Scribbles

  Ms. Neama, I am aware you are off the outline of sanity with my storyworld fantastic fantasies, yet I am still bedazzled if you care to reconsider my disposition. Now that the world is beyond our minds to bear, I fear your systematic poetry will put us apart, or wait…we are apart anyways. A story’s pilot and finale do not meet just like two successive pages, so I believe the distance should not act any…well, propagandistic. From my Ashraf-Marwan-standpoint, I am not sure anymore which party I play along with. You see, Ms. Neama, we could listen to My Way and raise a glass or two or take the world down through our dim short-scope perspective. I am still on my determination to see people less diplomatic by their nature to direct any platonic political party. Sometimes I wonder why you judge me for seeing the world as a losing chess match. Isn’t it a player on a mission to win, lead, take, control, conquer, rule, steal, kill, and most importantly act as a comedian on a rough stage w...

  If you think about it, a story is a dimensional cage where characters created by the author are trapped. Their ignorance that they are some systematic words put in between the lines is what holds the trap, dimensionally speaking, altogether. As so, when the characters become finally aware of what their lives have been for the years is a moment of misery. The feelings, the actions, the desires, the intentions, and the flow of character are some word(y) nonsense marketing the reader’s attention. Who’s the reader? Who’s the author? At this point, this does not matter because if you think about it, life at this point is a dilemma of no choice. You are either forced to be a protagonist in a story you never really liked, an antagonist who is not necessarily living up to a villain’s career, or some side character left to complete the system or, in our case, the plot. Imagine a world connecting at its core to this idea, a world of the millions of stories ever written all connected; a sto...

I have always considered the difference between the president and the performer. Both stand to please the crowd; a suited player, who speaks the wisdom of nonsense calling for peace while setting worlds bizarrely on a Shakesperean drama tragedy, and the other; a joker setting the cards of play into clownery of action thinking that the sky will fall when the applause stops. Both are, by far, thinking that the crown is validated for them. The only difference is that one of them is hiding the happiness that comes after fooling and the other is fooling to make who is watching happy even when hiding their broken soul is not a choice. Ever thought of standing in the spotlight? What costume do you wear? What role do you play? Sometimes, it is not even a choice of cards. It is the only left card and it is that you play to the faith or just accept an early loss. But when the spotlight hits, this is exactly when we fix our makeup, draw the smile, show the raised heads, look left and right for tr...

  Mr. Ebenezer, I have fallen to the same curse. I thought that the dystopian clerk(y)-dramatized society would at least leak by throwing the past off a cliff. Except for, it didn’t. Perhaps, it’s the wrong cliff, or maybe it’s not even one. Still, that doesn’t jump off my senses. Did I throw the past? Did I get over it? Who does? The ghosts of the upper world in a carol game are themselves stuck warning us about the world falling. You won’t learn–the yet-to-come amigo will tell. But I read your story, and your book is a good metaphor after all. This is when serotonin hits. I didn’t throw the past, but instead, I jumped myself. But who’s talking anyway? That’s the shifting chapter where you read the first and last two chapters of a book. Still, we, humans, are always reading the book inversely. Beginning with the drug(y) happiness and ending with the least impressive similes. Pause. Hush. Not a word. Jump. In the Dickensian era, we represent the three hopeless ghosts. The Cliff who...

Disconnected the world sliced I see. I am trying to take over, and despite the fact that I have all the winning cards, I keep losing. Even when I win that–indeed nonsense–battle, I sometimes lose myself.  Threw them off a cliff, threw the outdated past, and gave the world my back. I ended up with a bent back, giving my head to the ground, and wandering thinking that every protagonist goes through the choice of letting go or the choice of jumping off a cliff.  I never thought I will end up sitting on the edge of the same cliff I once used to feed the seas with the very attacking thoughts I kept in a book I question its existence. Perhaps the scribbles are too much to carry. What a present we live and what a book each one carries on their heads. Records to destroy, books to rewrite, pictures to repaint, streets to rename, dates to alter, and clefs to replay. At least, that’s how a dystopian puts it. I think looking down is never setting my dystopia to a closure. Welcome to the g...

