The stars fell
one by one into his eyes and burnt.

From my messy thoughts notebook.

I want to get to know you; I want to know how you drink your coffee, how you look under the dusk light, how you smell, how you laugh, how you walk. I want to feel the tendency of your warm hug that would let me blooms like spring floret between your arms.

I want to see the way the moon reflects on your eyes, the way you mumble your favorite song. I feel the need to go digging into your soul  for I admire you , I admire you a lot That made my heart flutter , and I wish to explore you like no one ever did for I know I would lose myself in you.

-Me

I will cover you with love when next I see you, with caresses, with ecstasy. I want to gorge you with all the joys of the flesh, so that you faint and die. I want you to be amazed by me, and to confess to yourself that you had never even dreamed of such transports… When you are old, I want you to recall those few hours, I want your dry bones to quiver with joy when you think of them."

Afternoon tea.

Day one.

My afternoon tea with a cinnamon butter cookies and my personal notebook.

In the notebook, there I wrote something about a full moon night and on that day I took a walk alone admiring the sky and this leaf full on me so I kept it

The last line was "The day I'm going to kiss your lips is the day I'm going to taste the flowers for the first time under beige moon"

 So I'm going to do this, I will take a photo of every detail that makes me happy, personal photos, and my own things I use daily. To appreciate the beauty of the little things.

 

A girl who writes, this is perfection.

Date a girl who may never wear completely clean clothes, because of coffee stains and ink spills. She’ll have many problems with her closet space, and her laptop is never boring because there are so many words, so many worlds that she’s cluttered amidst the space. Tabs open filled with obscure and popular music. Interesting factoids about Catherine the Great, and the immortality of jellyfish. Laugh it off when she tells you that she forgot to clean her room, that her clothes are lost among the binders so it’ll take her longer to get ready, that her shoes hidden under the mountain of broken Bic pens and the refurbished laptop that she’s saved for ever since she was twelve.

Kiss her under the lamppost, when it’s raining. Tell her your definition of love.

Find a girl who writes. You’ll know that she has a sense of humor, a sense of empathy and kindness, and that she will dream up worlds, universes for you. She’s the one with the faintest of shadows underneath her eyelids, the one who smells of coffee and Coca-cola and jasmine green tea. You see that girl hunched over a notebook. That’s the writer. With her fingers occasionally smudged with charcoal, with ink that will travel onto your hands when you interlock your fingers with hers. She will never stop, churning out adventures, of traitors and heroes. Darkness and light. Fear and love. That’s the writer. She can never resist filling a blank page with words, whatever the color of the page is.

She’s the girl reading while waiting for her coffee and tea. She’s the quiet girl with her music turned up loud (or impossibly quiet), separating the two of you by an ocean of crescendos and decrescendos as she’s thinking of the perfect words. If you take a peek at her cup, the tea or coffee’s already cold. She’s already forgotten it.

Use a pick-up line with her if she doesn’t look to busy.

If she raises her head, offer to buy her another cup of coffee. Or of tea. She’ll repay you with stories. If she closes her laptop, give her your critique of Tolstoy, and your best theories of Hannibal and the Crossing. Tell her your characters, your dreams, and ask if she gotten through her first novel.

It is hard to date a girl who writes. But be patient with her. Give her books for her birthday, pretty notebooks for Christmas and for anniversaries, moleskins and bookmarks and many, many books. Give her the gift of words, for writers are talkative people, and they are verbose in their thanks. Let her know that you’re behind her every step of the way, for the lines between fiction and reality are fluid.
She’ll give you a chance.
Don’t lie to her. She’ll understand the syntax behind your words. She’ll be disappointed by your lies, but a girl who writes will understand. She’ll understand that sometimes even the greatest heroes fail, and that happy endings take time, both in fiction and reality. She’s realistic. A girl who writes isn’t impatient; she will understand your flaws. She will cherish them, because a girl who writes will understand plot. She’ll understand that endings happen for better or for worst.

A girl who writes will not expect perfection from you. Her narratives are rich; her characters are multifaceted because of interesting flaws. She’ll understand that a good book does not have perfect characters; villains and tragic flaws are the salt of books. She’ll understand trouble, because it spices up her story. No author wants an invincible hero; the girl who writes will understand that you are only human.

Be her compatriot, be her darling, her love, her dream, her world.

If you find a girl who writes, keep her close. If you find her at two AM, typing furiously, the neon gaze of the light illuminating her furrowed forehead, place a blanket gently on her so that she does not catch a chill. Make her a pot of tea, and sit with her. You may lose her to her world for a few moments, but she will come back to you, brimming with treasure. You will believe in her every single time, the two of you illuminated only by the computer screen, but invincible in the darkness.

