Sometimes I think I lack imagination, that I’m too caught up with reality, too caught up with knowing how to live the right way. I day dream to an extent, I wonder, I fantasize, but I have no imagination, no talent for creation. I look at Toufi’s art and it’s surreal, fascinating, complicated, imaginative and beyond my understanding. I read my previous posts and I think, Gee, you are so full of shit, pardon my French. You write in verses, trying to be deep, trying to go beyond yourself, trying so hard to write the everyday life in such a beautiful, poetic verse that is not even real anymore. I used to think I was big back when I was 15. I used to think I’d get published and have a book by the age of 19. I used to think I was great. I used to think I could make up a story, bring fiction to life. I didn’t think it would be nearly impossible with my lack of imagination.

I never get tired of writing. But somehow I feel like my pen is dying. I feel like I’m a child who pities and whines and finds life dull. I feel like I’m not living fully because my writing has become one big, messy garbage with a bit of icing on top, a kind that makes it shallow and pretentious.

I like realities. Sometimes I get mad at the person who made me like them. I wish I had a creative side, a story of sorts.

I sit here in the dark while they sleep and I think to myself, God, you need to write, you need to because you are getting wasted. You are lying here on the couch, wasting away, failing to see the world around you, the way you used to see the world with your damn sense of honesty, the way you used to talk about freedom and moving to the great America and how it made you great. You are failing to speak from the heart because your heart isn’t talking anymore, because you are wrapped up in something bizarre that you don’t even know about, because you want someone to hand you a set of instructions and say, here is where you go next. You think you are a good writer, and deep down you secretly believe you might even be great, but you wake up and you realize the pen is dead, the page is unwritten, and coffee cups and cigarettes are getting way too redundant. You realize that, in fact, you are not living at all, you are just sadly wishing you were so you could tell the world, hey I know how to live. But the truth is, you are still a coward because you never did anything out of your limits, you scrutinized yourself so well and learned to take every easy path. You avoided every highway because you were too cautious to speed. You avoided a get-together because you were afraid of being the only stranger. You avoided certain atmospheres because people didn’t know you. You avoided everything you wrote about; you wrote about everything to make yourself feel confident and brave. But in the end, it was just a load of crap and you knew it…

It’s getting late. Toufi is asleep. My eyes are getting weary. I’m thinking I should go back to therapy once I get back in August…Then again, the only one who can help me is sadly, me.

Until a later time when I feel rejuvenated by the mere fact of existence,

Little traveler

I was not prepared to see European size coffee cups, though I must admit that it suits my stomach much better. So, I indulged a petite cup of Belgian coffee, felt rejuvenated, and went on observing others around me. Sheri talked about the importance of politics, and I realized that maybe politics isn’t so bad, that maybe one should concern oneself with the problems and catastrophes of, not only the third world, but this world as well. It was a pleasant evening; a cool, chilly wind swept across the tables and made me nostalgic for the sun. Okay, so I also want to wear my summer dresses, but I really do miss the damn sun.
I never suffered from insomnia, but here I am never tired enough to sleep the nights. Instead, I write, out of pleasure and self-indulgence more than anything else. I also think happy things like a child who’s been given candy, or even better, a dream toy. It is the silly thinking that gets me through the nights. I also just realized that in my previous post I clearly declared that I would not think, well, the hell with that, I am a writer, what else am I supposed to live on? There is no anti-drug for the addiction of my kind.
I don’t like formalities all that much, so I am rambling because I can. I am not 15 anymore; I’ve lost that sweet voice of innocence with which I used to write; I’ve lost that touch of honest amateurism that made everyone happy. I am honest now and sure I am still learning, but I also can’t be all too poetic about freedom and the lack thereof (Is that even grammatically correct?) I am 19. The world is pretty damn real, no joke. I see it different now. I see it as a contradiction, a pun on words, a sarcastic joke. And I know I can’t make everyone happy. Therefore, I’ll get right to it: I am a writer who is living reality by writing it and if my words don’t ring a bell, then so be it…
Until a later time when I actually have significant tales to recount,
The little sleepless traveler

