لقد مرت الأيام والشهور والسنين بسرعة شديدة دون تركيز مني في التقدم من موضوعي الذي وطأته من العجز مبكرا وانا الآن لا ادري اغارق انا ام تجاوزته
لم اكن جوادا ولا محسنا ولا سباقا بل لا اعطي إلا لردة فعل بداخلي وانا ادري إن الرياء ذنب ولكن لم تكن النية رياءا ابدا
كم ابغض نفسي ولكن من الذي فعل بها ما فعل؟ انا واعوذ بالله من انا
– نفس جلادة
Often when typing fast on the browser’s URL bar you try to do your best, especially when you aren’t a fast typist, not even a semi-professional, but rather a layman typist who has a bit of experiences and familiarity with the qwerty keyboard.
Autocorrect overcorrects on mobile, but what about the PC?! some browsers have the “intelligence” to at least provide an approximation to your erroneous misstep, by going to the search engine of your choice, which may be Google (as a default), but of course to each their own when it comes to their preference and privacy-consciousness.
The dread lies ever-so-slightly in the extra step needed to be executed by the typist to achieve their desired result.
That’s not a dot but a comma, the effervescent nemesis to many, common to the typist.
I hold news
Of the upsetting kind
To convey it would bring utter dismay
Though it will come to light no matter what I do
Holding it for a few maybe several hours more
Could ease the weight of it
Or maybe it will only compound the worst of ideas
I hold it in truth for a fear of my own
My own shortcomings
All of them
Displayed once more
The ugliness of it all
Avert your gaze oh listener
And thanks for reading
To do nothing
It is what I do
To pursue ambition
That isn’t assured
I feared in the past the darkness
Until I learned that the monster is standing still
That my imagination is more frightening than anything
To be something
Of which that I am not
To crave excitement
But comfort is my fort
I remain conflicted
In these little thoughts
None of which are important
However all at once
Become the monster
The darkness
My life
Out of context
Seems absurd
But strung together with words
Becomes subtext
Embodying nonsense
Moreover and to a lesser extent
My life
Lack of substance
Not for the lack
But for the most part
Repeated faults
(Title: Don’t Read This; Not Worth It)
Say at last the words pent up
The angry sounds that convey themselves
If not relating to me
Then nothing matters
Nothing
I am in my own little world
With as fewer as many words
Paint a scene with opaque colours
Cut frames from each second
A passing thought drops a line
Hello there!
Are you fine?
But in this little world
A vast array of works
By many before and little contemporary
Inspired choices are postponed
For life’s illustration
Illusory and elusive
A fugue fume of fading ferocity
Knock twice
Come in sanity
As the world settles into the proverbial normal, queue the mundane quality of one’s self introspection, to be distracted by the obvious disappointments.
Is this vicious cycle a self fulfilling prophecy? To truly help yourself, you have to be willing, not at all able, but willing to merge into the fast paced highway of determination.
But, along the winding sideroads lie those surprises, the journey you take, whether it is for self betterment or destruction, and though both aren’t mutually exclusive, the goal is the same, what comes after that, a tally of all of your deeds, you try not think of consequences, yet you are the first to demand your pound of flesh when you’re wronged, unjustly are those whom chase only after narcissistic and harmful things.
Decry your heart’s inner most opinion, none of us are infallible.
Unburdened by fear nor dread
Life long companion
And beyond the corporeal
Steel shavings
Wood splinters
Glass shards
Through thick and despair
Thin membranes
Retaliatory hate
Love unbound
Nothing but ocean and sky as far as the [mind’s] eye can imagine, on a makeshift raft, splinters everywhere and slowly flooding at eternity’s pace.
No sense of direction, the sail made with unachieved desires, a flimsy material, unreliable and coarse.
Swirling above my head, vultures, made of dark thoughts, waiting for me to slip, into unconsciousness, or into sin.
The air smells of sulfur, the water is a darker shade of blue, shimmering with sliver streaks, I look to see my reflection, an unrecognizable silhouette is refracted back, it smiles, genuinely, something I find laborious under “normal” circumstances.
No end to this journey it would seem, but the final resting place, a point beyond the horizon, the end of wit.
الكَلِم الكَلِيل 