Un portefeuille (porte-monnaie) qui est bien garni pourrait signifier beaucoup de choses ... mais grosso modo, c’est la richesse!
Quelque soit les contenues, de l'argent, des piles de cartes bleues, des cartes de services, des cartes d'identité, des coupons, ou tout simplement des souvenirs, c’est toujours une signification de la richesse, tout en correspondant à la relativité subjective.

Le fait que je suis Syrien en France me fait un de ceux qui ont les plus gros portefeuilles… pourquoi?
Tout simplement parce que je suis obligé de porter du liquide pour être acceptable dans le monde de fraudeurs fiscaux qui acceptent pas les cartes bleues (la moitié de la population)
Parce que je suis obligé de porter mes cartes bleues (4 cartes grâce aux questions de stabilité) afin d’être acceptable dans le monde de ceux qui n'acceptent pas l'argent a cause des raisons fiscales par des fraudeurs (l'autre moitié)
pas mal de déplacements quotidiens me forcent de porter une carte de métro, une carte de bus, et une pile des monnaies pour les cases d’urgence…
Puis, pour le boulot, je porte des cartes d'assurance maladie, une carte pour la restauration, des badges, des cartes d’accès et des cartes d’autorisation, et plein de cartes que je ne sais même pas ce qu'ils font (je crois qu’il y en a qui ouvre la roche d’Ali Baba au lieu de « Sésame, ouvre-toi ! »)
De plus, mon porte-monnaie est pareillement chargé par un autre piles de cartes d'identité pour rassurer mon id syrienne, en tant que mon id étudiante interntaionale, et mon id employée en France.
Enfin et surtout, des souvenirs et des souvenirs qui se cachent entre les plis de mon portefeuille, quelques-uns des jalons de ma vie ici, et certains qui détiennent le parfum de ceux qui pensent de moi de l'autre côté de la planète ...

Dans mon portefeuille il ya un petit Armageddon entre tous les mentionnés ci-dessus, ce qui rend mon portefeuille le plus épais, et qui me rend le plus riche ???!!!

It’s a daily period of anticipation that both wise and airheaded could learn from each according to their sharpness, and that’s as we stand there in a foosball-like rectangle awaiting for the metro.
Anyone could easily realize how lucky those whose foot touch the ground of that spot along with the arrival of their “chosen” metro, knowing how they will not have to endure neither the discomfort frustration of awaiting with a bunch of strangers two floors underground, nor the happy teasing smug faces of those who are on the other side of the metro platform as their metro arrives to swallow all of them and hit the “rail” once again… bastards!!

As for me (an unlucky airhead with coarse observation skills and a tendency to unremittingly “amuse” myself), I have started to learn from this experience to keep it as enjoyable as possible.
Therefore, whenever I’m there, I silently look people in the face and categorize them as if they were china on my cardboard’s shelves.

Never-endlessly, there is always a difference PDA-ist couple, but they all share the same behavior that screams out “look at us, we can lick and stick, huggle and suckle, moan and groan, because we’re FREE and our organs are not only to PEE”, and what makes the charade always even droller is the presence of more than one couple, making it feel like a sex contest, and kudos to he/she who hath the longest tongue that slides the furthest into partner’s ear.

When the scene becomes boring and you look further around you’ll meet “Sad and Sadder”, who walk down the stairs as if they have the weight of the world on their shoulders or hanging from their diminishing balls or saggy man-boobs, they come down and they scan the foosball hoping to find someone who’s more pathetic, but they end up tilting their head in disappointment like a widowed clown.

White and blue collars (mostly original French which makes them a minority around here) take a seat to fake a newspaper-reading session, trying to isolate from everyone else including a fragile hot “single” MAMA, a cranky grandpa, a wasted drunki drunkenton, and that airhead that is looking people in the faces to categorize them.

Being to any metro station is 50% of the whole experience of living in France, because there… You get to see it all in 5 to 10 minutes.

Being possessed by demons of nostalgia is not the most glorious bless a man could have, especially during those moments when it’s cold enough that you can clearly hear the sound of steel teeth of those diablos sinking into the flesh of your soul, deep to your very heart.
We know profoundly how those cold moments are there to stay, for hours, days, and even centuries. Regardless how they fade temporarily squeezed by our urge to fight insecurity between the sweaty rush of life and the yellowish summer smoke of the city

There I was, nostalgic to and haunted by daydreams of her beautiful flawless wrinkles, getting more wrinkly with ever goddess-like smile, her creamy tones adding taste to my morning coffee, the nourishing energy spells cast by her caring hands that fed me for years, the rays of light shining down on me from the halo around her head, her systematic heart ticks whispering in my ears as I’m wrapped in the heaven of her arms, and mostly… the muse of her voice bathing me with her early morning and late night blessings.

I have missed you mom
I’ve missed how you fight the urge to smile wickedly whenever I’m cheeky
I’ve missed how you fight with me to change my opinions and beliefs in order to keep me with you in afterlife, and yet you rub it in my face when you sometimes prove that you’re right
I’ve missed how you cook the most delicious food in the world no matter how cranky and tired you could be
I’ve missed how differently your glasses change the shine of your eyes and their purity
I’ve missed how angelic you look no matter how dark the colors you choose to wear
I’ve missed how you protect me from being cocky by not giving me any credits, but still can’t hide your cockiness when you speak of my name in public
I’ve even missed those grieves we have had shared, how you gripped my arm as we prayed our final farewell to dad, and how you gripped it once again when we said our not-final goodbye to me in Damascus Airport.
But I’ve missed more the happy dofus pleasures, whether in our humble family house, or in the naked outsides, starting by the giggling at the shadows we made when the power was off, and ending by the late night ice creams long walks and talks.