The Belgian clouds hover over us like cotton candies. The winds blow mildly, gently, as if to say time is yet ample. The people go on about their day, in serene smiles, happy or neutral faces, and for them time perhaps matters. But for the traveler, time is distilled under a cloud of ideal utopia, from which rises only the purest form of contentment. It is in this utopia that the traveler walks, eats, breaths a new sensation, an irrelevant, but beautiful, dreamlike illusion of perfection to its highest degree.
I wonder though if the ideal is inevitably temporary. Or rather it is the mind that has the power to accept anything as ideal. I believe the latter to be true…
Until a later time,
The little traveler

It is nighttime here in Belgium and I am in the mood. The sights have changed since the last time I sojourned. The house is new; the walls are painted summer colors of red, green and yellow. The veranda is warm and welcoming, sunny and happy. I am happy as I rest on the yellow couch, typing away after yesterday’s misery in the airport when I sat through an eternal-like five-hour delay.
I walked in town with Toufi at lunchtime, learned some French and found myself pleased. There were handsome boys prancing about with their cool hairstyles. Among them was the boy at the Café whom Toufi and I saw to be boyishly cute.
After our little afternoon delight, we headed back home and enjoyed grilled chicken. I had good appetite, which I take to be the European effect (excitement of walking in new, free air where one is bound by nothing, not even the language).
But who am I to speak, for I am only a tourist, bound to be happy with new findings and tastes. And whether it rains like a madman or burns like hell ( we are waiting for the latter to happen!), I will blissfully watch and stand in awe because I can be a stranger and not care to blend in. I can be a stranger, and still feel a transformation within me, a happy reincarnation. I am not exaggerating, nor I am being dishonest. And despite being advised not to use words such as honestly, truly or even my favorite of all, simply, I simply feel like accepting this new state of bliss. I should also add that for once I won’t think, that I will raise my glass, and say, cheers, for there is much more to be seen…
Until a later time,
The little traveler

I drive in the rain; I get scared because I fear that I won’t see. I get scared because if the rain comes any faster, I won’t know what to do. But it’s slow; I am okay. It’s going to be fine.
I watch the purple, yellow horizon right across from me. What I see is nostalgic, a little blue. I was out with Jean minutes before. She is getting bigger with Starfish in her belly, but she is a beauty. She has big eyes; I can image Noah will have the same kind of eyes. I helped her unload her baby-shower gifts and bring them inside the house. She showed me all the little clothes, bath products, stuffed animals for little Noah. I don’t know how to describe the nostalgia I felt when I watched the horizon, the feeling of missing something.
Jean and Starfish are leaving for North Carolina; they will start their life there, live and sleep under one roof. They will love each other and their love will surmount a love of any other kind.
It’s a beautiful night. There are no stars, not even the moon. But it’s beautiful. You can smell the drenched air and feel it in your veins. Starfish is sleeping with his mother’s lullaby; his mother is sleeping and the words die down until only a gentle whisper remains. She whispers “I love you” to baby Noah who has huddled himself under her belly, sleeping with night’s lullaby.
I wasn’t scared in the end. The wheel took over and I let it take me. Then, I realized that I was alone. Starfish was gone and I could no longer see the road because the night was dark.

