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Indescribable feeling of horror, that which attacks you at the heart of the night while you cradle the dark and lay your heavy head to a solid cruel soil, protected by a starless sky and the kindness of your closest neighbors, realizing with every clock tick that you're homeless, even worse ... countryless
Sadness takes its toll on your heart, anxiety lays its shades on your heart; leaving you among sour images of your feet skipping carefully across the borderlines between two borderless countries, escaping from your brother into the arms of your cousin
Memory storms back to every single sight you laid your eyes upon throughout the day, the crying innocence of babies in the middle of that no-man's land, the yearning screams of injured victims squirming on thin lines between hope and pain, and other deeply gloomy looks in the eyes of bereaved mothers, heart-breaking orphans, and black-covered widows.
Images come back to haunt you from the day before, loaded with echoes from bullets, and odors of injustice and gunpowder...

At this camp, people have different stories of sorrow, regardless how they all share the courage to survive, and the hope to collect the remains of their shattered dreams, and what's left of their pride.
At this camp, hope is the only magic potion that keeps them alive regardless the fragility of their bodies and the illness of their spirits.
At this camp, hope is you, you who keeps mercy alive by any contribution that holds back the godless hard of cruel fate.

Help giving the warmth of a home to what's left of a family, who left their hearts behind with whoever's left back under panic, dead or missing.
Help getting back the innocence of children, and draw a smile on their small faces and wide pleading eyes.
Help giving a hand to those who are left in agony, without any medical care to their excoriating wounds.
Help quenching the longing of children to mothers' caring hands.
Help providing crumbs to those who need it, and have neither power nor chance to get it.

Help them paving their way back home...
Help giving some of your humanity to your brothers in humanity.

When blood flows more than ink, you know that you are at a time of major crisis, a merciless time where seconds tick askew, accompanied by a rhythmic dance of a Godless chant, animal-like chant on top of ponds of dark burgundy, splattered over spaces of the usual gray; a time that runs frantically to hide hastily from injustice between the folds of an obscure future of a homeland, leaving you with very few options about what to do with what you’ve still got of your heavy gasps, and what you’ve shed of your very soul, so you collapse in your place, helpless and hazy, and you start forming letters with your own gushing blood on the walls of the soon-to-be history; so you wither while fading into a zone between the blackness of the day and the light of your potentially last prayers, and you write.

Syria: that beautiful Levantine lady lying every night to a bed of nails across fertile hills, proud mountains, cozy sea shores, and generous deserts; loaded with heartache that has been building up during the last few decades, to reach its peak at the point of explosion caused by unbearable pressure, excruciating injustice, and agonizing maltreatment.
Syria: that land that witnessed the birth of the very first alphabet and the first documented musical piece, under the eyes of gods and goddesses, that terra-firma that survived during days of plagues and deluges under the noses of saints and prophets, is yearning with a hoarse voice for a miraculous providence.

100 days of domestic turbulence, sleepless nights, restless days, and a sea of gloom eating a city after another before it gulps down the entire homeland.
100 days of shed blood flowing down from hundreds of people who were killed for no crime, human sacrifices slaughtered unrighteously and disrespectfully at the altar of “in the name of the country” instead of bringing to justice every criminal of those who hide behind that shield of patriotism
 100 days of children’s laughter covered by heavy gunfire and the squeals of distressed mothers, 100 days of people gone lost and found, or lost without being found, 100 days of uncivil debates between civilians, motivated by phobias fed to them by dirty hands of fate.
100 days ……… and still counting.

We write because we don’t want an extreme opinion to take over ours, we write because we hate to see our alleys where we were raised playing with other kids stained with blood and shame, we write because we don’t want a symbol or a person to take over the glory of the people, we write because we know that when blood flows more than ink, we know that it is your duty to bring back the balance, so we act, we pray, and “at least” we write.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2011_Syrian_uprising

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.

Un rêve qui n’est pas comme les autres, une vision magique d’un pays magique.
Un rêve à la française, dans une ville française, où les personae sont françaises, et même la musique au fond viens d’un accordéon français.

Elle, je l’appelle  « le rêve » parce qu’elle est l’envie du monde entier, et la raisons de ses souriras purs et sincères. je l’appelle le rêve parce qu’elle est légère comme un sieste dans le pluie de l’été, lunatique comme les sirènes de la nuit en voyageant parmi les étoiles filantes, et qu’elle est une princesse d’un conte de fée.
Elle est vivide, lucide, et réel comme l’âme de dieu qu’elle a portée, pourtant elle l’appelle le rêve.

