A conversation with Someone: The Common Ground

A strong gust of wind blew out of nowhere, slamming both of them against a huge rock at some distant shore. He scrambled up to his feet while she stayed on the ground, too stunned to do anything but shake the dust off her eyes. He looked around, seeing nothing but shades of blue water all around.

“Great!” He said, wringing his hands. “We’re back where we started!”

“What do you mean?” She replied tentatively. “Aren’t we supposed to be inside your head?”

Him: I thought this is your head. You’re the one with the dreamy shores and happy fish jumping in and out of water.

Her: No, it’s not me. I’m afraid and uncomfortable, and my mind is my comfort zone, this can’t be it

Him: Great! Then we’re now stuck in the middle of nowhere, thanks to you!

Her: why do you always have to blame me for everything?

Him: because you’re the one always thinking and complicating things!

Her: Well, someone has to do the thinking and obviously you weren’t capable of that

Him: of course I wasn’t, how else would I have gotten involved with you!

She gave him a look that was more of disappointment than of anger, then she turned her face towards the sea, frowning bitterly and shuddering in the cold wind. She didn’t seem to notice the sea, she just didn’t want to look at him. He felt a storm of guilt tearing through him. He walked over to hear, took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. A tear rolled down her cheek.

Him: I thought you’d get used to my attitude and insensitivity by now but I was wrong. You have all the right to hate me.

She didn’t say a word, and they sat in silence for a few minutes before she finally spoke.

Her: I don’t hate you.

Him: Then, why did you push me away?

Her: Because I don’t want to hate you

Him: Okay, consider this a death wish since we’re stranded on a desolate island and all: for crying out loud say one thing, just one thing that makes sense… for a change!

Her: You really don’t get it? You really haven’t figured out yet why we’re here?

Him: I don’t even know where is “here”! Enlighten me…

Her: You see, I’ve been doing much thinking lately, and every time I reach the same result. There’s one place we can be together. It’s a world where common interests don’t matter, where you don’t find the things I like boring and I don’t think the things you like are ridiculous. It’s a place where you’re all I want in this life and nothing else matters. It’s a place where dreams and emotions reign supreme and rational thinking has no place. It’s a place where our minds and hearts meet in perfect harmony, and that place is here!

Him: and what makes you so sure of that?

Her: BECAUSE THAT PLACE DOESN’T EXIST

His eyes widened, and he felt like his feet couldn’t support his weight anymore so he fell to the ground, leaning on the solid rock behind him.

Her: And I knew that if I gave you a chance, it would most probably be a very short-lived story that would end with someone getting hurt and both of us hating each other’s guts. I thought it would be easier to nip it in the bud.

Him: But… but it wasn’t easy. I was already in love with you. The harm was already done. And you loved me… didn’t you?

She looked away, saying nothing.

Him: I see this is more than just a rhetorical question to you so I think I’m going to need an answer.

Her: Well, I said I don’t hate you, but that doesn’t mean I love you. I have never loved you. Never…

Him: You’re crazy, you don’t know what you’re saying

Her: No, look… I liked you so much. I loved the way you made me feel, I couldn’t stop smiling whenever you said something out of care and jealousy, but love… love is a big word, love is what’s left after those meager sparks go away, and it just wasn’t there

Him: You cold bi…

Her: Hey! Let’s not judge here, because if I remember well I’ve never given you so much as a flicker of hope. Ever since I felt you had feelings for me I’ve been trying to push you away, but you just couldn’t let go, and I didn’t want to hurt you…

Him: What do you care about me getting hurt? You said you enjoyed having me around so why couldn’t you just let me be until something new came your way!

Her: I couldn’t do that to you. I guess I’m not that selfish

Him: I wish you were more selfish

Her: then that wouldn’t be me as you know me, and perhaps none of this would have happened and we wouldn’t be here now

Him: But that’s unfair! You didn’t give me a chance

Her: I can’t, you know why? Because you’re a charmer. If I give you a chance that means I could forget all about this and throw rational thinking out the window and then we’d be stuck in  a relationship that is, more likely than not, doomed to failure. I knew better than to give you a chance…

Him (with a surrendered look): Why do you have to think of everything?

