Category: Bits & pieces of everything

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Siri, play Summertime Sadness

Summertime sadness by Lana Del Rey is playing on my headphones as I write this.

I have been thinking,

And for all of you who would probably say

“Do you usually not think?”

No, I do. Think.

But lately, I have been thinking

About safety in cold nights

Safety in the sadness

In the taste of a bad coffee

In the grumpiness of an early morning

In the hotness of a summer day

In the rudeness of an arrogant man

I am thinking of the little moments we live

In the most awful memories

That keeps us alive

The touch of a loved one

The slow dance in a closed room

The sunset on a sea view terrace

The hammock nap on a hike

A midnight swim

The city skyline

Driving on empty streets

Loud music in the car

First drop of rain

Harry Potter movies

My mother’s famous rice

My father’s nonchalant jokes

My sisters

A good night sleep

A good book

A funny Netflix series

A walk in a forestry lane

A good song on repeat

The face of a lover

A laugh

A goodbye

A hug

A kiss

The small moments

That do not fade

Even in the darkest day

It blooms, thrives, thirsts off the melancholy

We choose to oversee it

As usually, the pain is too loud

But once we actually notice

Focus on the simplicity

It makes everything bearable

Hell, it becomes addicting

Craving for safety in the abyss

Lusting for the hope found in dirty niches

I live for these

Moments

For the serendipity in a heinous setting

I live to feel

I live for safety

I live to feel the safety

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It’s July again, and I miss you

It’s July again, and I think out of the many people that broke my soul by leaving the past year, you’re the person I miss the most. You were my summer, the reasons behind my laughs, my nonchalant behaviors, my confidence, a big part of my happiness. You made it easier, all of it, you made it easier to live summer, a season I am bound to feel depressed in; you made it easier to be free.

It wasn’t much, but it was a lot. You called me most of the mornings to ask about my day, my plans, if I would like to meet up. We texted the whole day, made plans for every day and every weekend. We listened to the same songs, read mutual interesting books, you introduced me to documentaries I never thought of watching, to stories I never thought would compel me.

I spent most of my evenings with you, at our place, eating french fries, tabbouleh, and cappuccino.

I know you’ve been there multiple times after, but I haven’t stepped a foot there since September, the day I came in crying, and you laughed at me and we started acting as if you are the one who was making me cry, and then you took me to your place by the sea and you listened to me tell you about my problems, and you told me about yours. You told me things you would never tell to anyone, and I did the same thing, and I did not expect to stay friends with you because what I told you was so personal, but I loved you still, we remained as close.

I remember you now, with piercing memories and heart wrenching nostalgia, because you lived with me every second of every day last summer, my personal and my professional life, you were part of both, and I never imagined I would lose you so quickly. 

See, I fought so hard the feeling of breaking down and missing you, because I knew that letting myself feel your loss would take a huge toll on me, so I kind of bottled it up, I avoided the feeling, did not mention you much with my therapist, did not look back at our photos, our conversations, did not make the extra effort to keep you alive, as I promised.

But now, almost a year since I lost you, I know your loss was not easy, and never will be. It was safe and right, and I was not as old as I feel right now.

I think a major part of me being as tired now is that I was never strong enough to deal with you leaving, and I am reacting differently. You were never a lover, you were a friend. And maybe that’s all I ever really needed. I wrote about you, many times, in this blog, I wrote what I never could write about anyone else, and I remained insistent, that your loss will not affect me as much. But it did.

I’m so cold, and I am so tired. I am so exhausted I can not even explain it. My face is tired, older than it should, even my outfits have been too professional and old, almost as cooperate as I have never been. I’m making all the wrong decisions and repeating bad habits that are only crushing my soul and breaking my bones and making me more tired, if possible. I’m not saying last year was perfect, but it was simpler, never as complicated as it is right now.