Elle… elle est la raison pour laquelle j’écris en français au nouveau, car seulement elle m’a donnée l’impression que j’habite en France, et que je pourrais avoir un ou deux moments pour apprécier le vrai esprit de ce pays.
Enigmatique et « Enormatique » plaisir pour les yeux, délicieuse comme une péché, jolie comme le paradis, à couper le souffle comme un voyage astral en donnant le frisson du Mistral.

Chaque mot français est sorti de ses lèvres fines m’a donné la chaire de poule, chaque mouvement a causé mon cœur à faire un bond, simplement car c’était elle, et elle … casse tous les standards de la beauté

Elle… elle est le seule ange concret parmi tous les anges de concret en France et l’Europe entière.
Elle m’a donné la confiance en la beauté non-artificielle en ce pays artificiel.

Si tous les enfants sont adorables et mignons, je l’appelle un autre spécimen, je l’appelle le rêve.
Je vous présente « Élodie »

Like every day when I’m all alone and almost unknown in a “terra firma”, when the road is  my one and only true companion, I saunter through colorful streets to gaze upon faces, some of them are as banal as winter to the point that they become hardly-noticeable, and some are quietly the opposite in every extraordinary aspect.

He, an old man in his late 60’s, was one of those unforgettable faces. He was standing there on the edge of a bridge cradling the horizon with his eyes, wearing pride, history, and a heavy winter “Manteau”, staring far away with persistence as if he was preparing to call upon lost souls or welcoming memories of the past as if they were old friends. His facial expressions have got that thing that awakes a sleeping sensation in you, to leave you there jaw-dropped with a scar-deep like memory.

Something strange made me step into his head to see what he was seeing.
It was like a Hollywood movie, as we both shared the same view tunnel within our heads, erasing new architecture, constructing an old one instead, drawing people with smiles on their faces and finishing up by coloring the sky to our liking.
For that we both smiled at the same time to the perfect image, and the perfect memory.
Was he a man that sold the world just like me? Could he be me in 25 years from now? or could me be him from the past? … I don’t know.

 /**
 *
 * @author UNKNOWN
 *
 */
public class MyLife
{
    public static void main(String[] args)
    {
        Human me = new Human();
        me.setLifeLength(49837693769);         // Lifetime in days
        God god = God.getInstance();              // Singleton (supposedly)
        god.setLifeMiserable( me , true);
      
        while ( me.isAlive() )
        {
            if ( god.exists() )
            {
                if ( god.loves ( me ) )
                {
                    Question[] qs = new Question[38295729];
                    me.ask( qs );
                    me.setConfused(true);
                    me.tryAgain();
                }
                else
                {
                    god.setWickedEvilAndSadist( true );
                    me.setConfused(true);
                    me.thinkGodIsInjust();
                    me.stopToTry();
                }
            }
            else
            {
                me.failToUnderstand();
                me.setConfused(true);
                me.thinkLifeIsInjust();
                me.stopToTry();
            }
          
            if (me.hasHadIt())
            {
                me.killSelf();
            }
        }
      
        me.dieAnyway(); // Kalb w Fe6es
        me = null;
        GarbageCollector gc = new GarbageCollector ();
        gc.run();
      
    }
}

I feel abrasive, abused, afraid , aloof, angry, annoyed , anxious, ashamed , awful, bad , bewildered , boorish , boring, callous , careless , clumsy , combative , confused , coward , crazy , creepy , cruel , cynical, deceived, defeated , defective , demonic , depressed , deranged , disagreeable , disillusioned , disturbed , draconian , embarrassed , envious , erratic , evasive , evil , faded , fanatical , fierce , filthy, finicky , flashy , flippant , foolish ,forgotten , frantic , fretful , frightened , furtive , greedy , grieving , grouchy , gruesome , grumpy , gullible , helpless , hesitant , homeless , horrible , hungry , hurt , ignorant , ill , jealous , jittery , lazy , lonely , malicious , mean , naïve , nasty , naughty , nervous , outrageous , panicky , pathetic , possessive , repulsive , ruthless, sad , scared , selfish , silly , sore , strange , tensed , terrible , threatened , tired , tiresome , troubled , truculent , undesirable , unsure , unwell , upset , vengeful , venomous , volatile , voracious , vulgar , wasted , weak , worthless , wretched ...

yet , certainly NOT Nostalgic ....

