Tag: safety

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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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A song about safety is on repeat as I write this

This song, like many others, reminded me of you. I don’t know why I can’t write about you, even though you have been the most important character in my life for the past months, even though I’ve written about people I care less about, even though you are all I could think about sometimes, even though all songs these days are reminding me of you, even though I have around three unfinished posts of how I need to let you go, and I still can’t write about you.

I could barely write the five sentences above, even though what I am feeling is not little, and I have never felt this way towards anyone, ever. I’ve never felt this free towards anyone as much as I do with you. It makes so much sense to me, but it won’t to you; it makes no sense to you, and it upsets you, and I understand that.

You called me weird last week, looking straight in my eyes to see what I might react to that because we both know what you meant by weird, and I just shrugged it off with a smile.

You called me weird when you wanted to say: “your words used to contradict your actions, and it frustrated me. Now, your words and actions are the same, and you’re pulling me in, and now your words and actions are contradicting you, what you have told me before, how you have acted before, and you are just so weird.” But I understood that. I understood all of that, and you knew I did, even though I just looked at you and smiled.

And then you told me I over exaggerate when I tell you how important you are to me. We were talking about this person that annoys me with exaggerated words, and you told me: “but you do the same when you tell me you care about me most,” and I told you, “but I am not exaggerating. I am not telling you you are the most important person on earth; I am simply telling you that you are the most important person to me. And I mean it, whether you believe it or not.” And I mean it, but you don’t believe it, and I don’t believe that it is my fault you don’t.

When are you going, to be honest with me? I know you like me, you know that I know you like me, and you’re skeptical of how I feel towards you, but why can’t you tell me you still want me? I know you do, but I need to hear it from you.

I can see your jealousy radiating at different times, like when I showed photos of my old close friend, and when I asked you if you know him, you said: “I don’t, and I’m glad I didn’t.” And when I talk about other guys, you either stay very quiet or light your cigarette and walk away. I see you; I see you liking me, and all I need of you is to say it.

And I know you’re expecting the same, but I can’t say it because I don’t even know how I feel, so that it would be unfair. There was a time where I wanted to tell you everything, where I was too selfish. I didn’t care that everyone was telling me it would be stupid and that I would hurt you, but you kept shutting me out, and I know I can’t say it anymore because you gave me the time to think and rethink, and I can’t say it anymore. See what happens where we’re not honest? You even told me: “you’re so honest about everything, except the few things that you will never say. You are so weird.”

Anyway.

I will be creating a new category called “Memory of You.” This will be a series of moments I have lived with different people, describing the events and how they happened more vividly- to a point where the person might even know I am talking about them if they are reading. In each post, I will talk about a different memory with a different person where the memory touched my heart, a memory that still lingers by.

I have so many of those; I am already thinking of five different persons I would like to share a moment with here. It will be fun to write, and I hope it will be as fun to read. x

For now, I am talking to you, flirting as always, and now you are not replying. Come back, and stay, per favore.

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I am so very much in love

I am in love. I am in love with the wonderful world we live in; with the ebony night and the washed-out days and the godly mountains and the soft breeze brushing my cheek without consent. I am so in love with this feeling of idyll, of living in a world so ghastly, of the obsession we have to stay alive, to survive amid chaos.

I am currently in the middle of nowhere. I am in a well-known town, but this cottage is in the middle of nowhere, and a cat just ate my food and spilled my drink on the white lace cloth lying on the perfectly carved table, and my feet are cold, and I am feeling lightweight with a mild headache, and I am absolutely in love. 

It is so drastic to love something so ugly. To love a world that shelters starving children, orphans, poverty, to love the beauty in the very ugliness of the world.

It is selfish to be sitting here, on a holistic swing playing with my hair and planning to stay awake until sunrise, while death lingers by in every cracked window and every leaky roof.

Yet, I am okay; I am well. I am so grateful for the world we live in, for the beauty in the souls that pass by us, for the behemoth pain and euphoria that we must live through, for every moment that crossed us, for the way I feel drinking my coffee and laughing to the insanity of the whole universe we live in.

It is so inane, yet so relieving, to be able to see the world as it is, a real-life adaptation of Alice in Wonderland. And then there are these sweet and vile moments, moments that make heartaches go away, that feed our blood ecstasy, that make every single broken memory, totally worth living.