Her (with a tender smile): I told you, someone has to do it. Unfortunately for you, I’m too rational. Or maybe fortunately for both of us? Well, I have to admit I did have my weak moments, like when I bought you that necklace I never gave you. Now you know why I never did, because I came to my senses…

Him: I wish you had more of those moments…

Her (her smile widening now) : You’re a piece of work,  you know that?

At this moment a ship arrived at the shore. She got up and walked towards it, still carrying his jacket over her shoulders as she boarded the ship

Her: I have to go now. You should too. And I’m gonna keep this (she tapped her hand on the jacket)

He didn’t say a word, as if he wanted to let her last words to him sink deep into his memory, undisturbed even by his own voice, and as he looked on at the ship while it disappeared in the horizon, there was one thing he could think of: That ship has sailed.

LAYLA… 2

(2)

 

Every morning, I would wake up to the sound of my sister Noura going around the room, searching for a certain piece of clothes in her messed up closet, and throwing stuff around as she did. Sometimes my mother would come in and start scolding her about how messy the room is, but she would only look at her impatiently and turn back to her frivolous work. In fact, my sister’s unspoken insolence was worse than yelling and swearing; because it left my mother hand-tied. Those glances were rude enough to kindle my mother’s fury, but never a good excuse to vent that fury through something more indignant than slamming the door.

 

In fact, my mother’s indignity towards Noura started right from the day she was born. Being her first born child, my mother was so enthusiastic about the idea of motherhood and had often imagined the moment of birth, and asked that the baby be laid on her chest the moment he arrives to the world. There was no question in her mind she would love that baby – be it a boy or a girl- unconditionally. But all those dreams were to be shattered just moments after she brought Noura to life.

 

Right after the birth, the midwife rushed out of the room to carry the good news to my father, although at that time many people still didn’t believe the birth of a daughter to be a very pleasant thing. Yet, to the midwife’s surprise, my father showed extreme joy and rushed to the room to see the baby and check up on his wife. My mother was sitting in the bed, holding the yet unnamed baby close to her chest, with a shy smile of her face. He approached her, took the baby between his arms and kissed her on the forehead.

 

“What are you going to name her?” My mother asked enthusiastically, not knowing that the answer would create a life-long rift between her and her daughter that is in no way her fault; for of all the names in the world, my father decided to call her daughter after the first if not the only woman he’s ever loved, Noura.

 

Noura was the daughter of a rich man who owned some acres of land in our village. They used to come to the village from time to time to relax in their estate away from the city. My father used to work in their farm, and over a series of visits, both their hearts started to beat in harmony, even against their better judgment. Typically, her family found the prospect of their marriage quite outrageous, and believed my father to be nothing more than a gold-digger. Few days later, word was out that Noura’s family sold their estate and all their properties in the village, and left without leaving any trace. Nobody has ever heard anything about them ever since.

 

I always believed that what my father did was one of the worst mistakes of his life; for by naming his daughter after a woman he once loved before he met his wife, he deprived a woman the unquestionable right to love her daughter, and created an iron barrier that would be very hard to overcome. Ever since my parents married, my mother has tried hard to convince herself that he forgot Noura, and tried even harder to be the sort of wife that would make him forget her. Many times I would hear her seeking advice from other women in the village on how to win him over. She even inquired from those who knew Noura back in the day how she looked like and what she was like. She was desperate to win his heart and had always thought she did until that day Noura came back to their life, to reside in their home, share their bedroom and take a part in all their dreams.

 

I have no doubt that my mother tried to remove the connotations the name carried from her mind, and that she tried to love her daughter as any mother would. Yet, it seems that she couldn’t overcome the idea that, by naming his daughter Noura, my father was manifesting his love to another woman. A woman whom he knew long time ago, but whose love managed to stay alive in his heart over the years, notwithstanding all his attempts to subside it, or maybe not to.