You know you’ve had a wild new year’s eve when...

• You think you had the Four Basic Food Groups on dinner: Nicotine, Alcohol, Cannabis, and Women, and what makes it worse is that you can’t tell whether you’re having an orgasm or it was just the toilette flush.
• You notice your tie sticking out of your fly, even though you were not wearing any ties earlier.
• You piss on a tree log on your way back home, but suddenly the tree has an angry face of someone asking you in Spanish to stop pissing on their feet
• You wake up in a car that is not yours to find a Spanish dude named “Manuel” on your right and a stranger dudette to your left.
• You are so hangover to the point that you think you’re achieving the miracle of walking on water while you’re taking a shower.
• You remember images of people licking clean their alcohol glasses instead of putting them in the dish-washer, other images of people drinking beer to clean their blood system of the massive amounts of alcohol, and other images of people dancing salsa in their seats.
• You go to the bathroom to drop your pants and check what gender you are, and whether you still got what it takes to prove it, and what makes it funnier is that you don’t find your underwear in the process and remember images of yourself doing a dirty dance on the toilet seat in someone’s place.
• You come back to one of your friend’s house to find your underwear that you lost last night hanging from the chandelier.

Thank God I have not had a wild new year’s eve…
Even though belated, Happy New Year everyone !

Elle était toujours là, toujours au même point de rendez-vous, si les nuances sombres de l'aube occupaient le visage de gens du matin, ou soit la lumière légère réchauffant du soleil jaune timide démasquait les détails de passagers.

Élégant, timide, avec une tête fièrement levée, et une aura magique de l’Extrême-Orient parmi ses courbes, mais étrangement, elle toujours se cachait de quelque chose, quelqu'un, ou quelque temps et espace,
Elle se cachait soit sous une paire de lunettes gigantesques, ou sous un parasol séduisant et transparent qui correspond au temps par la couleur et la texture, en laissant une trace dans l'imagination, une mince trace de l'extase du fruit interdit.

Indépendamment de tout, et en dépit de son air mystérieux, ce n'était pas la raison qui m'a attiré de l'attendre à passer chaque jour.
J'étais déterminé qu'elle était le fait que moi (une goutte d'eau dans un océan) tout les jours tombe sur la même exacte elle (une autre goutte d'eau dans le même océan) comme si c’était quelque magie par une main supérieur et omnipotent,
Le fait que nous les deux sommes nostalgiques et perdus, en marchant par les murs habillés en camouflage, comme si nous ne voulons pas être connu, comme si nous buvons de l'ombre pour survivre.

Il m'a toujours donné un grand sourire de voir un visage familier qui saisit l'instant comme moi, jusqu'au jour où j'ai décidé d'aborder pour lui souhaiter une bonne journée, à ce moment-la j’étais pris par surprise quand des faisceaux de lumière ont sorti des irises de ses yeux, et elle a transformé en poussière dans le vent, disparaissant comme un rêve.
Et par ça, j'ai tué une rêverie quotidienne, par ça j'ai tué une introspection amusante de moi-même.

I tried riding in that swing, and let me tell you, it’s not a fun ride, not fun or pretty at all!
I feel like I’m hanging between the highest sky and the lowest ground-zero, lost between Black and White , hence the dream of invading the world starting by Europe which was something that used to make me smile, is nothing now that I’m actually a small dot in the grand Europe.
I feel like I’ve been stripped of all my weapons except for nagging! And that surely would not help me win any wars or invade even a grocery store in this no-man’s land.

Well, as they say here “Laisse Tomber!” or as they say in English “Drop it!”
Yes! Dropping it since I’m not entitled to make any decisions yet, since I’m a newly-born baby to this environment, learning from the world around and absorbing how everyone is acting, or even worse, it’s more like a monkey-see monkey-do for me.

Therefore adaptation must take its toll on me regardless how mean or how nice the Frenchies can be, or how tough life can be (even when it comes to super basic needs like food, shelter, and shoulder), and regardless how wet I’m right now (not sexually but by the massive rain of Marseille), and finally, regardless how big and fat my ass is getting because of expressing my nostalgia by eating whatever Syrian food I can cook

So mote it be, let operation “Adaptation” begin!
(Only for the thing that I can get adapted to, other things like the aquarium in my pants won’t find their way to a solution)