  The one moment when you feel absolutely nothing. When nothing really matters anymore. You just zone out and everybody disappears. You're not dead, but you are tasting a peek. This is just when you are about to jump off a cliff, but the beauty of the scenery saved you. What's past is prologue. Read fast, this won’t last. I hear voices. No, I hear noises. Perhaps, it’s the traffic. I find it less fantastic. I go with the rhymes. Dear night dreamer, I have lost to my poems. I brought wisdom to your tragic melancholy. You, with your framing cloak, have twisted the plots, have made up the chapters, and have written a novel I would describe as a good music taste but linked to a deaf man anyway. The past is nearly a cliff. Everybody wants to jump. Who does escape, escapes both the past and the clef he was meant to listen to. I see an instinct of a living man who tries to paint the world with the black of his dull sick vision, to show that his darkness is more lightened up than other...

I thought that we are our own life’s protagonists. It feels logically sensible, but it’s not I suppose. I remember that bookstore visit. It felt, for some reason, like a sunflower field catch-up-in-the-air picnic, except it was less bright and more vivid. How far am I willing to go? I guarantee nothing but the world. That dead poet wanted his epitaph to speak wisdom, it did not make sense for the rest of those wearing black that sorrow and the less ability to comprehend took over their minds. I did not interrupt. Still, I was curious. It said happily despite the melancholy that filled the scene, “Tram ahead. Heels down. Heads up. World beyond.” I guess that along the journey of preparing for your epitaph and finally deciding one, we face protagonists, even for our story. It feels absurd that you are not always winning the credits, but in your story, you are not always the only hero-man, are you? Are any of you? The night was silent. The human lives were up, but the stars made them vani...

I think I left a trace. I am not sure if I went too far or the Atlantic is that gleamy. It feels strangely like a kid's will of battling the world for some joy considering how much you put on sale. The one time when you do not necessarily fight for your own interest but for someone you owe nothing. Hit off. Shut your consciousness down. I want your awareness to disobey its lord. Let your senses away. Forget about the keys. What do you need these for? These are not regulations. Welcome to freedom. In a dreamland, your will is mostly dominant. You do not mainly feel the power but you own it. You are never asleep here. You are still eye-opened but daydreaming. You are off the grid, where the sun leaves the duty but it is still burning light, where you wander ahead but it feels right, and when you lose sight for the one scene you keep repeating. It is basically a dream but you are still awake. This is when you are happy.

You see, I am not entirely aware of every move these dudes are playing. Stocks going and they are competing for the cozy amounts. Well, thank you. I am here to buy them all. I get this is quite unconventional to introduce my position in such a manner but it is only to grab your attention. Let me filter the deep(y)-ocean-philosophical lines these amigos have been using for their black and white. I am not a monk and surely neither your shrink nor your cheezy-uncle-man coach. Listen up life, I know you might be wondering. What makes a protagonist leave his position and trade it with peace? Let me tell ya. We are all having our pleasures, dreams as they call them, and quite the need to find a purpose. Some are chasing. Others are hiding. Many have majestically no clue. Thing is, we are all stuck in a circle. Once you dare to leave it, you lose. Smart you are to stay, the circle keeps shrinking until there is no circle to stand on. An inevitable loss. Not that smart you see. If you would as...

  Split the focus, the bartender, considering the drunk audience for a man who sees the difference but stays silent, told me back then. A story of two crows. A chess mentality but with less solitude. I was still curiously sober waiting for spring hoping the engagement comes to an end and to the fool listening to jazz under open skies, it was winter and both crows faded to the same fate. Maybe you lost track. Maybe it was not jazz. Maybe the bartender was drunk too. You can never tell. Man’s mission is to choose not to obey as even if one did obey, it is mainly part of our own belief that this is what should be done. Troy and they did it to annoy. Helen and she was seeking heaven. like that star of the waning summer who beyond all stars rises bathed in the ocean stream to glitter in brilliance I remember the last night as I went to that sunflower field. I came into a man playing sax and he looked me in the eyes and as I went closer, he kept whispering. It was a moment I could never ...