The house is melancholy, silent, dark and heavy. My father lights up the kitchen and in an interlude between night and dawn, begins his day. While the rest of us carry on the ritual of sleep and dreams, father leaves, locking the door behind him.
But it is the interlude that matters:
The smell of toasted bread penetrates the hall as my father prepares his morning meal. It is six a.m. and my father is eating a delicate, timely breakfast. His work attire is arranged, almost too fittingly on the couch, ironed, with not a single wrinkle or stain.
He has arranged the table neatly; it is safe to assume that his habits fall under those of a perfectionist’s. Above all, he is strictly conventional; with every breakfast, there is first a glass of hot milk, served with wheat toast, jam, honey, and cheese, followed by a hot cup of tea.
Growing up, I have always awaited my father’s return, awaited his calls, his voice, his smile, his turning of the keys in the lock. I have gotten used to his place, his state, his ideal morning and lunch meals, his habits. I have learned that he does not demand, nor does he have many wishes. His wishes are not grand, but the happiness of his children, a life of sweets and trips to Europe, gatherings and celebrations. I have learned that behind his content eyes, there are many stories that have not yet been told, that if you sit by him, he will recount some of them.
It is the interlude, the middle of beginnings and endings, the pauses and breaks that matter. It is within these precious moments that little things happen and make you aware. In the sweet escape of night, the interlude, my father finds his contentment.

It is quiet peace, the ocean, the sand and sun. A kind of peace I cannot find elsewhere. Under the sun, hidden beneath the sand and the sound of ocean, there is no room for repentance, no room for doubt, or thought. It is this kind of peace, irretrievable yet transient. It is a contradiction, this peace, deviant and unavoidable, a sort of trap.
Followed by the descend of seagulls, a warm, wind blows, drawing the sand to our bodies and faces, urging us to sleep, forget and be forgotten. Somehow, all becomes too easy and sleep becomes a beautiful sin. Is it not sin to be completely unaware of your existence, to give your mind and soul to the ocean, to step out of your body and walk in the water, to taste the salt on your tongue and drench yourself in desire? Is it not sin to weaken, and give yourself away to the waters that so temptingly allure you in?
But these are purely fiction, words of the imagination, for in reality, there is only the soft sand, the earthly sun, and the ocean that stretches beyond your understanding. The reality of life becomes this picture, and the mind and soul become one. When the two unite, distinguishing between fact and imagination, between reality and fiction is impossible, even pointless. Why should you stress the mind when there is an ocean bigger than your dreams stretched before you? Why should you have to decide when nature has defined itself for you?
I am lured into the water. I walk in it, barefoot, and watch the waves as they knock on rocks and shells. I have everything before me, and I am one with my mind and body. I need not to understand what is before me; I need no reason for the contentment and satisfaction and eagerness I possess. I take joy in this sin, in knowing I have all that I want, in wetting my feet, washing away the guilt and remorse I might have had in some time past. I wash away everything bad and negative, and sinfully inhale an erotic air of intoxication. The waves come and go, returning memories of childhood. I am a little girl, standing by the ocean with my little companions. We shout to the waves, “faster, faster!” We beg and sing for the ocean to bring us its strongest, biggest, fastest waves. It is a simple wish, and yet important. We jump in happiness and gaiety when the waves do come. We are happily frightened by this magical show before our eyes.
The wave is gone; I am back to my state of being. I have forgotten childhood once again. I stand, facing the everything that sparkles. In this zone between reality and fiction, I can be in peace. But once I step out, once I feel the sand, once I walk away, then there is a pen, and everything else is too real.
Someone calls my name.
Before I part from the everything, I see a little boy who makes sand dunes. He is incognizant of what is before him, of the everything he has and will never have again. He is happy in ignorance because he knows not of loss, or remorse, or pain, or jealousy, or cowardice or desperation, but of a joy that is his only, a joy of having little feet, little hands, little toys when everything else is big and frightening.
I have been called. I part, my feet feeling the burning sand. The meddling air of reality enters my lungs. My body feels one thing; I have yet to find my mind…

I stared at the baby. She was perfect. Her father bounced her up and down on his legs, played with her hair and kissed her cheeks. I could only stare, for I was just a stranger, observing a scene.
I am a stranger, most often. I watch what people do to see what makes them happy, what defines their ideals, and what makes them smile. The father, who held his beautiful baby, had a sincere, happy face. He had the most content set of eyes as if his world had already been completed, filled.
In observation, I sometimes become envious of such beauties, of a child’s innocence, ignorance and oblivion. I envy the simplicity of an infant’s world because mine is complicated, and because my oblivion or confusion cannot go disregarded. I do not know what I envied most, the father’s contentment or the baby’s candid, beautiful oblivion.
And in that state of mind, or being, I left them. Once I left, I was back inside the sweltering car. I felt neither content nor disappointed, so I started the engine, and drove off, thoughtlessly.

