On a particularly cold November evening, we stood outside in a circle, holding candles, mourning for the Palestinians who had lost their lives. I could feel the numbness of my fingers as I held my candle. I felt numb inside, desensitized by a world that killed and murdered, all under the name of justice. One of the mourners read the names of the dead as we stood in silence. The wind came and we lit the candles a second time. I was thinking of the dead, of the little boy of six who lived a life too short. And I thought of peace, the peace that has failed to exist in this paradox we call life.
Maybe there will never be peace. Maybe there will never be justice. But candles will be lit and people will silently fight.

The aftermath of the rain was pleasurable, a sweet escape, a peaceful, silent, sunny illusion. I was on my way home, inside a tiny bus, quietly reading. The boy in the blue shirt was now resting his head against the window; he too had been bewitched by the tempting sun. I closed my eyes in an attempt to sleep. I too wanted to be caught in the spell; I too wanted to be the sun’s companion. My attempt failed and so I continued reading. The story was too bizarre and strange. I decided to abandon the unfinished story and began looking outside the window where everything was beautifully painted a light yellow.
In the aftermath of the rain, the sun mesmerizes those who willingly get caught in its web of dreams and illusions. I am one of those people and I would like to remain captive.

He is probably right. I have indeed become a fiend, an addict, stubbornly, selfishly looking for ways to please myself. I indulge myself with coffee and tea, with music and dancing, with writing and reading. Sometimes it is only my imagination that makes me delusional, unrealistic, illogical and irrational. But in a world of harsh realities, I selfishly find happiness in being irrational, in being a spoiled, little caffeine fiend.
In a writer’s imagination, stories happen, amazingly woven stories that become too tempting to resist, too tempting to let go of. Perhaps my addiction is to what I like to call my imagination, to the dreams that I am forced to abandon once awake.
No one has told me to stop imagining and I refuse to stop. I will continue to live with my addictions, my imaginations, my world of irrationalities. And I will write because I am an addict.

In the midst of violent winds, mild rain and shattered leaves, we celebrate her 33rd birthday. “This is what I call autumn,” she says, smiling. For her, this is the perfect birthday, one under the falling rain. I decide to abandon the sun, which defines my ideal day. Today is her day; let it be as she wants it. I look at her, at her beauty, at her charisma as a young, sophisticated, wise woman and I admire all that I see. And this is my happiness.
Inside her little house, we blow candles and cut the cake. Mother and father celebrate their daughter’s independence, her achievements and successes. They stand by her, as they have stood for 33 years, cheering her, supporting her, loving her unconditionally. For them, this birthday is a birth of new changes, new beginnings. Now that she is living under her own roof, they will finally let her go.
We leave her as she washes the dirty plates and coffee mugs. We leave her as she listens to the rain, pours another coffee, remembering its aura, its fragrance, its taste as these will be the first of new memories.
Another birthday came and left. There are many more to come, and until then, I will count the leaves, watch the rain fall, and hope for sunny mornings.

I wish Daddy would ask me how my classes are. I wish he would ask me what I enjoy the most, what I enjoy the least. I wish we would sit on the couch and talk. I wish we would talk.
He drives and I watch the road. I tell him something about school and he nods, watching the road, tightly holding on to the wheel. I do not know where to take the conversation, how to end it, how to move on to something new. So I stop; he has not said a word. I have known this man for 18 years and yet here I am, unable to speak, unable to find words. We are strangers who love each other, who watch out for each other, who read each other’s eyes. He loves me as I am his baby girl, and holds my hands, and smiles at my silliness, laughs at my childishness. Would I be asking for too much if I wanted him to talk to me, to advise me, to scold me? Would I be selfish if I wanted him to take me out for ice-cream, for a stroll in the park? Daddy’s words are silent. I have learned to accept his silence as his approval and disapproval, his hello and goodbye. I have learned, like any good little girl. But I still wonder sometimes. I wonder when Daddy and I will talk.

Breathless, panting as she climbs the Stairmaster, Nura looks over her shoulder at me and says life is hard. I play with my iPod, changing to my favorite tune, then look at her and say, “no it’s not; it’s simple. We just like to make it hard”. She disagrees. “Look,” I begin. “It’s true. Life is simple when you know where you’re going and what you’re doing. But when you start building expectations for yourself, when you start wanting to live up to high standards, when you start wanting to please everyone around you, that’s when you complicate things.” She thinks about it, climbs one more step and decides that I’m right.
Climbing the Stairmaster is a challenging task, one that requires patience, strength and control. There are times that you feel yourself losing momentum, and you begin to fall behind, almost on the very last step. But then something inside you makes you move, makes you take two more steps and then you are fine. You have control. You are at the top, gripping your hands tightly on both sides. You begin to realize that it really is simple, that once you know how to pace yourself and set your speed, the task is possible. That’s how life works. If you balance it out, if you take little steps and climb within your limits, it’s simple.
We finish our workout. It has been a long, torturous day, full of routines and expectations. Nura and I sit down, changing into fresh clothes. We are going to take it easy.

The world around me has become a single unit, with one shape, one form. Objects and subjects have become one, united. I have to separate them, push them apart, analyze them piece by piece. My empty cup of tea is a part of my room and my room is a part of my mind and my mind is a part of me. Everything has integrated and become one. As a writer, I must break these integrations, these intrusions; I must look at each piece on its own terms. A true writer never runs out of subjects or objects. A true writer always finds new things, new passions. A true writer takes the ordinary, the old, the mundane, and makes it beautiful, makes it new, makes it speak. A true writer writes.

She moved out today, with her belongings neatly packed into a red suitcase, her house key tucked securely in her purse. She looked happy; I think I saw contentment in her eyes for the first time in two years. Mom and Dad helped her unpack in the tiny basement room that she rented in a lovely little town house. The neighborhood is nice and her neighbors seem friendly. The guy next to her is young and apparently good with tools. Her landlord said if she needs help fixing things, she can ask this fellow.
Some of her things are still here. There are books she has to pack and the rest of her makeup utensils and her green skirt and winter coats. I am trying to remember them so I can think about them when I miss her or when I feel lonely.
She is probably drinking coffee right now; black coffee in a mug, checking her email, writing a short piece on her blog. She will turn off all the lights because she enjoys the darkness; the night makes her happy. I am happy thinking of her in her own place, waking up to her own sun, sleeping with her own moon.
I will miss her candles, her obsession with tea and coffee, her love of the rain.
Good night sis.

The elevator opens and I get off. The lobby is full of little kids who go to elementary school. Their bus comes at 8:10. It is 8 and I am getting agitated. The world of children is too complicated, too stressful. I stand aside while they scream and yell and run. They wear cute outfits that their mothers happily buy for them. Pink and flowers for the girls, blue and animals for the boys. One mother is pregnant; her three other kids are running around in circles and I get dizzy watching them. One of them, the little one, is an adorable little girl in braids. She comes close to me, smiles and I smile at her. Then I don’t know what to say so I ask for her name. She doesn’t answer because she is too little to speak. I can’t think of anything else to say so I get up and leave.

The two men on the bus were speaking pure, flawless French. I stopped reading the words in my book and listened to them talk. It was sexy. French is just sexy. They spoke and I didn’t understand a thing. So I tuned them out and went back to my book.
Then the two men began to laugh in French and I was curious again.
The French men got off the bus two stops before the Vienna metro station and I went back to reading. I had no interest to listen to anyone else’s conversation. The blond in front of me was talking too much and the guy next to her was nodding. The rest of the bus was quiet.
I missed the French men.