It's all dull. Is it normal to feel so completely disconnected from one's surroundings? I sometimes tend to get startled by this place. "Startled" is perhaps the understatement of the century when it comes to a country like Lebanon. I have a hard time remembering where I am and what I am even doing here. I don't recognize the people like I used to, either. I'm not absolutely certain what I mean by that. I suppose I once felt I could reach out to others unbeknownst to them; there was a
I am not even sure why exactly I am writing any of this here. For one thing, it's not as though I expect many people to encounter it. For another, realistically, not many have a sincere desire to peruse the misery of others and I can already say there is nothing uplifting about what I have to share. I am also not the sort to do share much of anything, least of all my deepest thoughts and concerns.
And yet, here I am.
I was once a very active member of PerC. To look back
This is the first poem I have written in months. I owe it to a very special group of people who have inspired me with their honesty and support: @Maybe, @Vergil, @Flatliner, @kaleidoscope, @Kelvin, @lolthevoidlol.
The voices from across the sea
call to me: When? they cry
while I lick the salt from the shore
of my lips.
I have recently been dabbling in different mediums, trying to find the most suitable one for me that would bring a little color into my drawings. I think at some point in the past, I had given up hope and settled for charcoal and graphite because when trying to use soft pastels, I would mostly use black and red. If you have ever used soft pastels and are the kind of person who likes to get your hands dirty, you would know that your pastel-covered hands like to get everything else dirty as well.
Concrete monster of a mother-
land: the headless Leviathan.
Shame for me to know no other
home, no soil of a different shade.
What soil is this? Ragged, jagged
memories of man-made glory
digging into my bare heel. The
beauty lost with every story
that sinks into the street, swallowed
by the war that rages even
now. I would have sighed and wallowed
but my eyes are none the wiser.
What beauty lies in memory?
What could these