And I know it would’ve been simpler if you were still here. You gave me meaning, gave me love, gave me genuine joy. Right now, as I look back at your photos on Instagram, I am yearning to places and a time I wish I could have lived with you, I am yearning to times you made it all better, you made the pain ease, the voices quieter, you made it feel like home.

I’m listening to Adonis, and i think their lyrics fit perfectly what I am feeling right now:

“I don’t wish you anything but peace, my love

and that you live in serenity, no one upsets you

you realise all your dreams

and I want you to know, my heart

that you’ve become a piece of my heart

and that whenever I’m happy

I know that you’re happy, too”

Ps. this was written on July 13, 2022, few minutes before my grandma did.

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Freak by Surf Curse, give it a listen

I’m listening to Freak by Surf Curse, and maybe because I see myself as a freak, or maybe because I love this 80s guitar beat,  but I’m feeling this moment, and this song, and I want to share it with you.

I’m feeling like drinking coffee, because my mind associates peace and writing with black coffee, but it’s 11:02pm on a Sunday, and I just had shawarma, and I don’t think coffee right now would be the wisest choice.

But then again, when did I ever choose to be wise?

I’m still not making coffee. 

And not because I’m being wise, but because I’m too lazy to get out of bed. See, I would never disappoint you in thinking I am something I’m not. I’ll always be this way, unwise and sweet, obsessive and annoying, uncertain and insecure. Yet, you’re here, reading the insanity of my brain, thinking: “why the hell am I here?” Or maybe just trying to understand me, but you won’t, and not because I’m so mysterious, but because I don’t understand me either, so all the questions in your head, are also in my head, and I don’t really know how to answer them.

Last time I was writing, I logged into my blog to post what I wrote, and I heard my mum gasp loudly to the news of my grandma dying. I haven’t posted what I wrote yet, maybe I will after posting this. And I will eventually write about my grandma, because I need her alive here, at least, because she deserves to stay alive in every memory. But not now. Not tonight.

I wanted to write about something different. I wanted to talk about the serenity I lived today, around 2:54am.

The way my skin felt soft on my bedsheets, the 1913 song I had on repeat for an hour, the ancient sound in the buzz of the moments, the way I felt, like I could die that minute and it would be the most serene death anyone could wish for. I was ready for anything, my mind for once not anxious, my sadness toned down, my heart throbbing in normal paces, my obsessiveness set loose, my eyes open and close weightlessly, my lips smiling on their own, feeling so warm and cold at the same time, appreciating beauty, allure, as it really is. 

I was ready. And this serenity possessed my Sunday. I chose to stay in bed all day; I slept then ate, then slept some more. Then I said hi to a friend for 5 minutes in his car, then went up to my bed again, and slept some more, then woke up and ordered coffee, and sulked in my bed. And throughout, I did not feel any responsibility, nothing of the brunt I carry, I felt weightless. Do you know what I mean? Have you ever felt it? Feeling weightless, like a balloon, like if you close yours eyes for just a few seconds you might as well fly? 

I smiled at myself, for no reason at all, a couple of times. I listened to music and I let it consume me. I did not stress, panic, despair. I was okay. 

I’ll try to sleep now, even though I doubt I will, due to the uncountable naps of today, but I need to sleep so I have a less cranky Monday mornings than usual, and you all know my Mondays. I will continue watching this episode of Brooklyn 99-season 8 is on Netflix now!-and then attempt to sleep. 

Bonne nuit les petits. Talk soon x

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A Thursday morning for a change

Happy Thursday, almost Friday! Hope you’ve had a wonderful week so far and not pulling your hair out because life is too melancholy to grasp. I hope you had a calm week, where all you had to stress over was waking early for school/university/work.

I know that this is a far stretch of hope, especially since it is final exams season and the full moon is on May 16, and I confidently can say that the May Full Moon takes a DRAMATIC toll on me. Known as the Flower Moon for coming in the frivolous season of the blossoming Spring, I prefer calling it the moon of shit.

