The Lechers of the Rectangular Table in Damascus

It's really such a zealous sensation one gets whenever reality emulates longed for fiction. However, the emulation's results on innumerable occasions are greatly disappointing; serving as a reminder of the unalterable sordidness of reality.

We have all heard about the renowned Camelot, the legendary castle of King Arthur in English mythology, and particularly the Round Table in that spectacular edifice. Arthur's greatest Knights sit at that round table, symbolizing equality; as no one would seem more notable than anyone.

According to Sana (Syrian Arab News Agency), this repulsive picture shows representatives from the different "licensed national opposition parties" during a meeting they're having in Damascus. As you can see, there's a gigantic poster of the butcher Bashar Al-Assad, the illegitimate president who's undisputedly responsible for the killing of hundreds of thousands of women and children and the displacement of millions. The caption on the poster says: "There's no substitute for you that would guarantee security and stability."

"Opposition" leaders residing in the country are having a meeting in a room where there's a picture of the man they're supposedly opposing, with a caption that clearly suggests how fruitless their meetings are; since they acknowledge that they'll eventually fail to find someone else to fill in his place.

Instead of the Knights of the Round Table in Camelot, our reality begot the Lechers of the Rectangular Table in Damascus; for this has got to be the epitome of political licentiousness.

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Reflection

Last night, during a tragically fruitless writing session, I granted myself an undeserved break; solely to assess this year that's approaching its far awaited end and come up with a final judgmental phrase that would sum it up. I had uttered the words: "It wasn't that bad..." before I heard a familiar sound of muffled titters. I stood up unenthusiastically and followed the sound in reluctant steps. It turned out to be one of my ancient frenemies -- the man in the mirror. As the usual, he was wearing the same clothes I was wearing and also drinking the same thing I was drinking; orange juice, but the truth should be told, his glass looked way tastier than mine.

"Not that bad?!" He repeated my words before he proceeded with his annoyingly prolonged laughter. He then finally confronted me with the devastating truth:

"Okay, let's go through these past twelve months and see if your outrageously unjust evaluation was suitable for this drastically atrocious year or not. You got fired from your job by a bitch whose grammar is reminiscent of that of the fifth graders you taught. You lost your father; the person who sacrificed his entire life to please you, yet the only memory he took with him to his grave was how ungrateful you were to him, and the last few years of his lifetime you spent taking care of him meant nothing; as his condition didn't allow him to recognize that it was YOU taking care of him. He never even called you by your name! The novel you started writing this year will never get completed, and you should be fully cognizant of this fact now. At last but not least, you got manipulated by a heartless monster wearing a human suit, to whom you gave your whole being.

For a pathologically descriptive novelist who scribbled two unneeded pages illustrating a piece of furniture utilizing the most obsolete lexicon and excessive verbosity, you're certainly capable of coming up with something better than "not that bad". Would you please man the fuck up and be honest with yourself when you describe things?"

I hate it when this fucker leaves me speechless.

On Your Fortieth Day

It's been exactly forty days since you departed to nonexistence and left us alone contending against this vile world. I'm not quite cognizant of the ancient religious or traditional origins that determined the mourning period to be forty consecutive days, but I have to admit, with utter objectivity, that the duration is very adequate. It's neither too short where it would prematurely dispossess the bereaved ones of their earned grief nor too long where it would eternalize melancholy and internalize it within as an organic component of our already decrepit bodies.

As your body lies down there and your soul floats adjacent to some paradisiacal breeze, I find myself perusing random details pertaining to the life you had before you died and paralleling them with the current reality that is still warbling the hymns of your memories.

Everything is still the same above the ground; you're not missing anything.

The tiny pieces of cloth that my mother used to wipe your mouth with while feeding you are still wet, soft and stained from the last meal you had. Their colors might have faded a bit, but they're still permeated by the aroma of your lacerated skin.

Everything is still the same above the ground; you're not missing a single thing, dad.

That bleak corner where your bed used to be is still echoing with your groans, serving as an everlasting reminder of the inexplicable suffering that had befallen upon your quasi-fleshless bones before you finally demised, and with every breath I take, my weary mind gets blissfully haunted by those sounds that help me evoke your soul.

