A French diner, smoking a cigarette, flirting with the woman next to him. Casually speaking a language that makes me high, makes me forget where I am, makes me float. His words are incomprehensible to me, inexplicable, vague, blurred like a foggy window. But I find the foreignness of his tongue attractive, seductive, mysterious. I envy his power to speak so fluently, in rhythm, in balance, a perfect meld with the universe. I envy that he sits there, smoking negligently, speaking in beats, like a song that rhymes. I want to sit with him, smoke with him, listen to him speak, misunderstand, become the smoke that he puffs, evaporate. But we are far from the French man. It was a moment that passed, a moment I will never get back. He is still talking to the woman who understands him. He has dropped his cigarette, crushing it with the sole of his shoe.
The first thing I think about when I wake up is coffee. I love the smell, but I mostly love the comfort it provides. It makes me forget what is happening in the outside world. It makes me feel okay. It reminds me that I am alive and that I have a lot to be thankful for. During the day, I edit web content. At night and on weekends, I sing and jam with a guitarist. And somewhere in between the day, I write. I write about my immigration to the States as a child. I write about my father growing older and my fear of losing him. I write about the common loss immigrants share. What I would like to achieve mostly is to become a better person. I like to help make the world a better place. I am bothered by poverty and homelessness. I am bothered by inequality. As a woman growing up in the Middle East, I naturally became a feminist. I care about women's rights, their ability to voice their thoughts, to sing freely. I love connecting to people. I love hearing their stories. If you have an idea for something I could write or something I can do to help, or if you need music for a small gathering, please message me. View all posts by Elle