She is your Shahrazad. When you are afraid of the dark, she will guide you, her words turning into lanterns, turning into lights and stars and candles that will guide you through your darkest times. She’ll be the one to save you.

She’ll whisk you away on a hot air balloon, and you will be smitten with her. She’s mischievous, frisky, yet she’s quiet, and when she has to kill off a lovely character, when she cries, hold her and tell her that it will be alright.

You will propose to her. Maybe on a boat in the ocean, maybe in a little cottage in the Appalachian Mountains. Maybe in New York City. Maybe Chicago. Baltimore. Maybe outside her publisher’s office. Because she’s radiant, wherever she goes. Maybe even outside of a cinema where the two of you kiss in the rain. She’ll say that it is overused and clichéd, but the glint in her eyes will tell you that she appreciates it all the same.

You will smile hard as she talks a mile a second, and your heart will skip a beat when she holds your hand and she will write stories of your lives together. She’ll hold you close and whisper secrets into your ears. She’s lovely, remember that. She’s self made and she’s brilliant. Her names for the children might be terrible, but you’ll be okay with that. A girl who writes will tell your children fantastical stories.


Because that is the best part about a girl who writes. She has imagination and she has courage, and it will be enough. She’ll save you in the oceans of her dreams, and she’ll be your catharsis and your 11:11. She’ll be your firebird and she’ll be your knight, and she’ll become your world, in the curve of her smile, in the hazel of her eye the half-dimple on her face, the words that are pouring out of her, a torrent, a wave, a crescendo – so many sensations that you will be left breathless by a girl who writes.


Maybe she’s not the best at grammar, but that is okay.

Date a girl who writes because you deserve it. She’s witty, she’s empathetic, enigmatic at times, and she’s lovely. She’s got the most colorful life. She may be living in NYC or she may be living in a small cottage. Date a girl who writes because a girl who writes reads.

A girl who writes will understand reality. She’ll be infuriating at times, and maybe sometimes you will hate her. Sometimes she will hate you too. But a girl who writes understands human nature, and she will understand that you are weak. She will not leave on the Midnight Train the first moment that things go sour. She will understand that real life isn’t like a story, because while she works in stories, she lives in reality.

Date a girl who writes.

Because there is nothing better then a girl who writes.

Author unknown

We confuse between the idea of loving someone justly and be very fond of that person, liking someone or " crush into someone" physically or emotionally because they preserve the qualities we are looking for doesn't mean necessary enough to create a love bond but the sharing, the talking , the exchange of feeling to one another what makes people really fall in love and how eager the other partner to give you back your sweet crush bites will lift you the first step of a very long way to affection, and on the  way you will see appreciation, respect, care, acceptation, scarify, secure and lots of heart aching. So you can easily be fond of someone but unlikely to fall in love that effortlessly.

الصورة

تخلل النور الذهبي من بين ستائر الغرفة و صاحبه صوت موسيقى الجاز و دندنه من خارج الغرفة, كان مازال نائما أو أراد ان يبدو كذلك. جائت هي بحذر شديد تفتح الباب وتلقي نظره عليه وتخطو بسلاسة  حتى السرير, مالت عليه ثم اعطته قبلة.. مرة والثانيه والثالثة  , لم يقدر ان يمتلك نفسه فـابتسم وأطلقت هي ضحكتها. فتح عينيه فرأى شعرها الفوضوي وعينيها اللوزتين . كان في ملامحها اشياء لا  يعرفها ولكن تأثره , كانت بلا شك استثنائيه ,فاتنه في سمرتها.

 قالت له شيئا ما وقفزت من على السرير وقامت بحركة راقصة على الموسيقى خارجة من الغرفة. تبعها إلى المطبخ , وتسللت إلى انفه رائحة الخبز الفرنسي ومربى التوت. كانت تضع الاكل في  الاطباق ولم تلاحظ وجوده حتى قال ” صباح الخير ” نظرت اليه  بابتسامه   

أضأت الغرفة نورا على نور. حملت الصينية و اعطت قبله سريعة و وضعت الاطباق على أرض البلكونة حيث فنجانين من القهوة  وبعض الوسادات , لكنه ذهب للغرفة المجاورة. جاء بالكاميرا. التفتت  له  بـوجها فقط مبتسمة.

تسكن صورتها  حتى الان في محفظته يتطلع عليها  كل صباح يشتاق ويفرح  , فـهي بمثابة شمسه.