Off we go. Rising to paradise. I do assure you were easy to convince for quite a journey of nowhere else to go. I presume your never-ending pleasure for a smile is because of grief or perhaps loss. I barely figure out the difference, but they are different in case it boots up your engine. a man who has been through bitter experiences and travelled far enjoys even his sufferings after a time Oh. Uh, that is quite an odyssey. Never knew you do any talking, and exceptionally when you do so, you go with operas. I am into those thin lines myself and man, we have all read Odyssey, and those who did not actually live it. men are so quick to blame the gods they say that we devise their misery but they themselves -in their depravity- design grief greater than the griefs that fate assigns I see you have chosen and made your sacrifice, but isn’t it time for a rest? A time where there are no odysseys to read. You can make your own escape but if that is to do, then none of us to live peacefully. I ...

Grandma, I am dramatic for some reason but forgive me, I have set your fields on fire. I guess I did not but it almost got you, I suppose. You are expecting me of a rogue young woman who could burn the world, which is a perfect move of you to presume, but I will not, at least, for now. On an adventure of that yellow nonsense field, it begins I guess.  two different states of presence two different states of joy, if that exists The world is one huge journey, and I would like some company. Not at any cost for the less of human capacity but for the lack of them currently. In? We might need to hurry up, your flowers will not shine all day long, hero-man. two vast states to handle two vast states to walk together On a walk, I would like to understand that making sense of actions might not be the most logical for your overly optimistic smile, which I am not playing any sarcasm about, but we will need to understand more about your background. Perhaps, you using perhaps, is what we need to...

Jealous of how clueless about what he has missed. It is clear now that the manipulation uncovering the magic tricks of a crazy man is filled with irony and regret. Haunting the light, and it is all a prison. Perhaps I have made enough damage, at least, for myself. Convincing yourself with the dilemma that every protagonist is all to himself is quite a lie I never expected to say, but who to notice? From there, the conversation went, for a man with infinite possibilities for a beautiful quiet closure, and that is when he found himself across a sunflower field, centered with a tree of no cause. Moving seeing the grey, and the yellow burning sun, which is why, he only could see less. Manipulate less, hope is a weak medical potion back then and the tears filling the face, hiding from the crowd, with a crown holding the identity of a man who never let go of the dream but has been stupid to the question. Despite the ongoing losing chess match, a man of scribbles that once were his light and ...

Oblivion to a bad dream. Is it a dream? Perhaps a vision that every end we all fear, is one that asks for your less concern as if you did not manage to manage, the world will set apart to a broken life that once never had any demands but to feel the breeze after a conspiracy against the homeland. The wandering made itself to a city, one of lights, and full of them for the diamond-looking humans stalking in the innocence of not paying the slightest of attention. He made himself to a musical, where the outsiders are glitches to its pattern-system. One, he did not imagine to exist but it seems to do. In the flow, the more you feel the field, the more it grabs you inside. Open doors, and the fantasy of a clef is just no myth. The world that somehow managed to survive even through the struggles, even through the mess, and perhaps even through the time. The man, that once left his sunflower field, to the opera house that a promise was given for a hurried departure but for a non-forgiven nigh...

The news is out, crying zeroes, poor kid, had lost his sunflower. They, of the speaking, predict that his actions are more likely random, and the high road he would put himself within, is a way out of his world but not mind. This world, as he presumes, is quite less of a chess match, it is less despite the consequences that pieces do die after all but any of what is different, is likely and uncommonly, a miserable metaphor humankind has drawn to burden those who care less for the detail. Those, who are too late to the mind battle where you just fight nobody but yourself. A state of two states, a speaker and another speaker but surely one is tongue-tied and one is drunk. On a decision to set every discussion to closure, that the awkwardness and bittersweetness of those lines are to left us stalking, if, at any case,  you are the sunflower. Walking by, scared for how shattered that arrow of hope was hit by a bow of pain. Nevertheless,  misery in the eyes of a dreamer. A curse in...

When you criticize your own metaphors, that you are sick and had had enough, is a moment where nothing is really validating to whatever scale with whatsoever context. The one moment where one man standing for the given punch of flowers and when it is all settled, out of the blue, the flowers go on fire and the soul is burnt out - this is when the city that never sleeps, dies of light. At a glance, the scene where the world is in your hand is one big fool fantasy that you become vulnerable to weakness. That pain where it is not mentally physical or even mentally a thing to mention but more accurately an inner monologue of fire inside. The pain is silent, or it might not be, because, at that moment when the clock stops and when every little motion is in deep closure, you are deaf. A second later, the world strikes again moving on with such motion that a question goes, did anybody say anything? As long as it goes, the stars are now dim, and the music of hype that jazz used to sound is jus...