 

Although my mother’s sense of reason wasn’t enough to avoid her hard feelings towards Noura, it was enough to contain them. And despite all the bitterness se felt, I have never saw her doing anything so much as slapping Noura on the wrest. Yet, she couldn’t hide the resentment she felt towards the living reminder of her husband’s long cherished past memories.

 

On the other hand, my father treated Noura as if she was his only child, and spoiled her to the point that I would not hesitate to say she grew up to be conceited and self-absorbed beyond all limits.

 

Probably this has given my mother enough reason to be so fond of me as she was when I was born 7 years later. But it wasn’t only because of this. After my mother had given birth to Noura, she had 3 miscarriages, 2 boys and a girl, other than my twin brother who died at birth. So, after all those losses that left her spirits broken, I was there to console her. Not only that, she also named me after her mother, Layla, which made me even more special to her. Seeing the extra love and care my mother showed toward me as if I was her first born, Noura was flaming with jealousy. She would sieze every chance to slap or bite me. The fact that Noura was already an over-spoiled 7 year-old child by the time I was born didn’t really help. Being aware of the situation, my father tried not to show the least bit of attention towards me in Noura’s presence. And since she was too attached to him and following him around all the time, I hardly felt he was my father at all. Thus, we both grew up like two orphans, each one missing a parent.

 

As we grew up, Noura has given up beating and slapping me, but she would jump at any chance to insult me or make me feel inferior to her. What made things worse is that even when Noura was 16 and technically turning into a grown up woman, my father still treated her as if she was a jealous 5 year-old girl. He wouldn’t let my mother do anything to punish her for whatever she did to me, and tried to make it up for me by giving me some money to buy sweets. My mother was getting fed up with her everyday, but she knew there was nothing she could do, or maybe she felt that she shouldn’t entirely blame Noura for what she turned out to be like. Yet, I’ve always felt she was hoping for a chance to vent the anger and frustration my father had caused her for many years; maybe one day she’ll get to reconcile with him, Noura and most importantly, with herself.

A conversation with Someone, The Other Side

A while ago I wrote this imaginary conversation between a girl and someone in her head. After reading it, Laith who’s a dear friend of mine decided that he wanted to write another conversation from the other person’s point of view. I was thrilled of course because I know how creative and thoughtful Laith’s style of writing is. I must say his conversation came off stronger and bolder than mine. A lot of rage, confusion in there which made it feel like a real tug of war. Here’s the conversation as Laith wrote it:

She walks into the same room again but to her surprise something was different.  The room looked the same but the colors were different somehow, they were somehow darker, less full of life. The tale looked dusty and the chairs were moved. Something made her breathe heavily, she knew right away something is going to happen…

Him: well look what the wind blew in! Tell me, are you EVER gonna let me go?!

Her:  Excuse me?

Him: oh you’re excused alright. NOW LET ME GO!!

Her: what the hell is your problem?!

Him: YOU! You are my problem, let me out of here right now!!

Her: I WANT YOU OUT YOU JUST WON’T GO.

Him:  Oh trust me I want out.

Her: Then by all means LEAVE!

Him: That’s the point I can’t I just can’t.

Her: what do you mean you can’t? You just said you wanted to then go.

Him: you won’t let me. You’re holding me here against my will.

Her: really now? And how is that? As far as I recall I willed you out and you wouldn’t leave

Him: I can’t because you lied. You lied to me you lied to yourself and you‘re still lying.

Her: what do you mean LYING??!

Him: I mean you want me here more than everything, you love having me here and you love me.

Her: See that’s why I HATE you! You’re confidence just drives me crazy!

Him: NO I HATE YOU! I hate you and I hate loving you.

Her: what?

Him: you heard me, I hate loving you

She takes 2 steps back and puts her back against the wall. She could barely breathe as he got up and walked towards her. And he looks her straight in the eye with his arm stretched next to her head and his hand in a fist against the wall behind her.

Him: you see I hate your intelligence. I hate your education. I hate your strong personality and that cheerfulness that lifts me up. I hate your smile that makes my heart beat like nothing else. I hate how you see art, how you choose your music, how you write those plays and I confuse them with poems. I hate the warmness you show children but you know what I hate most?