How lucky am I? To be able to have a Monday and a Tuesday off for a post-weekend getaway, contemplating ways to survive the rest of the year and thinking of the life I led, with pride and a lot, a lot, of shame.

I’m reading a novel written during Lebanon’s civil war by one of my favorite authors, and I felt an urge to share my happiness with you. I know I do not do that often-share my happy moments-and I am forever sorry for what you have to read here, but right now, you need to know that if I’m on drugs, I would probably not have felt this high.

What else?

I cannot wait until I watch my Grace Kelly and Bing Crosby movie tonight, after sunset, and before I find myself asleep on the couch. I will be of course binge-drinking coffee, but we both know I will be falling asleep by 12-ish.

Also

I have been obsessed with this song the whole summer, it is so enchanting and raw, and everybody should be listening to it. It reminds me of love, of quietness, of happiness. Give it a listen, will ya?

“if i knew what
safety looked like
i would have spent
less time falling into
arms that were not”

Rupi Kaur, Milk and Honey

I hope you’re having a lovely Monday-or at least trying to (:

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You were good to me

You were good to me; I promise you this. You came in a time of seriousness and added to the absurdity of everything else, and I am grateful. You came to me with greed and left with the only parts of the sun I like, which aren’t many.

I want to leave, not because you are bad for me or because you hurt me, but because I will hurt you. I do that, usually, and sometimes I am aware of all the hurt I am causing, but I don’t mind because it feeds my ego, and I like to have you always around, so I don’t lose any of the ego I barely have.

I want to leave you because the more I stay, the more I feed your love to my satisfaction. I will become addicted to your nice words and obsessive attention, and I will give you just a little to keep you hanging, and I will indulge in the lust of attention with nothing but apathy towards what you feel,

But you were so good; I give you this. There are very few people that have touched my heart, and you are one of them. I cared for you; I really did. I did not expect much, and I barely even noticed when you were around, until that time when you shined in a crowd, and you mainly chose to shine in front of me, and I saw you differently, and I hoped you were healthy, and you were.

But it’s time to leave now, and you know why. It’s getting too volatile, and we all know how I get when all the things are precarious. I run away, and you would hate me then, and I would never want you to see me less than how you see me right now.

You’re safe, and I like that, but I am afraid you’re going to become too safe for me. I am afraid of myself when I am around you; I am afraid of what happens after you become my only safety, so I’ll leave, as long as I still can, it’s better for me, it’s better for you, I promise.

But thank you, I will not forget what you did for me.

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I haven’t read a book for so long

I’ve probably started with a book (or five) the past year and did not finish any, and to be honest, the last book I fully read was in June 2020, and I am so ashamed. I can feel my language weakening and my words becoming less appealing, and I miss the feeling of wholesomeness when reading a beautiful book, but I haven’t, for over a year.

“Between pain and nothing, I’d chosen nothing.”

The past few months have been a rollercoaster, I honestly did not have time for anything, and I have not been alone for a second. Right now, as I said goodbye to my dear loved ones, and I sunk into my empty bed, with the cold AC breeze hurting my skin, I am alone.

I used to be a bookworm, I read all the time and anywhere. I would read a book, finish it in a few days, take a break for a week from all the emotions that linger after, then start with a new one. It was my life, to live in other writers’ worlds, feel feelings that aren’t mine, get consumed by the rush of events and excitement. Nowadays, I am too overwhelmed with my own messiness to live anybody else’s; I have ignored the one thing I loved: reading.

Right now, in my hole of loneliness, I am craving the books, I am craving to feel anything but my feelings. Right now, as I suffer from major separation anxiety (as expected) I cannot but remember my favorite book, the one book that describes loss at its best, the one author that describes loss so thorough that it’s too painful to read that I often found myself hugging the book and closing my eyes because the emotions are just too much to handle.

“Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second-hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me.”

New Moon, Stephenie Meyer

You’re probably judging me by now, because you have seen the movie, or because it’s trendy to hate on Twilight, but I’m telling you, you did not read the book. You honestly do not know written pain if you have not read New Moon. I was 14 when I first read Twilight, and I specifically read New Moon more than 20 times, reading and rereading the pain of Stephenie that remains as anguishing as the first time, she describes what it feels to lose:

“It was a crippling thing, this sensation that a huge hole had been punched through my chest, excising my most vital organs and leaving ragged, unhealed gashes around the edges that continued to throb and bleed despite the passage of time. Rationally, I knew my lungs must still be intact, yet I gasped for air and my head spun like my efforts yielded me nothing. My heart must have been beating, too, but I couldn’t hear the sound of my pulse in my ears; my hands felt blue with cold. I curled inward, hugging my ribs to hold myself together. I scrambled for my numbness, my denial, but it evaded me.”