A sweet painter to her artwork that I act a fan, and by the end of each day, I would take her along the city. A mastermind musician her tones flatter me, and for holding the happiness, a rebellious beautiful who I never expressed before but how to leave a sign where the smile lets you forget to breathe. Through the highs, we would climb a mountain that the world is beneath or just watch until each cloud disappear, and through the lows, we would walk along the streets that the world is above or just continue a lifetime until a wall stricks so that we can turn and get back. Moving to a quick dream, asleep drunk ocean-floating city, a man of nowhere for his funky tones with a nonsense instrument or could be the darkness, that we dance randomly thinking it is a dance of class but it is only two jumping to their dreams. One little museum walk, could steal a piece of art, could be you. No matter how much they vary in worth, you are the one artist, and you are the most piece of art that no mu...

The fences surrounding a garden are not necessarily existing to keep who's inside but commonly to prevent any of whom is not. The massively alcoholic lego pieces protecting the sick protocols playing geometric perfection. Even if, could some imperfections living to their flaws create a tone of a material they are not made of? As a man acting some Hemingway to save a 1919 scene where the back story of a farm is only a historic event of which existing; so would you care for less detail? Cuba, feeling warmth but the Philippines as a cool painting of some blue nonsense as for the brush, a crazy rushing hand, and for the naïve eyes, a mastermind of how argumentative. Speaking of hanging colors, a green of which dark woody―a mountain or perhaps a volcano with some icy coverage for the glazing part. The windmills conquering Florida with some pink flamingos. About the east lands, a clear red over a copied blue; perhaps a mistake for a brush, but seems like connecting states. Next show, a m...

For the upcoming Pisa, of what it looks, an adventurer has nothing to do with an escapee. Plenty of them playing diplomats of truth for the interest of some Sheskperian black Plato if it does still exist in your knowledge of culture but if it doesn't, it existed daydreamers. Not a variable but a shadowing mindset cyphered to some historic nonsense but you didn't believe previous tragedies so which you buy after all? Chaos is a simple equation, and before the train leaves, if the nonsense of the disclaimer of order does take place, then reasoning, math, logic, sense, and the Philippians cutting the apple of Magellan with a poisoned arrow would not be real. Pissed off theories, mad for some odd worlds: a four-sided triangle going on a rogue trip with some infinite ambition. Cap of the Galileo Pascaling Forces aiming for the parasite responsible for the loss of system. Theory of which Newton proves Einstein's ignorance; even if, business framing education would cover up to kee...

Material of whom it's for. For the vacuumed clean structured hilarious metaphor for how small. Eye for an eye, in a world where falling is a thing or just a must of commitment. As if speaking real, could it be a method or perhaps an influence? For the empty, or what looks empty, a floating jasmine for waving shocks. The common dream of closing the book of purposelessness for a thing of culture or maybe an experiment. Looking nihilistic is a solution for the wrong question whatsoever. The deal and the bargain are clearly for the record of trying not to lose a move. Of which it seems, rushing blood or a tone if it's alright but no matter for what it is, it's for who it's for. The legend goes for some adventurers with a monopoly of land for the sake of good. Creating a land that is different as for the eccentric tiring Pisa. Painting the deaths of its blood is a crime for the man but a perpetuation of the sad murdering violin for the history of a checkmating era. Siena die...

This is a new update for the weak scenariors I am used to. This is I where I leave a sign. This is where I take care more than anytime before. Leaving a sign that speaks of how unvalid you are will set everything to a quite closure. Introducing me, or, us. A young man, or, young men, discovering the world, changing perspectives, committing mistakes. Maybe young can still judge our mindset, but I, or, we, are being shut and casted away. Anybody will disvalue the procedures, and despite your efforts, you are still way too far from shutting me, or, us, down. I, or, we, might be wrong but having a discussion about it will change something I, or, we, guess. The world has evolved for little humans like us. The vivid image of quiet happiness is vague in my, or, our point of view. This is from me, or us, to you, the old. We are here. We breathe. We run through time or the opposite just as you. We might not see the clearest picture but still, we have predictions and expectations. We might not s...

