “useless” pawns. You know, but you were ignoring, that pawns transform into any piece you want if they just got some care, and reached the end of the board. They can be that majestic king, sly bishop, tough rook, or brave knight. Just don’t deal with them as stupid things.

Then, you move a pawn, hoping that it will be the next king. Yet, you heard the worst thing ever: “Checkmate!” You moved your queen, and you did something . . .


Scene one

It was like a series of Checkmates. You can’t do anything about it but repeating the same movements, going a step forward and another backward until he finishes you. You are super depressed.

You commit suicide; life is too hard. A lot of obstacles and problems are surrounding you, and you can’t do anything about them. Sorry, I meant you surrendered.


Scene two

He kept doing his stupid checkmates, but you were tricky. You made him busy with your queen until you made a pawn reach the end. Then, with a great pride, you said: “I want to make him a king! Now, there is some justice here.” You kept defending your queen, trying to transform another “useful” pawns. The game looked ceaseless. And After a lot of playing, you are too tired. “I can’t play anymore. I will sleep.”

Life ended. You had a terrible life full of struggles, but you managed to solve some. You died at least without suiciding. Great Work! Yet, he is the winner . . .


Scene Three

You moved your queen near the pawns. Then, your opponent moved his king to be in a place in which the pawn could kill him. Your “useful” pawn did it! He killed the greatest challenge in your life. Then, your invasion continued stronger. You transformed the left three pawns into a king and two rooks. After that, you did your own movements and said proudly “Checkmate!” You did it. You are the winner!

Life can be very happy when you just believe that you can live. You are the only one who can end it happily, sadly, or surrender.


Scene four

This space is left for you. You are the author who can put his own rules and movements.





Got it? Life is your opponent. It fights you all the time. Pawns are your ideas. Once you use them, you can fight life. The king is your closest friend; they say “soulmate.” The rooks are your family. They are tough. The bishops are your friends. Sometimes they are sly. The knights are your relatives. They are kind of brave. Don’t lose your ideas and yourself.


I forgot. I lost my match. Don’t lose yours.



Math and Chess

Chess – Wiki

Used to . . .


          To feel it, please, play this Theme Song before reading the article.


Smiles were everywhere; love was prevailing; elation was the only dominant thing. The amiable hearts surrounded him. The gracious people enveloped him. Everything was totally great, only from outside. Every heart was great from the outside. Everything was external happiness. Everything was fake and fruitless. Everything was nothing. Everything was only bogus, fallacious things. . .

As a child, your heart should feel mercy, love, clemency, and tenderness. A child should be satisfied internally . . .  spiritually, not externally. However, this was only the dream of that little child. He was that loathed forsaken person. He was nothing at all.


“Look at your billy, bitch! you’re too fat to run, play, or be a human. You should only stay at your home.”

“I am sorry, but I wanted only to play with my friends.”

“Heeeeyy, I am the only person who decides whether you play or not! Go off now!”


He stayed at home. He was scared to go to the mosque – Why? he was used to going five times a day. He was only afraid that people might ridicule him, but that wasn’t the best solution: he was suffering from bullying at home. He was called “Fat Boy” . . .

One day, at school, a coach from a club came to select students for Judo training. The coach wanted only fat boys. The coach entered his classroom.


“Al-Salamo Alikom [means hello in Arabic], Good morning, Mr. I am here to select some people for our upcoming Judo team, so could you let me lead the session for ten minutes?”

Teacher: “Of course, here you are.”

The coach began to search for the best one: the fat and tall boy. Our hero was sitting at the last desk in the room, leaning his head against the wall and waiting until that “Noisy” guy exits the room. Actually, he was thinking of a plastic surgery to end his obesity.

The Coach whispering to the teacher: “Please, what is the name of that kid at the end of the class.” pointing on our hero.

Teacher: “He is introvert, fat boy! why would you like to have it with you?” Said nervously.

Coach: “Could you tell me his name?” Neglecting what the teacher said.

Teacher: “Hey, that boy on the corner, stand up now!” Angerly.

Our hero: “Hmmm, Mister, what did I do?” He was like crying.

Coach: “You haven’t done anything but being the most suitable boy for my team!!” Saying in a delighted tone. “Come on with me! Mr., I’ll take him with me to get some personal data.”

