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[27-r]

I created a whole scenery the moment I randomly stumbled upon this image— I truly thought was mine. This is how easy I manipulate my existence, I can easily be (or deny!).

I ran the image through an AI style transfer model to stylize it as a Munch’s. 

#AI

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How nice it is of me to be writing to you, when you’re not writing to me.

Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Vita Sackville-West c. July 1927 (via violentwavesofemotion)

to be writing about you. 

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I was laying on the ground-- outdoor, (I have probably lost my consciousness); I woke up to a strange feeling. It was the afternoon I recall. I looked up at the sky -a bit scared- wondering why two red moons are perfectly aligned? 

[27-r]

A passive white confetti celebration-- 

#self portrait #27

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The Joys of Forgetting II

This is not the blog intended, but rather a sudden moment of realization. A friend told me:”I don’t want to get used to a certain person (you), in a certain mood.” When I realized I get very quickly detached from anything that once was a routine or even-- a ritual; objects or subjects, things or people, they all go to some sort of memory abyss. As much as it seems that I’ve never ever been truthfully honest with myself and them-- because of this abrupt detachment and fierce recovery-- I say, truly, I keep the ashes of what’s left in a sandglass-like heart. Imagine.

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Summer? My memory flutters — had I — was there a summer?

Emily Dickinson, from a letter to J. G. Holland featured in The Letters of Emily Dickinson (via violentwavesofemotion)

Her-idea-- is comforting.

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Moods and Life

I've achieved more when I was depressed rather than delighted. Life to me, the definition of it, was -and still partially is- a continuous achievement (singular, one and whole). I knew it would be only reshaped soon, I looked up for that. As I passed through life, I rarely ever knew what an achievement tastes like, I’d smile, but once my jaws were tired- I’d start to question how valuable this is.

“I don’t do what I don’t have to do,” as practical as I was, “what I have to do, I do quickly.” always on the run-- hasting to a place I knew it wasn’t Here. As complex the paradox as simple my interpretation: choose the best possible choice. I saw through the multiplication of things-- existence was a form of unity, once I was able to clutch the chain and follow the clouds pace I would walk my path as I'd supposed to do.

[27-r]

Post Privately

Is it contempt that's in your eyes or maybe the gaze of mercy?

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The Joys of Forgetting

“She had always wanted words, she loved them, grew up with them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape.” Is a quote I had on my wall in an old intimate room of mine. Back then-- I had an issue with choosing the correct words, I was- and still am- precise with my choices, but I went on a phase with unstoppable fuss when I had to express, explain and vomit my brain in an instant. But I walk the path slow and carve the meanings just as quick, or else- I’d step-- which I had, harshly.

After that, I stopped both writing and talking. I detached myself from my surroundings and went into an absolute fantastic isolation that I’ve appreciated until this moment. And it’s then when I pursued reading to finding the yet-to-encounter nouns. Nouns shaped my memories like molds. English, as a language, gave me the freedom of dashed-structures with which I could cheat if I once lost a vocabulary. I was in control. 

Years later, I wrote naively and without a lot of concern: I want to be a poet. Literature, I could barely pronounce that word but I kept this note in the back of my head. I was still struggling with writing-- I was going into infinite loops. I was aware that what I write is whatever I carry in my heart. I felt compelled and defeated. I knew myself courageous and strong, but I demanded a new memory. I had what I asked for, I freed myself of that endless rollercoaster. They say:”Be careful what you wish for.”-- indeed. 

Now that I owned a vague and foggy memory-- darker, but lighter in weight, I had the capacity for new traumas. I had my heart enlarged, I couldn’t fathom how enormous it could grow up-- but the more my heart enlarged in size, the more it amplified in words. I was scrolling on Twitter when I came across a piece of an essay titled: The Joys of Forgetting. It was translated into Arabic and the name of the author was incorrect, but I had to get my hands on the original paper. For the first time in forever, I was on the run to find it-- which I did. Odell Shepard, in his essay, expatiates about the matter from which I quote:

“All music and pure poetry, it seems probable, are drawn up out of oblivion. The common stuff of every day sinks down there, lies for a time “forgotten,” and then is brought back shining, as the sand-grain comes from the oyster a pearl.”

I have reread his essay couple of times until now, it is something I rarely ever do. But when it occurs-- from time to time-- I’m sure my unconsciousness found something to clutch on. This blog is the first of a series to unveil what my mind grasped and I yet have to discover. 

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“Everyone has a starting point-- sometime in their life.” 

-- 2015