I see myself in a garden, a heavenly garden, with the world’s most colorful flowers… It is so ecstatic it could blind your eyes. I am strolling around smelling each one. They are all unique with smells that are beautifully distinguished… and yet, I feel more and more empty as I smell each flower… Like an absence reinforcing itself with each aroma… until I end up in a place where the garden seemingly becomes flower-free. I dazzle at the clear vision of nothingness, a certain void that for some reason dizzies me. All I see is one flower weakly yet bravely surviving on the famished ground, but it looks as if it’s been there for years, decades, maybe even centuries… It is plain white, the white of dreams and complete happiness… I walk around it in chaotic rhythms, and as I stare at the field with no colors, flowers, or life, I find myself. I feel complete. I smell the white flower; it smells dark, intensely dark… devoid of sweetness. My body trembles. Some sort of magic is around me, I know it. I am drunk like a fiercely flowing river, full of life in a place where the only sign of life in sight is a flower that’s hardly being sustained by its own roots.
One wonders…Why would a soul feel empty in a field full of colors, yet completely whole in a field with nothing but a struggling white flower?
Dear… behind every vivid mask lies an empty soul, and behind every pale facade lies a soul full of colors.
In less than a decade, barbarism has taken over Syria, breaking it down to its core day after day. The horrendous torture network in Syria is killing inmates in detention facilities and military hospitals unceasingly, after being repeatedly tortured and systematically deprived of food, water, and any medical care. The most widely used methods of torture include necklacing, sexual assault, mutilation, boiling, and denailing.
A recent Amnesty International report described the Sednaya prison (military prison operated by the government of Bashar al-Assad) as a “human slaughterhouse.” Unfortunately, much credence is given to this statement; for instance, Mohamed Abdullah, who was held in Sednaya prison for a year, expressed the following to The Washington Post: “As Syrians, you grow up hearing a lot about torture. You hear things you cannot imagine even a psychopath doing. They did all those things to us and more.” Furthermore, as stated by Sarah Chynoweth, who was asked to report on sexual violence against men and boys in the Syria crisis, psychotherapists specialized in treating torture survivors in Jordan expressed to her that “torture was designed to inflict deep psychological pain that disrupts one’s sense of self.” I could not refrain from being astonished by this inhumanity taking over the world, where violence is not only practiced in physical form, but over and above that, in an unrestrainedly psychologically destructive way.
According to the Syrian Network For Human Rights, 21 individuals died from torture this past October alone, 20 of which died at the Hands of Syrian Regime Forces. Even children are subjected to torture, as many are detained as suspects for being linked to armed groups.
Sadly, Syria has become a torture chamber for its own people.
Even in today’s “modern” world, tragic tales seem to be relentlessly trespassing on reality land.
It was almost midnight when a snowstorm hit the village. Every living creature took shelter; animals in their grottoes, humans in their dwellings.
All… except for her.
There she is sitting on a bench, cigarette between her purplish fingers, eyes closed, trembling, breathing into frozen air as if it were her first time taking breath, or maybe her last… The snow is covering her figure as a mother’s womb covers a child…
“Are you trying to kill yourself lady?”
She opens her eyes, no one’s there. The stranger must be behind her. She doesn’t move one muscle or respond, closes her eyes again, thinking it must be an auditory hallucination caused by the severe cold.
“Lady. You alright?”, he utters as he places his hand on her shoulder.
Her body finally reacts, her soul awakens. Eyes wide open, she swiftly stands up and turns around. She’s not dreaming. His touch was real, so was his voice, and now his strangely angelic presence facing her quivering body. She wants to say “I’m fine” but the words never leave her mouth. Instead she’s just standing there staring at him, amazed. They are both somehow entranced, looking one another in the eye, eyes that seem to have found home….
Minutes of infinity later she asks:
“are you God or man?”
“for you I’ll be both”.
But I don’t want to be normal.. even if I can be. Whatever I keep losing by being different is no loss.
Take me as I am or walk out the door.
Free yourself and others by speaking your heart, but more essentially by “being” your heart.
Whatever you’ll express and be will either draw solid walls or break them.
We’re not all meant to click together, smell the same odors, feel the rareness of magic.
Do not fear rejection, fear the mask.
Searching for the cure to your wounded soul? Climax on being who you are.
Maybe it is true I am just a lie.
But hearing that doesn’t make me cry.
Because what if nothing is real? What if existence feeds on its illusive nature?
Sometimes words write themselves down like the heartbeats in our shattered hearts.
Don’t ask me who I am. I am far from knowing the answer to that myself.
All I know is that I love dreams.
I love white and purity.
I love love.
I feel everything so deeply.
I … was born to be free.
Facing peculiar paths, I wonder how I always knew they were mine to take…
The little girl got to the garden… It was too clean and clear, not even one sign of color or flowers or anything alive… Just plain green all over the space… Nothing but grass, sleeping grass… But she felt that there was something there that was worth finding… She just couldn’t see it… She kept wandering in the garden all day long in vain… till she got so tired that she fell asleep on the grass.She had a dream… In her dream she sees a shadow. The beautifully shaped shadow smiles at her, yet the second it almost touches her hand she wakes up. Only to realize that it’s dark now… and surprisingly, it is always in the dark that we find what we look for… She saw that there was a light coming out of somewhere in the garden… She thought “could my instinct be right after all?” The terror of the darkness was so suspenseful that she couldn’t wait to reach the light… What is it and where is it coming from? The closer she got to the source the more blind she became…
Closer and closer, there it was, right there: a fallen star.
She was staring at her belly.
What’s in there? She wondered.
A little angel or some fierce desire?
Where was she anyway?
Next to whom? All alone?
Ah there he is. That man she had shared a bed with the night before.
The moonlight steals a light from her soul, making its appearance.
As the young man approaches, she wonders if he is hers.
“Sweetheart what’s wrong?”
She keeps staring at him, as if he were merely a silhouette, or a visiting spirit.
“Honey, please say something.”
And yet all she could do is look into his eyes, searching for something she cannot quite find.
He sits on the bed next to her, tears climbing up his eyes, seeking release.
What can he possibly do? He thought and thought. No clue.
She is still staring at him in the most violent way there is.
“My love, come back. Come back to me.”
She’s thinking about the day they met, the moment this stranger pierced her life and left a mark untraceable and yet untamable.
Something, somewhere, sometime, was immensely engraved in her heart, images of this man chaotically plugged into one vein, the only vein that is left of life’s memory.
Hopeless, he decides to close his eyes for just a minute, desperate to grasp the key he needed tonight to get his woman back.
A shiver from down his spine up his throat utters:
She swiftly smiles, taking her eyes off his, sheltering them in her palms, exhaustedly relieved; then says:
“Paul… It’s you…” She had to start crying otherwise the world would end.
He grabbed her hands, his face finally lit alive, and kissed them both passionately.
“Your words can heal a whole world’s drunkenness.” She murmurs into his neck. “Your eyes unveil the universe’s hunger for love”
“Our love.” He interrupts.
Words float out of her mouth, “Now hold me. Hold me before the sun goes up again and all that matters drowns within life’s ills. Forever is now. Forever is us.”
He glances at the moonlight, doubting that the piece it had taken from her soul really was a loss after all…