 I feel as if I am meant to do something different in this life that I am meant to fulfill a destiny that normal humans do not even consider. I always find myself observing others reactions. Sometimes when people are engaged in a conversation, instead of joining in, I merely look at how they react to each other's' responses and I just find it fascinating. It's really weird for me to feel this way sometimes because I have to always remind myself that this is not normal and that I should just interact with other people.

Also, I experience déjà vu whenever I pass by the sea that has an air of mystery to them. I always get this sense of longing whenever I pass by anything nature-related or that just seems so peaceful to me. I get this sense that I've lived there before or that my déjà vu is hinting that I have lived in a different time. I really do feel like this era is not one that I am meant to live in, I just feel like there is so much that I have to accomplish in a different time

I feel like I'm perceived as a very quiet girl, but really, no one knows what's on my mind. I also have this inexplicable love for anything that is vintage. I am always drawn to vintage, old fashioned items and I just get that sense of longing again. Am I going nuts? 

All that she could think was that she needed him. She needed his arms around her, needed him to hold her and whisper that they'd find a way to be together. 

“خيّل إلي في الأمس أني ذرة تتموج مرتجفة في دائرة الحياة بغير انتظام.

واليوم أعرف كل المعرفة أني انا الدائرة وأن الحياة بأسرها تتحرك فيَ بذرات منتظمة.

يقولون في يقظتهم : ما أنت والعالم الذي تعيش فيه سوى حبة رمل على شاطىء غير متناه لبحر غير متناه.

وفي حلمي اقول لهم : أنا هو البحر غير المتناهي . وما جميع العوالم سوى حبات من الرمل على شاطئي”

جبران خليل جبران

عن النور

الثلاثاء الماضي ,خرجت من قاعة الامتحان مهمومه وسط الطلاب يرجعون كل كلمه جائت. لم أفهم أو لم اريد ان أفهم أو استمع اليهم. جائت هند “واحدة معيا في الدفعة” و قالت لي في وسط زحام الأصوات “إنتي بتفكريني بالشمس ” تنهدت بحرقه و ابتسمت وشكرتها, فكرنتي الكلمه دي بـواحدة كانت دايما بتقولي كده و هي فعلا من اقرب الناس لقلبي.
أعود المنزل فاجد الخاتم النحاسي في العلبة الفخار, خاتم بسيط مهمل غير دقيق في صنعه على شكل شمس مازلت أحتفظ به ذكره فلقد اشتريت اثنين منه لها ولي من خان الخليلي في رمضان..رمز لعلاقتي بالنور ,علاقه روحية. استيقظ مبكرا اشرب شاي الاخضر واتسلل إلى بلكونة و اشم رائحة النور, له رائحه في الحادية عشرة صباحاَ وقبل المغربية بـقليل فيتغلغل النور بين خلايا جلدى فاكتسب صفاته, تسروعه , ظهروه لم استطع يوماً اخفاء شعوري نحو أي شيء أو أي أحد , لونه في عيوني .تفاؤله, فيوماً ما سأتحول الى طاقة نور

لست استثنائاً ولكنى جعتلك تفاصيل قلبي

هو في حاجة اسمها مرض التفاصيل؟

التفاصيل دي بتتعبيني قوي.

من ضحكتك وإنت بتسلم عليا لحد وقفتك وإنت حاسس بيا حوليك.

لنظرتك للاشياء , لنظرتك ليا

لسكوتك في وسط الكلام , لسكوتك ليا

صوتك , عطرك , ملامحك

لي, لي, لي

لروحى و هى سابته جنبك وطايرة فى ملكوتي

فأنت لست استثنائاً ولكنى جعتلك تفاصيل قلبي

#شوية وجع قلب

ميت هو ذاك الذي يصبح عبدًا لعاداته، مُكررًا نفسه كل يوم. ذاك الذي لا يغيّر ماركة ملابسه ولا طريق ذهابه إلى العمل ولا لون نظراته عند المغيب. ميت هو ذاك الذي يُفضّل الأسود والأبيض والنقاط على الحروف بدلاً من سرب غامض من الانفعالات الجارفة، تلك التي تجعل العينين تبرقان، وتحوّل التثاؤب ابتسامة، وتعلّم القلب الخفقان أمام جنون المشاعر. ميت هو ذاك الذي لا يقلب الطاولة ولا يسمح لنفسه ولو لمرة واحدة في حياته بالهرب من النصائح المنطقية. ذاك الذي لا يسافر ولا يقرأ ولا يصغي إلى الموسيقى، ذاك الذي لا يقبل مساعدة أحد ويمضي نهاراته متذمرًا من سوء حظه أو من استمرار هطول المطر. ميت هو من يتخلى عن مشروع قبل أن يهم به، ميت من يخشى أن يطرح الأسئلة حول المواضيع التي يجهلها، ومن لا يجيب عندما يُسأل عن أمر يعرفه. ميت ٌمن يجتنب الشغف ولا يجازف باليقين في سبيل اللايقين من أجل أن يطارد أحد أحلامه.”