Honestly, looking back at the past few years, the events preceding the May Moon have been the most dramatic, awful, life-changing, and horrific. And it’s not ENTIRELY my fault; really, it’s a mixed combination of me emotionally amplifying the silliest interactions and the universe hitting me with explosive Meteoroids. As a sane grownup, I should probably know how to deal with the universe’s surprises, but as me, I cannot deal with anything to save my life. I can only cry; is that valid?

I’m only really writing this because I am listening to good music, Laykoon by El Fer3i, and I’m kind of liking the daily post, making me feel less guilty for my 2022 heist. Knowing me, this enthusiasm ain’t going to last.

Also, embrace your congratulations, as I am almost finished with the longest transcript I ever had to write. I did the interview in January with this fantastic woman mediator who led the Women’s March between Chiah and Ain El Rimmeneh, two streets parallel to each other, divided by one common street and many sectarian conflicts. Speaking of the women’s march, she started crying, so of course, I started crying too because she is so inspiring. And when I was listening to the interview yesterday, I cried again. It is so iconic. I can either share the link to the transcript or the full story once published.

However, the interview was two hours long, and it almost gave me a heart attack to finish. I finally finished transcribing to Arabic yesterday, and today I am translating to English with a deadline for tomorrow. Fun.

What else? Well, I may have registered for a Master’s degree in a university called Academic University for Non-Violence & Human Rights, located in Beirut. The degree is Non-violent Communication and Media Skills, and I am really excited about it. The only problem is that, well, I am broke. I’m just hoping that the university is so peaceful that it is free. Lol.

Right now, we’re going down to a nearby cafe to celebrate my colleague’s birthday. He doesn’t like cakes or songs, so we just got him shoes and wrote him a cute note. Fun fact: he’s born on May 13, and it happens to be a Friday this year, AND three days before the full moon. Bless his heart.

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Shireen, to a beautiful journalist

Waking up to a tragedy, the coldblooded murder of the Al Jazeera senior journalist Shireen Abu Aqleh. Wearing a press helmet and vest, Shireen was shot dead by Israeli aggressors during her coverage of the Israeli antagonism in the West Bank, Palestine.

The killing of civilians, innocent people, and workers, is horrific to the core. The killing of journalists, photographers, and war reporters, is as ghastly as terrorist acts and the terror of unjust wars can get. A war journalist, someone who was not put in a warzone, or someone who did not find their lands under attack, yet they willingly chose to place themselves in warzones so they can cover reality and spread the word on crimes, to be shot dead is to kill humanity.

Shireen, wearing her helmet and vest, dedicated the past 15 years of her life and career to covering the Israeli aggression against Palestinians. Standing before the eyes of the devil, with her hair down and her lipstick applied perfectly, the journalist covered an Israeli raid on the Jenin refugee camp seconds before being hit by gunfire.

For the peace of your soul Shireen, we stand proud, in silence and despair, and we pray that you rest in power.

We pray that your voice remains loud and conscious, despite the silence left behind. We pray that the afterlife does you better, that your words never quiet, and that your resilience screams in ebony abysses. We pray that your death speaks louder than your life, that you poke the eye of the bear that is the international consciousness, the human rights never spoken of when affiliated to Palestine.

To Shireen, the woman, the journalist, and the icon. We take off our hats in celebration of your fight against occupation. Your message and career drive us to move forward with fighting for justice and assuring that reality never goes uncovered.

How courageous was she, I stand in awe. Studying journalism, I looked up to women fighters like her, dreaming of becoming as brave and strong. She paves the way to freedom of speech by showing the picture as is and freedom of land by fighting the illegal settlements with her media presence.

To women, and many more brave ones down, hoping to be one of them, until freedom and justice conquer our beloved Palestine.

“Only the dead are safe; only the dead have seen the end of war. The church has a poetical and melancholy prayer, that the souls of the faithful departed may rest in peace. But perhaps we may gloss the old superstition, and read into it the rational aspiration that all souls in other spheres, or in the world to come upon earth, might learn to live at peace with God and with things.”