Her: What?

Him: I absolutely HATE how you make me feel like a child again. How I’m never afraid to be clumsy or wrong around you cause you’d never judge me. I hate how you listen to what I say regardless to how in-coherent or weird it may sound. I hate that you made me fall so hard for you.

She steps forward pushing him away and grabs  the horse shaped figure hanging from his necklace and pulls it off.

She: you don’t deserve this you really don’t!

Him: Typical you, thinking you know everything. Well take the necklace I don’t want it after all you got it for me. It’s rightfully yours and I don’t want you or anything from you.

Her: you really don’t see it do you?

Him: see what?

Her: that you’re not in my mind, but I am in yours.

Him: Great. Now she’s gone crazy!!

Her: No I haven’t, you almost had me fooled.

Him: care to explain? Cause obviously I am too STUPID to figure stuff on my own.

Her: look around you, this isn‘t my room.

Him: Huh?

Her: you see it looks the same, the colors are a bit different and the chairs are not in the right place. At first I though something was wrong with my eyes. But you know what gave it away?

Him: what?

Her: the necklace.

Him: what do you mean the necklace? You gave me that necklace

Her: No I didn’t. I bought it for you 2 days before we stopped talking but I never gave it to you.

Him: how could I possibly know that and have the necklace if you bought it and never gave it to me?

Her: cause we were together that day at the funfair and you saw me buying it in secret without you noticing, or at least thinking you wouldn’t notice.

Him: what are you trying to say? What the hell is going on?!

Her: You tell me. Why am I here?

Him: I.. I.. I don’t KNOW!!

Her: Yes you do. I’m here because you want me to. I’m here because you want me to be like you. Thinking about you. Missing you. Loving you.

Him: stop it just stop.

Her: can’t you see it? You’re head over heals for me.

Him: I said STOP IT!

Her: fine. But I’m not leaving here until you admit it and walts up to my door and say it to my face.

Him: I don’t want that. Leave me alone go away.

Her: really? Then why is the necklace still around your neck even though I just snatched it off?

He looks down to his chest and the necklace is swinging. He looks down to the floor and breathes as deep as he could to calm down and he sits himself on a chair, feet up and knees bent up wrapping his arms around them.

Him: why can’t we just do this why?

Her: because you’re too scared to get attached more than you already are.

Him: Then tell me what should I do? Please tell me, you always had a way of explaining things to me. Can’t you explain it now?

She walks up to him and sits on the table in front of him. Slides her hand down his face and lifts his chin up with the tip of her fingers.

Her: I can’t do that now dearest, not this time.

Him: why?  Why can’t you?

Her: because you have to figure this out on your own. After all this is your mind not mine.

Him: so I’m supposed to sit here and do nothing waiting for me to think of a solution?

Her: what if you’re not waiting to think? What if you’re already thinking?

Him: ok now that’s just confusing. Can’t you be a bit more clear since you’re in my mind and all? I mean come on you’re in my head so I get to imagine you the way I want it!!

Her: see? You made me smile. You want me to be me and you love it that way.

Him: so? What now?

Her: I my dear am late. I have to sit right there and start writing as always while you watch me and smile. And you have to figure things out on your own.

Him: so you’re not leaving?

Her: No. Not this time.

Him: Then start writing and I’ll just sit right here and go through this whole thing all over again.

Her: You do that. And I’ll be writing about you.

Him: Make sure I read what you write.

Her: I always do.

LAYLA… 1

This is something I’ve been trying to write for so long. I decided to start sharing it today without even revising the material,  some of which written over 2 years ago, as bloggers are today celebrating the good old days of blogging…

 

(1)

 

They say good times pass quickly. However, when I look back at my life everything seems to be crawling. The sweet and the bitter.

Life in my small village was nothing out of the ordinary. In the early mornings, men would get up and head to work, while women would be up even earlier, tending to their chores so they can meet a few hours later to catch up on their gossip. Most of the kids went to a small public school in the village, which was anything but a healthy environment for the mental and physical growth of children. We ran to school everyday to avoid arriving late, for the headmistress wouldn’t tolerate that. After school, kids went to play with marbles in the alleys, men came home in the evening, women prepared dinner and by dark everyone would close their doors and go to sleep. And, on the next day, the same old story would be repeated. Nothing to ponder on.