—	بابلو نيرودا

Go after her. Fuck, don’t sit there and wait for her to call, go after her because that’s what you should do if you love someone, don’t wait for them to give you a sign cause it might never come, don’t let people happen to you, don’t let me happen to you, or her, she’s not a fucking television show or tornado. There are people I might have loved had they gotten on the airplane or run down the street after me or called me up drunk at four in the morning because they need to tell me right now and because they cannot regret this and I always thought I’d be the only one doing crazy things for people who would never give enough of a fuck to do it back or to act like idiots or be entirely vulnerable and honest and making someone fall in love with you is easy and flying 3000 miles on four days notice because you can’t just sit there and do nothing and breathe into telephones is not everyone’s idea of love but it is the way I can recognize it because that is what I do. Go scream it and be with her in meaningful ways because that is beautiful and that is generous and that is what loving someone is, that is raw and that is unguarded, and that is all that is worth anything, really.

When you start to really know someone, all his physical characteristics start to disappear. You begin to dwell in his energy, recognize the scent of his skin. You see only the essence of the person,not the shell. That’s why you can’t fall in love with beauty. You can lust after it, be infatuated by it, want to own it. You can love it with your eyes and body but not your heart. And that’s why, when you really connect with a person’s inner self, any physical imperfections disappear, become irrelevant.

أحيانا تتملكني رغبة في أن أكون غجرية، ، فأطلق شعري كموج البحر, أكون ثائرة ووجودي. استثنائيه في تفصيلي, غامضة في ملامحي. أحيا الربيع الورود في ملابسي. و تغمرني موسيقى إلى الأبد.

All I’ve ever done is dream. That, and only that, has been the meaning of my existence. The only thing I’ve ever really cared about is my inner life. My greatest grieves faded to nothing the moment I opened the window onto my inner self and lost myself in watching. I never tried to be anything other than a dreamer. I never paid any attention to people who told me to go out and live. I belonged always to whatever was far from me and to whatever I could never be. Anything that was not mine, however base, always seemed to be full of poetry. The only thing I ever loved was pure nothingness.

“All good books have one thing in common—they are truer than if they had really happened, and after you’ve read one of them you will feel that all that happened, happened to you and then it belongs to you forever: the happiness and unhappiness, good and evil, ecstasy and sorrow, the food, wine, beds, people, and the weather. If you can give that to readers, then you’re a writer.”- Ernest Hemingway

Death Note.

“Do not pity the dead,. Pity the living, and, above all those who live without love.” - J.K.Rowling.

If I ever pushed you away that's only because I want you to come with all your own intention

" لم تكن في منتصف عمر الحب, كانت على مشارف أسطورة حب, ترتدي بغباء أنثى قميص الانتظار. و لا تريد إن يفكّ أزراره سواه. إغداق النصائح لا جدوى منه في هذه ألحاله, فهي واثقة من عودته" أحلام مستغانمي

Let's get lost in an old bookstore and maybe steal a kiss or two.

I hate promises, All those I will, I'll always, I wouldn’t, and I'll never... They don't do. I hate them.

Surprise me.

That's why the most common phrase for love is I love you.

Love me.

Not I'll always love you. Just loving you right now, not tomorrow, not next week.

Just today.

It might last or might not. But right now.

Embrace me.

ولأنني لم أفكر أن أكون عاقلا تمامًا، فإنني سأجلس وحيدًا، أتأمل جلدي يرتعش من محبة الكون، من المحبة عمومًا، وأسمع قلبي في مكانه البعيد يمارس عاداته في دك الحواجز والأسوار، وأعكف على روحي، أغسلها، وأرفع عنها نفايات الروث البشري، نفايات الشر المُدبّر، وعندما أصبح جميلا، ونظيفًا، أتمرّد، وأنتظر رسالة منك. ـ”

—	عبد المنعم رمضان

He said "Follow your heart"

I silenced

He said "Follow your heart"

I sighed.

He said" why wouldn't you follow your heart?"

I replied

"Because it always leads me to you."

-Inspired by Someone =)

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the the shadow and the soul.
- Pablo Neruda

We can be infinite.

I would like to have it explained but I can't. Because you're dreadfully puzzling. There’s something I can’t do unless I get there. And you're obstructing my way with your fear and doubts. I need you to understand that every word you read is for You.