New Moon, page 105

This. Exactly this. This is what I feel whenever I lose my close ones; the hole in my chest is surreal that sometimes I feel like if somebody opened me up they will literally find a real hole twisting within my ribs. It’s fear adding to anxiety, I cannot lose people and move on. I avoid music I used to listen to when I was with them, I avoid our common places, certain streets, mutual friends, photos and videos, anything that reminds me of the someone that does not exist in my life anymore. I even avoid them if they tried to reach out, their memory is more powerful than them itself and I protect myself from it all.

And I feel pain inside my guts. I feel the monsters waiting for me to sleep only to wake me up in my most moment of comfort to remind me of what I have lost, to remind me that even though I will find happiness again someday, I will always lose the people I love most.

“I worried- late in the night, when the exhaustion of sleep deprivation broke down my defenses- that it was all slipping away. That my mind was sieve, and I would someday not be able to remember the precise color of his eyes, the feel of his cool skin, or the texture of his voice. I could not think of them, but I must remember them.

Because there was one thing that I had to believe to be able to live- I had to know that he existed. That was all. Everything else I could endure. So long as he existed.”

I will go back to reading again, I promise. Hey you, be a dear and recommend me nice romantic novels that also tackle mental health-preferably depression and loss-that is so compelling I would sniff the pages when finished. Yes, this is the genre I chose, no judgements please.

(I hope you never lose a loved one.)
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My friends are coming over today

My friends are coming over today – Sorry for not posting as much as before; I think starting today and until the end of summer, I will be writing less. I can write when I’m happy and sad, but never when I’m agitated, and summer is where my agitation devilishly thrives.

I finished all my to-do lists today, with extra chores assigned for later and I finished a deadly deadline before due time ;), and I still have 15 minutes to spare. I could go home early, sulk in the ‘spring warmth,’ and prepare for my friends coming over for iftar, but I thought to barf some randomness here.

The thing is, in Ramadan, I never know if what I’m feeling is really what I’m feeling or if it is the effect of lack of food. I know that in the meantime, I’m not really a big fan of work, as the hours in Ramadan seem doubled and tripled, and right now, the one day at the office feels like 56 hours.

I know that I’m thrilled to see my friends tonight, even though I saw them on Saturday, and even though I don’t see them as much as I used to, and as much as I want, I love them beyond words.

They are the only safety left for me amid all the uncertainty, throughout all my fears, worries, and inane dilemmas; seeing them has always been the escape from the world I live in, and I am grateful they are still in my life, or at least most of them.

One of them is now in Canada, so we usually Facetime her whenever we’re together, and we talk about the most random of things and laugh at nothing in particular. In these times of insecurity and feeling like the biggest part of my life is falling before, I long for their presence near me as they are now my only sense of grounding.

What are we having for iftar?

I’m glad you asked! See, two years ago, I invited the same friends over for iftar, and one of them requested kibbet batata. My mum made it, and he loved it so much! Ever since, every time we are invited to anyone’s place, they always make him kibbet batata, sometimes even for breakfast. This year mum thought to break the habit and make kibbet banadoura 🙂

Other than that, we’ll be making Cajun chicken pasta, which quickly climbed its way to one of my favorite food, and kabseh (rice), along with the usual appetizers. Also, my mum makes the single GREATEST zucchini soup, but every time we tell people about it, they all have that same ‘yuck’ expression on their face, so what we will be doing today is that we will encourage them to eat this green creamy soup without telling them what it is, and after they love it, we will disclose the truth!

What else?

Well, I remain forever grateful. I thank my God for the life I was given and the people I have in my life. One of my close friends is an artist, and he just finished a huge memorial for the victims of the Beirut Blast, paying tribute by hand-drawing their portraits and giving them center stage in Downtown Beirut.

I have been supporting him with the project since January, and yesterday, he went live on TV to say that because of me, he did not quit, and he actually went with it after my insistence, even though there were so many times where he was hesitant.

I am grateful to be part -even if it’s almost negligible- of the impact he has created for the families. I am grateful for the minimal impact I may have on the world. I am grateful for a world so beautiful, yet it lets me live within.