It was a shocking moment. He didn’t recognize what had happened until he heard the last sentence of the coach “Well, I’ll call your parents. You should start your training tomorrow!”. . .

Fleshiness became a gift from Allah! Telling him “You are a fat boy” won’t affect him again. He is fat for a reason: for being a talented Judo player. Nevertheless, he shouldn’t be that self-confident guy. “Do you think to play Judo will make you that strong man? Babe, you are a Gay!”


“I want to play with you”

“Didn’t you see me playing with my friends, bitch! You won’t play until I finish playing with them. Get out of ma face!”

Then, tears tried to tell him “Sorry, we know that you are so kind.”

“Stop crying like girls, sorry Gays! you won’t play at all!”


He left the training. He returned to home again. He stayed forsaken. He was used to being alone at home. He was used to crying until he was no longer able to move. He could only sleep surrounded by his tears. He was used to being internally burning. He should stay at home, so he would no longer be bullied by different people. . .

Life is too harsh when you’re trying to overcome an old habit that you were used to doing it. Our hero is now a teenager. Life should be different. He should go here and there. But, he isn’t able to get out home. He is coerced to be like settling in his home. He is used to that! He is used to anguish and grief. He isn’t used to happiness. Thus, he can’t be happy at all, and he can’t enjoy his life with his new friends. Hw will only be that depressed, pessimistic, lonley person.


“Stop being too old! You’re making us laugh a lot. You draw the smiles wherever you go; however, you are looking so depressed. Why? You should tell us! we love you”

“You don’t know anything. I can’t go with you. Go and enjoy, and let me here alone.”


Nothing occurs without a reason!



P.S Thank you, my friend, for your golden story! You’re so brave!






“Could you tell me why you did that! Ouch, I forgot how maniac and insane you are!”

“Stop being that self-righteous who seeks for the greeaaaaat sun of freedom and morals. I know how frowzy you are, how bogus you are, and how vicious you are!”

“Hahaha, fooling me won’t be your savior, motherfucker! you will be thaaat jerk, little kid who can only say ‘Mom, they ridiculed me’, you’re, awfully, nothing…”

“So, are you considered as a valuable thing? Do you think that you are that respectable, venerable person? you are a fruitless being: a sand goes with the storm wherever it goes!”

“Ohhh, LITTLE KID! I think you touched my gracious heart. Let me tell you a thing . . .

Do you remember when I was a child? I was an outgoing, active kid; however, you only wanted me to stay at home with you! you wanted to be ma friend and you forced me to that! I began to hate people, loathe myself, and be invisible. You made me squander my ashamed self! ”


“What a liar! I coerced you neither to stay with me nor detest people! you were loathed by them. You had a very mischievous, trembled personality with a great fallacious confident! You only were that inutile person, you were nothing!”

“Say it again, then I could laugh more loudly. You prohibited me from communicating with people, making new friendships, or even enjoying my life with photos, selfies, and other amazing things! What I did was only waiting for you until all your tears are gone. I was always kind to you. I …. I …. I love you!!!”

“Well, lemme tell you a top secret. When you were that alarming, alluring, juvenile kid, people abhor me, despised me, and eliminated me from their friend list. I was deceiving you when I persuaded you that you should stay at home with me cuz I am afraid – I am terrified of seeing people: they’ll show me their stern faces!”

“Ohh, now I know what really happened. You were imitating only the dark side of people. You only wanted to revenge, however, you’re tooooo week. So, you decided to reflect all the shit on me. You were broken! I know that you are great, glorious person, but life was very grim to you. I am sorry, by the way. I love you.”

“Ouch, now, you know that I only wanted to be that brilliant, intellectual person with superlative linguistical and scientific background. I only craved the feeling of being safe! Being a well-educated, splendid, crackerjack person would satisfy that need. Actually, escaping to imagination and fiction was my savior to create my own world, a world where no injustice and melancholy exist”

“You only wanted to satisfy what you don’t have, what you miss. You are now a false, fake, untrue thing: you’re fake! let’s break the chains now!”


“Hey, Why are u talking to yourself, my little boy?”

“Sorry, Mom.”