It rained the whole day, from when I first awoke to when I felt the need to sleep. It rained and I was left in misery. And now, when the rain no longer pours, when everything is silent and the grass fresh and green and rejuvenated, when the sky no longer cries, I know not of what I intend to say. Maybe my only intention is to fill this empty page and in it find some sort of comfort. Maybe my intention is to fill the emptiness inside of me, the longing of what, I do not know.
I have no desire at the moment, but to fill time with something. It is not to remedy a pain, for pain has no remedy when you do not know its source. Nor is it to feel better, for I am not finding any of these words a source for my betterment.
God, for I think there is one, I cannot speak and am useless without words. Why not let me speak and write tonight? Why, when it is all that I know how to do, when you know it is the only thing that saves me from eternal pain and anguish?
Life is a brute, swallowing me like a hungry snake, tormenting my soul, killing my pen. Oh the pen! Without it I am none, nameless…Not even air!
And you my dear reader, I know what you must think. That I am selfish, writing in first person day and night, whining and letting the brute devour me. In that you are right. I am selfish, most certainly.
But let me be, for I have not yet learned.

He was a good father. Matthew Dempsey was a dentist, and a husband to Kat Taylor, his high school sweetheart. Their son was four months old, with copper, brown hair and teal eyes. Little Jacob was the love of their life, the happiest thing that happened to them after their marriage, the thing that brought them closer, and offered them genuine contentment, the kind that many of their married friends lacked.
Mat had Mondays off along with the weekends. He spent his Mondays with Jacob, taking him to the park in the stroller or to the nearby swimming pool where other parents brought their kids. Mat was a good father, Kat would always tell her girlfriends. He never took eyes off of Jacob, never forgot to read him bedtime stories, never put off giving him his night bath.
That Monday, the 11th of October, Mat left with Jacob for a swim around two pm. The air was hot, humid, agitating Jacob. At the pool, Mat took off shirt, revealing his new tan from their beach trip, and his abs; he worked out rigorously four days a week. Jacob had his father’s good looks, his eyes, his straight, thick hair, his dimples and his smooth jaw line. The two were a perfect replica of each other.
He held Jacob up in his arms. Jacob gave a little laugh, making his father laugh along. Mat loved Jacob’s laugh and the smile that was much like Kat’s. He walked across the pool, his son firmly in his arms or around his shoulders. They were both content. The water was lukewarm, the sun shining above them with a slow, warm wind that made Jacob giggle. The kids in the pool sometimes slowed down to watch the little boy as he screamed out of excitement. They loved him; the women were especially pleased with the beautiful sight of the handsome, young father and his sweet little boy. They sometimes wished the two would never leave.
But at a quarter to three, Mat and Jacob always left. Mat wanted to give Jacob his afternoon nap. He also wanted Kat to see him when she came home from work at four, right when little Jacob usually woke up.
And in this routine, the two made their life work. They were content with what they had, and with Jacob nothing was ever ordinary. Everyday was a new day for them; one day, Jacob said Mama, another day he pointed out a dog. It was not a perfect picture because there never is such a thing. But it was the best the three of them had together, the best dream they had ever dreamed of. The sum of everything they did might have been a ritual, ordinary and uneventful. But it was not the sum that mattered to the Dempsey’s; what mattered was when they made love because they simply wanted to; what mattered was the simple life they had built together in a little neighborhood in Connecticut; what mattered was Jacob, a miracle baby they thought they would never have after too many miscarriages; what mattered was their love and hunger for each other. There was no need for perfection when they had it all. There was, simply, a satisfaction too immense to define.