Perhaps it’s this dull pattern that made me believe my relation with Saif to be special. We both hated the alleys and thought they were macabre; So, after school we wouldn’t join the other kids there. Instead, we would run to the small water spring just outside the village, lay there on the grass listening to the trickling sound of water and trying to understand what it has to say. We both believed every sound in the universe was saying something, but whatever they say, you can never hear it, you can only hunch and try to guess. We called it the sixth sense, and I always believed Saif to have a much stronger sixth sense than I had.

Saif and I were so much alike that I believed we were some way connected. Sometimes I even thought that my twin brother who, from what I was told, died at birth didn’t really die. I figured that maybe he was taken away by another family who raised him as their own. Although this seemed completely absurd, I was willing to believe it against all odds if it weren’t for the fact that Saif was one year older than me. But to tell the truth, this has always pleased me because, for some reason, I hated to think of Saif as my brother.

Saif’s family was poor, but compared to the rest of the village; they were considered one of the most fortunate families. His father owned a small grocery shop, and his mother was the main source of gossip in the village.  His sister, Nimrah, was believed by everyone to be the least beautiful girl in the village, even by her own parents who wouldn’t hesitate in rubbing it in her ears whenever she did something they didn’t like. I have never told Saif how much repulsive I find her. She was huge, very tall and big boned. She had the biggest nostrils I’ve ever seen, and I’ve always pictured them flaring with anger whenever she got mad. Her eyes were extremely big and goggled as though they were going to fall out of their sockets with every blink. Her complexion was pale, always pale, and her hair short and very frizzy, like a bundle of worn-out wires.

Curiously enough, Saif found his sister pretty. He said the mirrors didn’t reflect our real images, and that Nimrah believed her mirror and everyone believed it too. He hated mirrors, and he never looked into any of them.

“But” I argued once “How would you know what you look like if don’t look in mirrors?”

“You see me, right? He replied. “You wouldn’t have become my friend if I was ugly.”

I wasn’t quite convinced by what he said, but knowing that he was always right, I didn’t give it much thought.

Sometimes, when it was too calm, we would play a game of throwing stones in the river. The first time we played it, I bounced with joy as my stone reached a farther distance, but Saif insisted that I didn’t win.

“It’s not about the stone that reaches farthest; it’s about the one that makes the most ripples”

As I look back now, I can’t help but think how many times I’ve been in a situation were Saif’s words came into play, right from the depths of my subconscious and long cherished memories, to make me adamant not only to push my limitations, but also to make the most ripples along the way.

Three Short Love Stories

 

 

(1)

She spotted the car coming from a far. By now, she could easily recognize their car from a fair distance, and the little cat lurked under a nearby bush while they got off the car. She looked on as the mother made her way towards the front door, carrying grocery bags, and she could smell some of the goodies inside. On her mother’s tail, was little Sarah. A wide-eyed 4 year-old with locks of curly brown hair, dragging around a doll of almost the same size as herself. The little cat jumped from under the bush and followed Sarah’s steps closely, just keeping a safe distance to stay out of the mother’s sight.

As they reached the door, the mother held it in place for Sarah to enter, and when she saw the little cat trying to squeeze herself through she and Sarah shouted in one voice: Kitten! The only difference was that Sarah’s voice resonated with joy, while the mother’s rang with anger. It wasn’t the first time the little cat tried to make it into the house, and more than once did she smear the floor with her muddy footprints. Sarah begged her mother to let the kitten in but the mother wouldn’t budge. She went inside to put the groceries away and told Sarah to stop crying because there was no way that cat was coming in.

Soon it was dark and the first signs of a storm were starting to unfold outside. It started to rain, and Sarah couldn’t sleep, unable to stop thinking about the poor little kitten. Then, she heard a sound coming from outside. It was the little cat. She ran to the front door, and the sound grew louder and clearer. She tried to open the door but she couldn’t reach the lock. Finally, she sat on the floor with her back pressed against the giant door, listening to the little cat meowing from the other side.