* * *

Don’t let circumstances finish you. You are a great, valuable thing. Love yourself. Change yourself. Be better!

The deceptive Assassin.



“No one will save that gracious person inside you but you”

      On a table, a lady was shackled with cold handcuffs. Two cryptic persons were standing in front of her, and he was watching. She was naked. Her body was ready for anguish. However, she was only smiling and happy. The two began to strip her skin. He was only watching that Horrified scene and crying . . .

     As a widow that had a heinous, cruel life, she sought for a gracious heart to love her. She couldn’t find someone who cherishes her at all. She was mistaken: she trusted her awry thoughts only. Her past life enjoined her to do frowzy, nauseous, unwanted things. . .

She was born in rural areas in the 1970s. Her life was that usual, boring life. She had to have her breakfast at morning, go to school, do homework and housework, and sleep early every day. Nothing was contemporary but her dreams. She had a stern, rough father. She is ought to do all his orders, and, awfully, the discussion was forbidden. “I think you’ve been missing the baton!” This was her father’s routine words if she even said: “Wait, I am tired now.” She should cook up a solution. Nonetheless, solutions may be that atrocious, unpleasant person who leads you to perish . . .

She grew up. When she was twenty-three years old, she got a bright chance. An old man, who was forty years, went to their home in order to engage her as a fiance; actually, the father sold her to him. A hell with that unknown dyad will be better than living with her imperious father. She got married, then she traveled abroad where the story began . . .

That husband was scoundrel, villain, lustful animal. He only wanted her body. He was doing psychological projection all the time. “You are useless.”, “I bought you.”, “You won’t be divorced until I finish you.”, “Do you think that, You, wroth love? You were, and you won’t be anything but a great body for me.” She was forced to obey him. She was coerced to act like an animal, like a bitch! Love is forbidden, Mercy is prohibited, Compassion is banned. From a hell to another, she had a torture each is like the other. No father, no brother, she found only a lother . . .

–   “How are you? I am your neighbor. I am just asking about your husband.” Said kindly.

= She replied: “Oh, he is not here.” said with a somber tone, but she touched his admiration.

– “Sorry, why do you look sad? is everything ok?” said heedfully.

= “Yes, it is. . .” said sadly.

Then she closed the door. Nevertheless, she opened a door for her heart.

“How did you think that you may admire him? It’s called betrayal!”

“Hey, if betrayal would make me feel like a human, not an animal, it would be great!”

“You shouldn’t. Don’t forfeit your manners! Please, don’t”

“Manners led me to hell. I should taste heaven!”

and she opened the door immediately. She whistled: “Hey, I want your phone number in order to call you as soon as he arrives here.” he gave her his phone. She had her first love story . . .

     “When you’re used to doing something, you will be forced to it every moment.”

   She can’t ignore the fact that she is a fruitless animal where others can find their lust. She started to meet him in dark, and she sold her body for love – she sold it for freedom previously. She was turning into an animal. She became a semi-human . . .

She was smiling during the torment because she thought that she won the battle and gained the missing part in her life . . .

Yourself worths you. Don’t lose anything because of a need or a thing you think that it’s a must to be owned.

“Go to Psychatiaristic! Don’t let yourself! You will lose your life!”

You should read it again because the first impression is always wrong!!!


    She had schizophrenia. Schizophrenia is a serious disorder which affects how a person thinks, feels and acts. Someone with schizophrenia may have difficulty distinguishing between what is real and what is imaginary; may be unresponsive or withdrawn; and may have difficulty expressing normal emotions in social situations.


13 Reasons why not!


“Do you think that when you escape from your faith, it will let you?”

         He was a usual person. His life was boring, mournful, and chilly. He had no friends. He was that miserable, frustrated person. He always thought his a twin with fruitlessness. He was usual, so he cooked up a usual solution; suicide would be his savior that might pull him out of that grievous life . . .

