Letters to Sarah – I – Prayers

Dear Sarah,

I hope this virtual letter finds you in proper health,

which is probably the case, considering how you only exist in my head.

 

I must stop praying.

I don’t believe in the religious depiction of God, I don’t believe in miracles and I don’t believe in fate.

So what the ever-living fuck?

 Why are you here?

You’re ruining it, my scene, my book.

See, I stopped being human a long time ago.

Why? Not the slightest idea, I had a good family, a good physical and spiritual training schedule and I excelled among my peers; anything I could’ve asked for at the time. But there is always a ‘but’ [See what I did there?). But it all felt all too…Normal. I eat. I drink. I sleep. I train. I pray. I study. I. Nothing out of the ordinary. I guess one day, a decision was made to simply fuck ‘the plan’ up and stand on the precipice leading to the highway to hell. I was bored.

Still I pray.

I am addicted, you see. I am addicted to consciously choosing the worst possible action/reaction during any experience in my life and suffering the consequences of such choices. The sight of the other path was Godly, a mental orgasm. Unfortunately, euphoria got weaker, future, bleaker and the needle, deeper and deeper as I continued making properly calculated poor choices.

Still I pray.

‘You met me at a complicated time in my life’ Cliché? Probably.

Why did you meet me? I was about to give my performances in “Life- ACT II” a couple of Oscars as well as a lifetime of lack of achievement award. The theatrics were as dark and as damped as I imagined, I had lost everything and I was about to yell out to the extras, with the biggest orgasm of all, “That’s a wrap, Good work everyone”

Then you showed up. Fucking hell! I love you! Now I have to leave a lifeline for another sequel! Fuck!

And I prayed again for a God, for a miracle and for fate.

Fuck you. I want my epic drama back, it was complete the way it was, ending with the demise of the pseudo-hero.

God, if you’re around, let me end it, alone and morose like I always wanted it. Please don’t insert uncalculated elements.

Yours unfortunately,

 Zeus

شيطان ليلى

سكرت في عشق ليلى 

وقتلت جسدها بحثا 

عن براءة الإثم

وحزن الآثم 

فلم اجد إلا عدم 

وأضحوكة الألم 

فكتبت رثاءها

وخلعت رداءها

ونسيت ماضيها

وخلدت عشقها 

وسكت

حتى فنت

فأدمنت الحبيبة المجردة 

والشهوة المفرطة 

واشعارالعاشق 

وجسد المعشوق 

كل في كتاب 

أوله دعاء 

وباطنه استسقاء 

واخره صحراء جرداء 

وعنوانه شيطان ليلى

 

قرأته فقالت مجنون 

ولم تذكر جنونها 

ولا مايطيح بعقلي من وحي أناملها 

ولا مايسكر قلمي من رحيق جسدها 

ولا مايثير شهوتي من رحيق جسدها 

لأصبح مجنونها 

وأفنى في رقصها 

واكتب رسائلها 

فتدفعني عنها 

وأظل مجنونها.

Stranger: Her face on the empty pages

And there she was in front of me, as sudden as the former sentence was written, she is the incarnation of beauty, mesmerized, I stare into the blackness of her hair resting on the magnificent thrones of her shoulders, soothing as the smooth summer breeze kissing the foreheads of weary humans going about their troublesome daily lives. Her eyes are priceless pearls worth fighting for among pirates and commanders of fleets, shining bright for the unfortunate soul of mine like a treasure long lost and finally found, salvation to the sinner I, the healing to the plagued I and a destination to the wandering I. Her figure is poetry to the aspiring poet in me inspiring words I had no previous knowledge of, a vision for artistic creations of old and a dark spell I remain under.

I walk the plain streets every morning, wander in prolonged routes with childish hope I would see her passing by, longing for a moment in time where I would ultimately find anything to spew instead of writing this nonsensical piece in the empty pages that call her name and depict her face, all in vain, all in worthlessness.

I had vowed not so long ago that she would be the savior of what I perceive as my dark future, but with time passing swiftly through my senses like a sharpened blade and with all that is logical standing against my wanting, my vow appears fleeting, feeble, like the murmuring of the gravely wounded promising to slay their murderers, like the drunken rambling of the poor aiming for sudden wealth, but the dying will meet their maker before their vengeance, the drunken will pour more wine, the poor will get poorer with foolish hopes of riches and my thirst will never be quenched.

I will remain watching, wanting, yearning, longing, mourning what will never be and writing about worlds I may never perceive for my curse is wishing and rarely do wishes come true.

Yours hopeful,

Zeus