“Don’t worry little kitten. I’m here.”

Then she listened a moment for a meow and a purr,  and as her eyes gave up on her and she drifted away in a world in dreams, she smiled and replied to what she was sure she heard

“I love you too…”

 

 

(2)

 

A thousands thoughts rushed through his mind as he entered the hospital. What should he say? How will he react? What should he say to her? Should he lie and say she looks amazing? Maybe he shouldn’t, after all she’s always known when he was lying. Yes, a thousand thoughts rushed through his mind, but they all went to pieces as he entered the room and saw her sitting up in her bed, as pale as a December afternoon.

 

“You look miserable.” He said.

“Thanks. You’re as sweet as ever” She replied with sarcastic rolling eyes.

“Well, you better get used to that because when you get better, which I’m hoping won’t take very long, I’m marrying you.”

“Are you saying that because I’m dying? Because I will hold you up to that, so you better not bite more than you can chew.”

“I’m assuming that the sickness has crushed your spirits so, you know, you’ll need a shoulder to cry on and I’m willing to make that sacrifice. It will make me look good, scores points with the ladies, you know”

“Is that so?” She smiled mischievously “Hasn’t it occurred to you that maybe I will not want to marry you?”

“Well, it did. Actually you can do better. A whole lot better. But honestly I thought you’d be vulnerable enough to dismiss that fact.”

“Well, I’m not dismissing anything, just so you know.”

“But, why wouldn’t you marry me? I’m a nice guy. We’ve known each other for years and our families have known each other for years, I make great coffee, what else do you want?”

“I don’t know. I’m still on the fence.”

“You know what? Maybe you need a push. Why wait till you get better? Let’s get married today!”

“I have cancer, silly! I’m not in the mood to get married”

 

“I hate cancer! And I hate you!”

“I hate you too…”

 

(3)

She was slicing an orange as he entered the kitchen to get a glass of water.

“Oh, here you are! Why are you so late? By the way I thought the whole thing over and I’m still convinced I didn’t do anything wrong”

He didn’t reply.

“Oh, okay, silent treatment! Yeah because that really works! I mean, what’s a better way to solve problems than not to speak about them. What the heck, go big, don’t talk at all. Yeah, great idea!”

He still didn’t say a word. He just went to the living room, sat on the sofa and switched his laptop on. She did the exact same thing.

“You know what? This works for me. I could talk all night without you interrupting me. And I know you can hear me. You love to hear me speak! Admit it!”

Still not so much as a nod.

“Wait! What about writing? If I posted something on your wall on Facebook wouldn’t you reply?  That’s interesting, I can try that. Or, no! If I write and you don’t reply that might look bad and embarrassing and then my mom could catch wind of it and she’ll want to know what’s wrong.”

Still no reply. She didn’t say anything for a few moments; he thought she’d given until she started again.

“You know what? This is ridiculous. This hurts you know! I’m a person with feelings. You don’t want to talk, FINE! Don’t talk… but I’m going to sleep and for your information, if I die in my sleep you’ll never forgive yourself for letting me go to bed mad and angry and bitter and… hurt! Good night, or not!”

She turned her back on him and marched off to bed like a clumsy soldier. He still didn’t say anything, he just smiled to himself when he was sure she couldn’t see him, and he wondered how after all these years, she still didn’t pick up on the fact that he loves, just loves, seeing her angry.

 

Silent Voices

 

 

Violence against women is a subject often talked about these days, but this time around, theatre spoke. 

 

Silent Voices is a play written and performed by young Jordanian men and women who managed through their powerful performance to deliver portraits of the harsh reality suffered by so many women many of whom go unnoticed and find themselves forced to cope with abuse in its different forms: physical, sexual, verbal and emotional abuse.

 

In addition to being based on real life stories, what I found most moving about the play is the amount and the intensity of the dramatic content materialized through the actresses and actors’ compelling and emotionally evocative performance, not to mention the great job on the music by Rum’s Nour Abu Haltam, and the maestro of it all, director Majd Mdanat.