         The bane receipt consisted of a cold noose, sorrowful chair, and a closed room. He planned, he waited until all are away; then he fled to his dark, unsympathetic room. When he entered, he saw his little sister’s scratches “I love my brother”, “He is my hero”, etc. – reason one: live for the people who you love. His heart was going to cry. However, he got wind of an inner voice: “Jusssst dooooo it!!” He kept heading to the chair, but something hindered his leg. “Certification of Award to … because of his excellence in ..”, He remembered his educational life, his success, and his achievements – reason two: live for yourself. His heart began to throb. On the other hand, he recalled his harsh greeting “Good morning asshole!”. He stood on the chair; his legs were fluttering; only his severe moments controlled him . . .

* Messages notification *

“Whazzup dude? I hope you are doin’ well. I want to talk to you, I have a lot of problems, you shall help me as usual ♥” – reason three: Helping people. He saw the message, and he imagined his friend facing troubles alone; hence, he felt ashamed. Nevertheless, he kept making the nodes. When he was making the final node, he saw his mom’s handkerchief; he evoked a tough scene: he felt his mom’s tears; he touched her trembled body – Reason four: The people who care about you.  He couldn’t bear, so he turned his face away. He saw a necklace. It belongs to an underprivileged, gracious woman. He saw her in a mall; she didn’t have enough money to pay for her shopping. He paid for her, and he went to her home; she showed him how similar he was to her son. She gave him her necklace: “Don’t let challenges defeat you, my son” – Reason five: Life is full of amiable hearts. Nevertheless, he didn’t want to remember, he put his head inside the noose, and he jumped off the chair . . .

He was choking. His body was getting red. He was actually passing away. He relieved all that occurred in his life. He saw a sonic movie representing all delightful moments. He remembered his friends (reason six), family meetings (reason seven), the mosque (reason eight), with all of its activities and people, his best friend (reason nine), his teachers and that kind mistress (reason ten), and the girl he loves (reason eleven). However, unfortunately, time goes and doesn’t return again. The noose was cut, and he was dipped . . .

                          “Don’t try to suicide, life is very beautiful.”

                         Each has his own reasons for life, fight for your 13 reasons: the secrets and the non-secrets ♥

Previous articles:

The False Truth

The monster within

You are not what really you think that you are.

The False Truth


“Fake it till you make it”

 –  ” You wanted to tell me something, what’s wrong? ” said Carefully.

= “I … I … just wanted to tell you about something .. I … ” He stuttered.

–  ” Why are you afraid? Just talk, I am here to hear you” Said calmly.

= “Well,” then his tears began to move out, “I feel like I am hated by everyone: no one likes me, no one trusts me, and even no one prefers to talk to me. I am alone . . . I love loneliness, however, I want to decide to be alone; not to be obligated to this.  I  … I … ” He stopped and did nothing except crying.

she smiled and dabbed his shoulders. Then, she continued with a soft tone ” Well, tell me why do you feel that and how was your life before being here?”As soon as he heard that,  he left her and ran away . . .


       He was a kinda weird person.  He had different nicknames since childhood: the fat, asshole boy; the hated, liar traducer; and the stupid, bullshitter boy. Each nickname had its own heartbroken story. Each described how tough his life was. Each was “……”

When he was young, he was that perfect, intelligent student. He was a bright, beautiful kid; however, he was ruins of kid. During his young live he had a disease which enjoined him to take a special medicine; and with each dosage, he was putting on some weight. Eventually, he became fat – the first part of his nickname. Malevolent people are everywhere. Even though his performance in school and activities was outstanding, he was called ” the asshole” . . .

Now, he began to hate people. ” All people are the same, they will bully me, and they will hate me”. When he went to a prep. school, he had lots of family troubles. There were a lot of conflicts; so, he thought of solving that crucial problem. he thought of being an ally for both. He was a traducer – the second part of his next nickname. He was hated by both. He was forsaken as always. he had no haven except his blank, which is always thirsty for his tears . . .

Now he hates the outside world and himself. He talks only to fictional characters from his imagination. He had fictional friends that all liked him. Nevertheless, in this stage of his life, he was stuck to talk to people and make relationships. He had to live far apart from his shelter, his blanket, and his bed. He had to live in a boarding school. There, he got his new nickname, the stupid bullshitter. He detested his colleagues, the school, and the school labors. He found a new place to cry, the bleak roof. Then, he thought of suicide for the third time. Life doesn’t crave him: he is loathed by all, forsaken, and isolated. He was suffering from the Avoidant Personality Disorder . . .