George Santayana, Soliloquies in England and Later Soliloquies (1922)
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Do you ever feel stuck?

Stuck in the meaning that no matter what you do, you are still in the same place you don’t want to be. You throw tantrums, overthink absurdities, slack on work, procrastinate, binge eat, act different from what you really want, then writhe in shame the night(s) after.

It’s like, urgh. Why can’t it be easier? Why can’t I be more normal? I must grow up at someone point, no?

They always say in therapy that it gets worse before it gets better. As in, if you have a problem, it will become really hard, and you will suffer, and then it will be fixed.

But no one told us what or how much we would lose until we got better. Will people stay here after our internal storm? Or have we left too many scars to mend? Did we really leave an open window for them to escape us when needed and come back later? How much of the damage can we repair?

I trust the process; I trust the therapeutic approach that assures us that it gets worse before getting better. I need to trust it, to be honest, because if not, I really am going into a malicious tunnel, and I will definitely destroy myself and everyone around me. Hence, lol, no therapy is good, and I trust therapy.

It’s just that I am stuck in habits I want to get out of but are too rooted underneath. It’s exhausting because it’s a vicious cyclic dilemma that I do not want to be in, yet I find myself the queen of it.

I’m currently at work, with a cold espresso to my left, a dried bread to my front, 6 chocolate bars to my right, courtesy of my new cute colleague. And my water mug. As usual, I’m swamped with unending tasks, and as usual, I am seeking this blog for some entertainment.

I do not exactly fathom all that is happening, all that I am feeling, all that is coming. I do know one thing, I need a break from this, from myself, from the nonsense that is my world.

Today, I was validated at work; my new colleague recognized how much I work, noting that “I’ve set the bar really high” if I ever left. For someone that always feels like I am not doing enough, this had a certain sweet taste in my mouth. Thank you, dear person, for recognizing what I still suffer to admit.

I am currently freezing because the AC is so high, and I’m wearing somebody else’s jacket, and I need it to be a bit less cold because I almost cannot feel my fingers. I also slept at 2am yesterday, so the act of opening my eyelids is painful on its own.

What am I listening to? Nothing special, really. If anything, I need song suggestions if you have some. Help your girl out; maybe music would distract me from the mess I am making.

I need to go back to work. Talk later. Soon. x

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Good morning to you all

Good morning beautiful people. Another week, another Monday:)

It’s 12:56 pm and I’m bored to my core. I have two large tasks to finish but I cannot seem to get either done. I’m at the new office and all I really want is to look outside the windows because, to be honest, the view is appealing. It’s not exactly a sea or mountain view, but our office is on the 13th floor and the view is the architecturally unsynchronized buildings of Beirut, then the mountains. To our right, there’s the Beirut river, which is funny to say because it is not exactly a river – more of a lengthy hole with almost dried and polluted water.

It’s a nice office, I like it. there isn’t exactly much privacy as it’s the modern open space, but I frankly do not mind, it means more social and I like that. It’s also pretty close to my house – only an 8 minutes drive, though it took me 40 minutes this morning to reach because I skipped the exit and drove all the way down to the Port. I also walked back home last Thursday because the weather was beautifully cold for May and it took me around an hour or so. I’m just hoping it actually is an 8 minutes drive for future endeavors.

I just ate a meat skewer sandwich and I feel more energized so I might as well go back to work and seize some concentration cells.

Eating my kaak el eid, I just booked myself a massage session for Thursday, and I am so excited. I just cannot wait until someone loosens my unbearable body knots. I need to loosen up, among other things.

What else? Well, my week is pretty jammed. From movie nights, to coffee talks, to organ recitals, to a massage, it’s a usual nour-busy week. I do intend on having my after-work schedule more me-time, meaning I DO want to read and go back to the gym, but maybe not the very next week after the Ramadan madness.

I’m currently listening to this chill remix of Shkoon, and I think I am kind of binge eating the kaak. I’ll just make myself a cup of coffee and get back to work, then therapy, then more work with friends after.

