On Suicide: Choo Choo

Suicide.

See,

I don’t get what the fuss is all about.

I mean, You add the act to the a masterclass of dramatic music and a morose backstory et Voila: another Shakespearean tragedy collecting dust in the dungeons of many a memory castle until its biblical ashen oblivion. Pathetic.

On the other side of the faceless coin, I stripped suicide from its fineries, its theatrics and its orchestra and accepted its nakedness for what it’s not; it is not my cowardice nor my bravery, it is not my well deserved catharsis and it most definitely is not my long awaited salvation.

Why then?

The meds? The Colours? The depression and attention deficit? The 9 to 5. The highway drive. The bus. The rent. You, him, they, us. I could tell you that it is any or all of the above but it’d be a lie.

It is just me. Aye.

I.

I, I, I adore and condemn I, insecure and lost I, Grey I.

I am just bored, you see.

Deadeyed and hardened by the consequences of conscious colourlessness, I survive.

Yet I am not chewing at my broken nails nor laying on the cold floor in a puddle of my own making.

I am just done, you see. The self conscious, self righteous and self obsessed I has reached the final destination of the fear and loathing train going: Choo fucking Choo.

Dive

Descend

End.

SInful Times IX – Dreamland [Original Drunk Version]

And within us, a dream lies, short lived

Adrift

We live

We die

Fly

Above illusions aplenty

No mercy for the absentee

We live

We die

So worship the tie

And kill the truth

Obtuse

Abuse

She may never be

Nor may I

For I am the sinner

Who preached

And she is the saint

Who breached

Paradox

She cried

And believed herself

Love on a silver platter

A social experiment

Of delusional sentiment

Towards the subject, I

The distant, I

Lie

Lie

And then lie some more

Then Roar,

Rise

And resent

Repent

Or

Lie

You’re okay

You’re fine

Refine

What is

Into what will not

In your bed

Blow your head

Bleed led

Spell the end

We live

We dive

Descend

End.

Sinful Times VIII: Dreamland

Within us, lies a dream, short lived.

This is the end,my friend adrift.

Painless in descent, swift.

It’ll be over soon, my derelict

Twin souls, split

Yours, never did exist

to hell, will you submit

waking life shall not persist

for it is a dream, short lived

Farewell, pretentious harmony

and false dependency

and masquerade’s mastery

Slowly but surely

to the precipice, consciously

To die, faithfully and live, eternally

from whence you came, originally

you shall remain, begrudgingly

Steady

Dive

Steady

Descend

End.

 

Life and death, man and woman by Cherine El-Halfawy

 

Joints I: The wait [Ft. Mazen Emad]

Ink Drawing by Mazen Emad

Your demise beckons

in the realm of priests and fiends,

so haunt the lands,

drive the hearse,

kiss the earth

and curse rebirth.

Drink the wine of blasphemy,

master the arts of melancholy

and the luxury of sodomy.

Kneel before your demons

and welcome innocence

for the drunken speak the truth.

Or

just sit there,

long for somewhere,

way out of here,

to find virtue elsewhere

for you’re the sinner’s heir.

Or

wait for the bend,

to dive,

to descend.

End, you will,

towards Godless skies

or deep in the sea of sighs.

Take my hand,

dive,

descend.

The end.

 

Mendacious Circumlocution – Part VIII

The floor is cold enough to remind me of older times, colder times. The stench of long lost and abandoned memories fill my damaged lungs and instantly triggers my need for cigarette shaped self sodomy. 

As the fire burns the lips and penetrates the chest, I pick my body up and sway anxiously towards the empty bathroom tub waiting to embrace my existence with open porcelain arms.

Hours pass in liquid tranquility, calm, heavenly, Eternity. Dripping sadness afterwards as I creep slowly towards my razor-sharp bedding, I crawl under the sheets hoping for the comfort of comatose and only achieving mere fleeting moments of sleep.

The waiting part is the harshest, especially when I’m at a reasonable high, I struggle to keep the thoughts rushing through me like waves eating away at stones, Order, I want order, alphabetical, ascending or even from the morose to the melancholic. But as previously predicted, I nonchalantly fail in my fucking pathetic attempts.

Overwhelmed, I fade into the blackness, I become part of nothing, engulfed in everything and for a blink of an eye, I was at peace, I was peace and I was the pieces and the puzzle.

Alas, I open my eyes once again to my laughable reality that longs to dive into the open seas back to Atlantis, that wishes to descend under the waves of shameful lust and looks around for the end credits about to start rolling…slowly…carefully…finally.

 

Mendacious Circumlocution – Part VII

There are no days anymore, the numbers change, the weather changes but the days do not, it is merely one prolonged and vague day that masterfully hides its repetition by creating different masking to the details.

I do not recall it being like that since I spawned into this realm, a human among many. I remember it being different each passing morning sun and slightly more vivid, alive per say. Unfortunately I started seeing, beyond the illusions created to blind us from how basic life really is until the aforementioned realization.

Sleep has gotten shorter as the visions an obscene amount of my sight. There is not a beginning nor an ending, every supposed start is a theoretical stop, truth hides within the lechers and no good deed goes unpunished.

My writing seems greatly affected by the this lack of an identifiable timeline to my existence, the words are fleeting, the ideas are circles and the paper often looks bored. Yet I write and I write and I write in hopes that midst the mist, a surge of brilliance will welcome me into its arms and lets me sleep in peace or in pieces even. 

Among these wanderings, I dive slowly, move my arms towards the distant surface and as my head pierces through, the air suffocates me even further until I die, descend and wish for it to be the end. To my dismay, I find no relief and no release, there is no end, there is only a big, red and angry replay button allowing the melancholic saga to continue.

Mendacious circumlocution – Part V

The right time and the right place, two vague concepts which I was never properly introduced to, as opposed to the more familiar area of the wrong timing and the wrong spacial placement. I guess one descends from the former to either a. Apologizing to one’s self, b. Resenting one’s self or c. Embracing the idea that some are destined for greatness and some are meant to wallow the missed chances. Honestly speaking, yours true is wired to miraculously exercise the alphabet of options in the same exact moment in time. Kindly suppress your bafflement.

Applying the Palahniuk methodology in his masterpiece ‘Invisible Monsters’, jump with me to a cheap hotel in the desert during one of Egypt’s fiery summers. There she was in her absolutely stunning lack of glamour and social experience and there I was, all in hidden awe, wearing the mask of benign social interaction, asking questions I have the answers to, throwing jokes I profoundly find tasteless and avoiding the want and/or need to mentally and physically ravage the core of her being, or..well, her lady parts. In short, even though I was at the theoretical ‘right time and place’, I failed to recognize it and passed the opportunity for awaited bliss, or…well, I was a lady part.

Jump back to the present, after events of certain social significance, I am afflicted by sudden melancholic nostalgia but guess what?…No..No..You have to guess! The wrong time and the wrong place! Ding Ding Ding..We have a winner..or a loser..doesn’t matter.

To put a simple ending to a rather elaborate beginning, I could share this with no one specific, henceforth I write. There is no happy ending, there are obviously no lady parts but there seems to be an overabundance of mendacious circumlocution.

Dive.Descend.The end.