Avoidant Personality Disorder is characterized by a pervasive pattern of social inhibition, feelings of inadequacy, and a hypersensitivity to negative evaluation. People with this disorder are intensely afraid that others will ridicule them, reject them, or criticize them. This leads them to avoid social situations and to avoid interactions with others. This further limits their ability to develop social skills. Their way of thinking about and interpreting the world revolves around the thought that they are not good enough and that others don’t like them. He wasn’t so bad. He was only suffering from a disorder.


 –  ” Sorry, I ran away because I was terrified of telling you the truth. I will tell you the whole story” . . . . .

The whole story was me, and I should continue the missing parts of this sentence: Each was “my nickname” . . .

Stop Bullying!!


Avoidant Personality Disorder

Previous Articles:

The monster within

You are not what really you think that you are.

You are not what really you think that you are.


                                    “A man without identity is like an ocean without water”

As a very normal person, he was surfing Facebook in order to vanquish this humiliating boredom. During this trial to destroy this boredom, he saw a post published by one of his friends includes: “Your personality is too Beautiful and kind. You have a lot of haters, however, you are keeping your shiny smile.” . . .

As a usual person, he would skip this shit saying: “Woah, I don’t give a fuck!”, then scroll down as fast as possible. However, he stopped for a few moments. He heard only the sound of silence and felt the weirdness of his thoughts. He asked himself: “So, who am I? How could someone judge my personality? Could it be according to how I act and talk? Could be according to the way I think, my Mentality??”. He kept asking endlessly. Every question leads to tons of questions. So, Who are you?

From the perspective of science, we are matter (cells, organs, etc.) and power (The ATP). On the other hand, from the perspective of religion, we are souls and bodies. However, from the perspective of Philosophy, we are ideas, bodies, and thoughts. The definitions are ceaseless as long as being so different. None can’t define identity or personality according to science, philosophy, etc. The only thing that I am sure about is that the real definition of identity is this question’s answer: Who are you?

Are you this matter? so why are we different? why do they say that every single person is unique?. Hmmm …  Regardless of matter, are you this soul inside you? The only one who knows what soul really is is Allah; I don’t think you are an unfamiliar stuff for humans.  “Stop it”,

I am not trying to confuse you.  Why don’t we think of ideas?

” Ideas?”,

Yes, Ideas. An idea is an approach to give an explanation for an action, an event, etc. It’s the way you see the world with. I believe that ideas are somewhere in a parallel universe. Our brains are nearly fishermen. When you are trying to think about a being, your brain is trying to catch an idea. Once you’ve caught it, you’re now able to share it with the world. Ideas create us.  Ideas can be defined as Choices, Experience, thought, breakthroughs, and even your physical features. How? you are the only one who is responsible for these physical features. You are the choice maker who determines if this should be like “x”, or you should change it to “y”.  You are a bunch of ideas, a mold contains different sorts of ideas. Now, look at this words, aren’t they a result of joining ideas together? Look around you, think for a while if the person who thought of making that stuff didn’t make his thought, Would it exist? . . .

Well, if we were ideas, what are ideas?





In a long road

I entered an antique shop to buy a birthday gift for my friend. She, though eminently shining with youthfulness, seems more interested than my history professor in scrutinizing the artworks of Romans and Pharos. She loves crystalline sculptures and signed belongings; in fact, she might spend the whole day taking selfies with a plate signed by Napoleon rather than hanging out with people. I know not about antiques but those dishes and plates my grandmother worships in our house —Oh, and those cups, in our Traditionally Egyptian “neesh.” So, I entered as an alien discovering a new planet. I taught myself some history to get her a unique gift, and I forced myself to ask an old man speaking with a French-accented Egyptian tongue about the crystals sector, and I suffered from a French-filled conversation with an old woman about the beautiful, wealthy, liberal, colonized old Egypt while looking for a crystal, and I bore the receptionist indecipherable “S’il Vous Plaits” to pay for the gift, and I survived the flames inside me when I spent all my money on a small piece of crystal, yet I assured myself his smile was worth those hundreds of  “Exactomo” that tortured my ears, those three weeks without fast food that made me love broccoli, and those hours of relentless trials to correctly pronounce “Je t’aime” instead of “I love you” —for she is in love with the sophisticated, romantic French.