Believe me...Everything is still the same above the ground; you're missing nothing.

The warmth of your blankets, which is reminiscent of apricity in February, is still palpable and not showing any signs of abating, and the razor I shaved your beard with for the last time is still clutching at the remains of your facial hair.

Indeed, everything is still the same above the ground; you will not miss a thing.

That decaying heart of yours, despite being coated in sand, is still beating within my memory and vitalizing the lifeless days I'm caged in. I hear your heartbeats every time I listen to one of your favorite songs, every time I reminisce about your smile and every time I long for your moodiness.

Everything is still the same above the ground; I still and will always miss you till eternity, dad.

Diary of a Lone Commuter {Sept. 1st, 2014}

Today, I had to stay at work for an extra half an hour, due to the complexity of the case we were dealing with. I usually don’t mind working for additional a few minutes, but I really wanted to leave work early today so I’d have enough time when I reach home to work on my novel. I wasn't energetic enough last night, so I couldn't edit more than two pages of the novel.

I've been thinking about making some new music, since that I’m having such a hard time in writing lately. Music has never failed to lift me up whenever I drown in despair and uncertainty, unlike writing, that has disappointed me several times before.

The weather is much better today compared to yesterday. There’s a cool breeze that’s decreasing the heat. The bus I’m on today is also better and I feel more comfortable sitting next to someone who’s not the triple of my size. It’s a girl actually. She keeps looking at herself through a tiny mirror to check if her makeup needs some fixing. It’s okay to do it once, but if you do it more than three times on a bus trip that is less than 45 minutes, then that’s narcissism.

The bus’s conductor (or "The Control" as he’s called locally) is eyeballing me in such a weird way. Maybe he’s trying to figure out what music I’m listening to through my headphones via reading my eyes! Actually, I knew someone who once had that gift. It was such a miraculous thing.

The streets of Zarqa have been the same for more than 25 years. This chronic negligence the city is suffering from has to end, but what can I do? It’s such an awfully bumpy road that sometimes it feels as if you’re riding a horse and not a bus! The corruption within the municipality is beyond intolerable, yet my fellow citizens are masters of silence.

I think I was wrong a few minutes ago when I said the conductor was staring at me. It seems he was actually staring at the narcissistic girl sitting next to me; as he penetrated her viscera with his lustful eyes while she was getting off the bus. That makes sense now!

Diary of a Lone Commuter {Aug. 31st, 2014}

Suweileh Bridge, Amman

Today has been quite satisfying so far, despite the saddening story of the refugee whom we interviewed this morning and I had to translate the statements to the foreign interviewer, along with all the suppressed cries of frustration. I hope it will remain that way in the evening as well; the satisfaction part I mean!

Being a skinny, tiny guy has plenty of advantages, along with some disadvantages as well. Among the disadvantages is the fact that enormously fat people love to choose to sit next to me, assuming that my meager body mass will allow them to sit comfortably by occupying a proportion of my seat, which is true. However, it never seems to bother them that they also rob a considerable amount of my oxygen as well along with that proportion of my seat. He’s now trying to peek to see what I’m writing, I hope he has figured out already that I’m writing about him; I don’t really give a fuck.

I’m supposed to start the editing process of the first two chapters of my novel tonight. I haven’t touched it ever since my father passed away. I need to get it done soon so I can start contacting publishers. Last night I came across an article on Time magazine on how to overcome procrastination. I decided to read it later that night, but I fell asleep without getting back to it.

It’s too fucking hot today…The most five things I hate are three; the sun and hell. I truly miss winter, especially the rain and my black leather jacket that I paid 60 JD’s for last winter. It destabilized my whole budget for two years to follow, it’s unfair to keep it in a closet. I miss a lot of things actually about winter, but I need innumerable utterances and excessive verbiage to justly literalize the feelings I have for those things. So, I’ll just fucking stop already.

I’m about to reach my stop, so I better conclude this diary entry now. I promise myself to write more tomorrow. Unfortunately I always keep all the promises I make, except for those I make for myself.