Mental health check: well, I could be more stable. My insecurities and attachment tantrums are at their peak lately, and my mixed feelings and exploitative behaviors will for sure come back at me, biting me in the butt. But let’s deal with that at a later time.

How about you? What have you been up to lately? Any exciting things coming your way? Any joys? Fears? I’m here, always, ready to talk, just one cup of coffee away.

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hey

Hey, It’s been a while. Sorry about that. It’s an apology to myself – for failing to stick to the happy place that is this blog, for letting things get in the way of my well-being, and for the therapeutic feeling I get writing here.

I will be back very soon, after the feeling of shame fades away. How have you been? I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re in your happy place right now, listening to your music, sending memes to your friends, drinking your coffee, or thinking of the delicious food you will be having for iftar. I hope you are happy; I hope you are well.

Personally, right now, I could be better. Don’t get me wrong; I have not been slothing in bed for the past four months; I’ve been busy, I promise. Too busy that I don’t know where to start. Many things have happened, none that I have been able to fathom yet. But that’s an existential crisis my therapy has to deal with.

I’ve had melancholy days, and I have had breathtaking ones. People have changed, settings have differed, and time had passed when I didn’t want it the most. I hope I can tell you about some, some time.

I haven’t cried for the past four months, except once, because of workload. Everybody who knows me knows that I cry, a lot. It’s the only way I know how to express myself in, and, well, I am a professional crybaby at best.

I did cry, though, yesterday night, a bit too much. It was kind of a relapse, and I only slept for two hours because my morning anxiety woke me up at 5 am, and I could not fall back asleep, and I cried a little more as the sun came and I am yet again faced with another day. It is what it is, I guess.

I will be coming back soon, and I promise I won’t only share the bad feelings. I know that I always break my promises, but maybe this time, I will not break them. Perhaps this time, I actually commit.

I want to start reading books again, I have wanted to for a while, but I haven’t really had the time. I will be reading books again, and to motivate myself to read more and write more, every time I learn a new word, I will dedicate a post to it. It will be a kind of “put this word in a sentence/paragraph” thing.

I’m currently working from home, but I will be going to office after my car is back from the insurance company. I have a political cafe at 6:30pm with partners and donors, and at 8:300pm work dinner at an Armenian restaurant, but my sleep deprivation, puffy eyes, aching heart, and anxiety sure are not the social fuel I expected to have today. I am so close to apologizing for the political cafe and dinner, and burying myself in bed until eternity. You have no idea how tempting this is and how weak I am, but I am giving myself the benefit of strength. (:

For now, thank you. Thank you, you beautiful creatures who have asked me when I will be back; thank you to all of you who told me that you read this trashy scrapbook and that you actually took a millisecond of your time to care enough tell me that I need to write again. I never realized how many people read this, friends and non-friends, before this hiatus. Thank you for sharing with me the closest thing to my heart, my love of words.

Best,

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When writing fails, I need to shut down

I may have started writing more than five times for the past two days, writing one sentence and choking up with tears, and closing the laptop. I tried to write in Arabic, to feel closer to you, even tolerated the idea of expressing my feelings in spoken Arabic, and I wrote incomplete sentences that I now cannot even read.

How are you? You seem distant, more than the miles between us; I just can’t feel you beside me anymore, the closeness you have always accustomed me to, even when you were not beside me, you were always here. You are not anymore; you don’t really want to. And I am trying so hard to understand.

You haven’t asked how I am doing, but I will tell you anyways.

Everything hurts. Every bone in me is aching. My heart, the most. My heart is clenching with every thought of you, and the worst part is that all I can think of is you. The shortness of breath, the walls closing down, the unbearable chest pain, they are all here. I even searched to make sure I am not hallucinating, why the heart out of all organs hurts when we are emotionally hurt, and if it actually does, and it does. The heart actually hurts when we are heartbroken.

