Monday, May 18, 2009

cleaning*

FOR SOME REASON, IM FINDING MYSELF CLEANING OUT MY ME - IT IS A BIT WEIRD, BUT THINGS...THINGS I LOST ALONG REFUTALS AND REJECTIONS, THINGS OF NOTHING, THAT MEANT A LOT TO ME, NOW FORGOTTEN - HERE IS A PIECE I WROTE A WHILE BACK



Patriotism / not

Prologue /



as brutal as this may sound at first, I am now convinced that I am no longer a civilian in the country I was born in; the place of my childhood till my now-ness.

It makes no sense to me, to relate to a bulk that I no longer intersect with. I am wasting my time. I am a holder of a passport, that I no longer respect.

Yet, I recall that my country needs me for some reason, and that defending it should be one of my priorities.

I would like my country to get a life.



1 /

Patriotism is one word I am without any regret or remorse, eradicating from my near-fetched vocabulary. I will not deal with myself as a person with a main cause to feel for my country. It is an anchor I will release myself of. It is an opium, I am substituting with apples.

You would think you are selfish if you would reconsider your understanding of how the world works; you being the average human, you are the bottom of the food-chain.

It might just be me, but I am not happy with how things work.

I wake up in the morning to the morning news, a collective storage of national bile, smelling my coffee. I don’t drink my coffee, at least not all of it. Wearing my shorts already, I throw on my t-shirt and carry my laptop to work.

My job now is in Achrafieh, formerly pen-named as East Beirut. I am living in the West. Some taxis refuse to take me to my workplace. It is too far. In reality, it is just one straight line from where I would be standing. Yes, a maximum of twenty minutes by car. Twenty minutes of polluted pleasure.

Anyways, an extra fee would take you anywhere. Yesterday, it took me to work.


It started out as a quiet ride. Then the driver looked at me, and said,

“are you going to the road going up or down to Achrafieh?”

Of course, this was a trick question… it is the same road.

Only five minutes later, a lady dressed in fluffy summer clothes called out a name of a place that was on our way. The driver agreed, and asked her to hop on.

For some reason, the guy was on turbo mode. He harassed the woman, telling her that he would take her to where I was going for free. She refused. He insisted. She refused. He agreed. I put my headphones on.


In some time, I could feel the slight wind fluff on my left cheek. I looked to my left, and I was bombarded with hand signals and lip-talking in attempt to cross the hearing barrier due to my sudden musical infatuation. I released myself of my music, to hear his babbling about how he wants to protect our country, even without the help of the army.

To any normal person, this would have been illogical and very questionable. To me, I didn’t care. Anymore.

That day, like every other day in Beirut, was a day of traffic hell. Simple oblivion. He was so happy; bringing out his pipe, and filling it up with live tobacco ammunition, lighting it later with optimum joy. He was ecstatic.

The smell of pipe ran through my nostrils and reminded me of my aunt’s husband. Late afternoons with thick pipe smoke.

Its funny how your nervous perplexion plays dumb sometimes. You can smell the same thing, see the same thing, smile..then remember you were supposed to get rid of excess water from your eyes.

Tears…yes, poison.

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