I went outside the shop, leaving this politically-apathetic, wealthy neighborhood, and headed to my politically-active, local neighborhood, holding the bag that has the crystal with both my hands and making sure that the crystal is one-hundred percent secure, for I feared the cars will contaminate the crystal with their tires splashing the dirty ponds in the slums I should cross to reach my neighborhood. I was thinking only of the safety of the crystal, so I put all our memories in it… I put the moments we spent together, the mutual interests, the hard times, the smiles, the pictures, the hilarious videos, mutual characteristics, and even myself in the crystal. I walked six kilometers because I didn’t have enough money for riding a bus, but I felt the crystal invigorating me, so whenever I stopped, it reminded me with a meme we shared together, and whenever my legs hurt, it reminded me with a time I needed help and found her healing my weaknesses, and whenever a thug bullied me without a reason, it reminded me with the times I took decisions without fear because I was beside her.

I walked the six kilometers in a fraction of the second as if I was in her company. We used to chat for some moments all day and night, and hang out for a moment all weekends, and I felt the crystal resembling her… resembling her soft voice telling me not to make anything stop me, resembling her hands stroking my disheveled hair when it’s too impossible to live, and resembling her furious attitude whenever I mock her. I walked the six kilometers, all hope to see her smile and tell her that I appreciate every single moment we spent as friends, every single time we chatted together, and every single letter she wrote to me or I wrote to her. I walked the six kilometers in a fraction of the second because I felt her beside me, and when she is beside me, my world consists only of her, her stories, her malicious friends which we usually make fun of, her smiles, her laughs, and her support.

Finally, I reached my neighborhood. She lives exactly next to my house, and I was only a few steps from her, from attending her le anniversaire and saying happy birthday. Within moments, I was in front of her door. I clicked on the bell, but before she would the door, I decided to look at the crystal before giving it to her… I decided to look at the best version ever I could think of a friend, so I opened the bag.

I didn’t find the crystal. I must have lost it while walking through the narrow aisles, or I must haven’t cared enough for it. I must have forgotten circumstances, people, and her while only thinking of the anticipated, better version. I gave it my all, but it went away without telling, without even notifying me that it is leaving. My legs started hurting me now, and my mind wrote manifold scenarios to prevent me from searching for the crystal, for someone might have stolen it, for it shattered when it was dropped, for I won’t find it. My mind convinced me to accept the loss, convinced me to be passive, and convinced me that the crystal is with me all the time while it was leaving without telling me.

She opened the door, but I couldn’t recognize her features. My crystal had it all. My crystal had her features, her portrait, her interests, herself! And I lost the crystal, so now she is alien to me. I lost her without realizing. She kept moving her mouth, saying words I couldn’t understand, doing reactions I couldn’t perceive. I stood silent, staring at her, but I couldn’t. I left, searching for her, searching for the crystal but in other people. I left, but I have already left her since I lost the crystal. It’s harsh to face reality.

Trapped in an open cage (Part 4)


*Return to the first parts to follow the plot* 

Trapped in an open Cage (Part 3)


We were desperately following the distant light, the distant hope.  Dark was sneaking slowly, diminishing the innocent moonlight. The cold was penetrating into our bones making our bodies shiver to resist the chilly weather of the desert. We couldn’t open our mouths, fearing to be thirsty if we talked… or fearing to interrupt the symphony of the hungry howls dominating the place. Yet, I wasn’t afraid: I am not alone, and Mark is here beside me. If any disaster occurred here, I am safe. But what if something occurred to Mark?

I just denied any terrifying thoughts. I thought only of reading Rose and Emily without even scrutinizing their faces. Although the moonlight was enough to lighten the way, it wasn’t enough to show the small details of their faces, the places were secrets are hidden. Talk to them, I told myself. But I quickly discovered the harsh truth of “I am not brave enough to initiate a damn conversation!” I kept walking silently and hopelessly, waiting in a great fervor for someone to talk, so I can force myself into their conversation and do my thing. Curiosity kills, but it is satisfying.

Minutes passed…

No one talked. I must do something. I suddenly stopped, holding Mark’s hand not to leave me.