Everything in me is hurting, and everything around me is hurting me. How can it not, when everything reminds me of you? I sit on my couch in my living room, and I am reminded of three weeks ago when you were seated exactly here and told our friend smiling: “since we are at her house, let us officially ask her father for her hand.” As a feminist in the making, I do not usually appreciate these jokes, but I hated my ugly heart for almost skipping a beat.

I listen to this song my best friend gave me, and I am reminded of your friend’s house as I sat on a hammock and listened to you tell me you were thinking of making a band with your guitarist friend.

Nights remind me of you because of all the sleepless nights we spent talking, laughing them away, me taking you for granted. Snoring reminds me of all the voice messages you sent me of your friend. “We should start an orchestra,” you joked. Pasta reminds me of you because it is probably the only food you know how to make. Music reminds me of you, of your voice singing, of you playing your musical instruments and closing your eyes as if you are actually feeling every word you sing. Coffee reminds me of you because if there is anything I am certain of, I, as well as anything in the world, could never compete with how much you love your black coffee. Sleep reminds me of you, you who sleeps at dawn and wakes up three days later, still feeling sleepy.

Insecurity reminds me of you, for all the arguments we had because you doubted how I felt towards you. Jealousy reminds me of you, for all the guys I told you about, and you would either stop replying to me or stay quiet and light a cigarette. Pretty girls remind me of you because of how frustrated I feel from the idea of you meeting any of them. Sweaters remind me of you because of how wholesome and warm yours look on you. My car reminds me of you because all I could hear is your voice singing along to the songs on the car radio. My friends remind me of you because you are a part of all of them, even the ones you don’t know, know of you.

Everything is, one way or another, reminding me of you, I have known you for three years, and you have been the most significant part of my life for over a year, despite me pushing otherwise most of that time. I have been reading back our chats the past two days, hoping to keep you alive in me as long as I can, and I cannot begin to explain how stupid and reckless I have been when all you have been so loving and sincere. I avoided you for days, replied hours after you’ve poured your heart out to me, ignored your sweet talk, refused to slow dance with you. I forgot so many important things you told me. I rejected you, not once, but twice.

I am sorry. I am so so so sorry. I’ve been wanting to tell you everything since summer; I wanted to explain myself and be as honest as I could ever be; I wanted to tell you all what I had left to say despite our friends fighting me not to. I wanted to be brave enough for you, but you refused to listen. I begged you to let me talk, but you were too blinded by your own perceptions that you would not allow me to say anything. And just like that, my very thin bravery was gone to the wind.

The most painful thing is that nine months have passed since you mustered the courage to tell me you were in love with me, nine long months that could easily make you fall out of love, and this is what kills me the most. That I am stuck here on a memory of you while you most probably outgrew me a long time ago.

I could feel it; I could feel how unimportant I am to you right now. I am no longer part of your routine, of your good morning texts, of your nightly talks, of your here-and-now thoughts. I pushed you away when all I wanted of you was to stay here, and now you are out there thinking of so many people that I am probably none of, and I am sitting here in my misery thinking of you.

I need to tell you everything. I need to; I need to. I am just not sure what will be most painful, though, to pour my heart out for you only for you to confirm my theory that you have long moved on, or to keep everything in me and live off theories and nonrealistic scenarios that only exist in my heart. I have never been rejected before, and I am not sure I can survive it now, but I would certainly prefer closure to uncertainty.

I know one thing, you gave me purpose.

This may be the last thing I will write for so long, whether to you or anybody, and it is ironic because my writings for you are literally the only posts that everybody knows who I am talking about, except you. Maybe one day, you will read these and understand on your own. Maybe soon enough, you will be mortified of the world I have built for us here that you never knew existed.

At this point, I just wish I could die. I do want to move on; I do not want to overcome all the wonderfulness you have given me; I do not want to imagine a tomorrow without you. I want to be stuck here, with all this and watch my life come to an end. The hardest part about you being gone is not that I do not get to see you or talk to you; it is that I do not get to feel you again.

And you gave me purpose.