 

One girl told me the play was too disturbing for her, another told me she liked to see some sort of a positive male character in it. I must say I too was waiting for a spark of hope, a light at the end of the tunnel, but after all this play is about shedding light on the problems that we still have under wraps in our society and that we can’t pretend to have solved, although many good people are working on that, including the cast of the play. It’s not a feel good play, and I believe it was more than successful in achieving its purpose.

For more information on show times check out the play’s page on facebook here

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

A moment of Perfection

A moment of perfection A storm is raging outside. I’m wrapped in 2 blankets and covered up to my head with a warm sweatshirt’s hood. Suddenly, power is cut off. It’s too dark, not even a faint light coming from the street lamps outside, too silent, not even a buzz of a fridge. The only sound came from the storm that raged on.

 I grabbed a book, a collection of Ahmad Matar’s poems, and the reading light that I clipped to the book. And there I was, utter tranquility with a spot of light in the pitch black darkness, with the hard blowing wind as a sound track in the background…

…That was, in a way, a moment of clarity

On Rain

It’s raining today…

Ever walked under the rain? How powerful is the charm of those falling pearls… what nostalgic moments do they bring back with them in the  long awaited showers…

You walk on the slippery paths, that haven’t smelled of mud since long, observing the faces of those passing under the rain, wrapped in warm jackets…. It doesn’t make a big difference, because all of them have the same countenance, the expression that speaks the same amazement. They all have the same chill, shiver in a united tune, walking under the same sky and breathing the same dampness. Raindrops run down their faces like tears, and maybe, no one would differentiate between the two. A moment of liberation, a chance to escape.

It’s true that winter tucks butterflies in their buds to sleep soundly and flowers in the fields turn lifeless, but in winter, other gardens thrive and prosper… abundances of memories are awakened, and dreams are intensified.

Such is life, winter comes and winter goes. And winter, how paradoxical! Cold in the outside and warm in the inside. Frosty without and fiery within. What a wonderful way to awaken minds from their slumber! Over all the fuss, they fall, over the traffic, wedding processions, funerals, over the busy and the idle, fall the moist reminders: A new winter, again and again, all over again.

My Worst Wake up Calls

 

A wake up call, as everyone knows, is when you’re faced with a situation or a realization that opens your eyes to a truth you were previously blind to. Well, that’s too deep to use here, what I’m talking about here is the wake up call in its literal meaning: the things that cause you to wake up from your sleep.

 

So of course some people may wake up to the sound of birds, or to their child fondling their face with their tiny cute hands, or maybe a thoughtful spouse stroking their face with a rose… (Okay this is too hollywoody) Anyway… true to the very basic nature of life, that’s not always the case. Sometimes, as someone once described it, you wake up feeling like you’ve swallowed a shoe.

 

I’m pretty sure we’ve all have something to say about someone waking us up with a shout, or getting up all freaked out from a nightmare, something in that vicinity. So, I decided to share the top [insert number] worst ways I had to wake up by…

 

1- Sun: that was no fun at all, no wonder it’s topping the list! I remember I was dreaming that my eyes were burning hot and I was trying so hard to shield them, and what do you know? I woke up to find the sun shining right into my eyes. Actually, I’ve just read that sunrays are the best way to wake someone up so you don’t have to suffer that much getting your children up. BAD IDEA! Never do that to your children, never! Trust me it could border on child abuse!

 

2- Gagging: That was a couple of nights ago actually. I was dreaming that I’m gagging and fighting for air. When I woke up I felt like I’ve just managed to catch a breath.

 

3- Shouting: countless times, I don’t even need to remember that. And it’s even worse when someone goes like: “Get up! You’ll be late for work! You’ll get fired!”

 

4-  Sleep paralysis: Oh my God! You know when you wake up and you can hear people talking around you but you can’t move a limb or even open your eyes? I once thought that I had died!

 

5- Phone calls from work that tell you you’re late and then you realize you’ve slept in. Happens!

 

 This is what comes to mind now. What about you?