  The innocence a victim acts should let a murderer suicide. I consider the world beneath disorder, with its sirens night and day, with the clown-y corrupt parliaments and perhaps with its busy businessmen playing protagonists to every accident that was meant to be. I am sick of getting tired. I am tracing myself, packing my hope with its last drops. I am questioning the facts that let this world go so dark to afford. I am questioning the facts that let this life go so rogue to obey. I am questioning the facts that let me breathe for now, though the mutual hate. The fall of Icarus was meant to happen as a marketplace for every disposed of, desperate soul but for me, the administration control center is franking-ly falling apart already. Losing control stocks is causing destruction full of disappointment to my infrastructure. I have always wanted to be a protagonist but young me considered everybody as a common role with a plan-b if you are wondering my old naive perspectives. I nev...

Mr. Whoever, I declare that the alphabet is no longer a part of my learning career, but rather a tool to express the cage you have politically designed. A lifetime of questioning whether if I deserve what I get through or is it just a loop where I always lose no matter how much I try? I learned to stay shut for the record, as how the sirens filling me, no much attention I get. Perhaps I am not loud enough, or perhaps screaming is a norm for humans for some malicious updates. A life filled with nicotine of what I never imagined to breathe. A life filled with hate of what I never imagined to picture. A life of me hoping to leave, not the cage, not the world, but the life. Speed action, and for the tearing of an eye, and for the tearing of a heart. I was told to keep pushing chapters, but I was wasting my years for the expectations of having the key for the lock holding my cage. Mentioning the lonely little man, facing the worlds as nothing but an ordinary day of a man to be holding an up...

The dreamland of a closure set to every mind battle is much like screaming in an unfolding war where no matter how much you scream, the lost cause is obvious for many of the blind. Looking bizarre but in a war, every soldier is not really representing the land but mainly the continuity of a running mind. Moving pokémon, but the falling sky is one for all. By the walk, you get to notice that the loss is beneath consideration. The wandering soldier, facing the world seeking change but a little man for the vast cosmic vague crowd is all alone after all. Holding weapon, tight, as how triggered for these framing your fingerprints. Of a sudden, something, or, someone, is spying poison but it's a death wish for what it feels. Touch the glass, green light for an upcoming twist. The mind as it seems, is a walking machine, blending thoughts, manipulating the stereotypical framing process, and most importantly, glittering the overdose for a no-sleep potion. Resting the scene, the soldier is g...

For a drama reader, a tragedy is just another bold move for the writer’s mind but for the protagonist living within the scene, it’s just chaotic sorrow added to a life everybody was forced to live. I guess that’s another failure added to this gambling process and I presume I own the cards but have no intention to play anymore. I guess it is all interests but for me, the tiresome play is already predictable, and I see the Shakespeare tragedy productions had already let me down. I guess I have got no other options rather than living it with much concern to the responsibility that I already know it’s a lost cause. Blurry this world for some of us but I am plotting as a Brutus, I am betraying as a Macbeth and I promise I won’t be deceived again as an Othello. The stereotypical events are repeated, and I secretly decided to connect the codex of every scene that I comprehend the cipher for the upcoming tragic world. Being the protagonist doesn’t represent any other stories but my own. I now ...

  Thinking about the world’s criteria of what change really means feels ambitious for a man theoretically changing the perspectives within a topic of study but also, feels bloody hell as by which Ron Weasley would prefer to describe for a man hysterically beginning a hellfire within a sky raining nukes. I presume ambition is a blackmailing process, where it drives you somehow to the wrong moves within a life-chess-game but for the humankind, we are not a bending-time dominance. We are dimensional to the facts, forced to move through a path we depressingly call life. Though for some, this is the only explanation for the capability of still breathing, but I don’t find it any correct. I see the world big for a little man’s dreams who is trying toughly to fit in any kind of happiness or success. Decisions got me an order to roam every day in the deepest points I can reach in my mind that perhaps I find a purpose to follow. I presume as a vector trying to breakthrough this corrupt agenc...