“What’s wrong Cave?” Mark asked.

“I am exhausted. We have been walking for long.”

“Hey. Why did you stop? Is everything ok?” Rose said anxiously. She was six feet apart and afraid.

“NO. I am-”

“shshsh… Yes, everything is Ok.” Mark said.

Mark pulled by hand trying to move me, but I resisted. I was exhausted, and I really craved for a talk with them, and this won’t be achieved unless we set and talk. So, I delayed Mark as possible as I could, waiting until Rose or Emily come to see what’s happening.

“Mark, please wait. Let me just relax for seconds. I am tired.” I acted it perfectly.

“What’s wrong guys?” Rose wondered, and she was worried.

Once I heard her voice near us, I felt ecstatic. My plan is going to work.


“I am tired.” I interrupted Mark not to destroy my plan.

“Why don’t we take some rest? It seems like you are tired.” I asked her and trying to make her agree.

“Yeah. I am tired also. I think we gotta set for some minutes and then continue. Emily, Come on!” Rose replied.

*Oh my god! It really worked!*

“I thought you will be the first one to refuse. What the hell is going on guys? We. Are. Lost. We. Are. Going. To. Die! We should be following the light to return and find the treasure we all crave.”

“But we are tired! The light seems too distant, and we are at the beginning of the night. Mark, please, let us have some rest.” Rose adjured him, and her tone was really convincing.


“Without excuses, I am too tired. We are going to take a rest. Period.” Rose interrupted him.

“Ok. Fine. I won’t take a rest. I am going to continue. If I found any mean of help, I will return to you. If you are going to leave, please follow the footsteps. I think the moonlight is strong enough.”

He didn’t wait. He walked away. I kept looking at him, waiting for him to turn around so I can tell him to come; he didn’t. He just left…


“Don’t worry. He will return. I know this type of guys.” Rose told me, smiling.

“I hope so.”

“Now. Take off your jacket.” She was taking off her jacket.

“Excuse me?”

She sighed. “We are going to set on them, Dirty minder.” She smiled.

I took off my Jacket and throw it on the ground. I felt cold infiltrating into my body more strongly. It’s ok. I am only craving one thing: to read them. We sat down. I stretched my hands on the sand and my legs in front of me. I was now super tired. It seemed that we are going to sit here for hours…

“So, why did you come here? Do you believe in the treasure and the glory behind it?” Rose asked me, trying to open a conversation.

“Of course. I believe that I and Mark will find it, and we are going to be the most exceptional team in this adventure.”

“You are so confident. I hope you will achieve that. But you know? I didn’t come with Emily to find that treasure. Actually, we were coming to have some fun.”

“What do you mean?”

“I really don’t believe that the treasure is that exquisite gifts nor the glorious position we will post after the adventure. The real treasure is the good moments I will hopefully have here, but after escaping this goddamn desert.”

“Maybe you are right. But success isn’t bad, is it?”

“Sure. Sometimes we need this satisfaction to feel safe… to feel that we are here… in this world.”

“Satisfaction is a thing we created. We never felt satisfied. We always need more. We lie on ourselves every time we mark a goal as Final. With every achievement, there will be a bigger, glorious one.”

“This is about goals, not dreams. Dreams are gratifying.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Dreams are infinite… are the last step in anything. Goals occur, but dreams never occur.”

“So what’s your dream?”

“My dream is to escape from this place.”

We all laughed. Something in myself told me that she is right. Dreams never occur. Although we laughed, our laugh voices seemed to be desperate. But Rose didn’t give me the chance to think too much. She continued…

“What’s yours?”

“To hear Emily’s voice.”

Again we laughed. I don’t know why I said that… maybe because I wanted to convince myself that Rose was joking… maybe because I wanted to hear Emily… maybe because she is hiding something …  maybe she is like me, but she can’t act anymore… I don’t know.

“What do you want to hear?” She suddenly talked, saving me from drowning in my thought. Her voice was really new to my ear. It was sad and happy at the same time. It was unique…

“Nothing. Just join us.”

“I don’t find a reason to join you. I am just—”

She was about to continue, but we heard a loud scream. The sound seemed to be near us.

          “Is this Mark?” Rose queried.