I have been trying for a while to craft a little piece. I assembled words and ideas and prompts and instrumentals and just.. nothing. Not one line. I can't write anymore, not as I thought I could or not as people surrounding me praised me for the promise of what I might. I am no longer genuine. And I did ponder about it, I truly tried to find the root.

At first, I blamed "I". Every sentence started with an I and sentenced my whole inner monologue into a trepidation from within and without.

Then, I just surrendered it to my age. I am getting inevitably older. I am old and most likely unable to create no longer. Everything within me is just a ceaseless reiteration of all I can ever give. A continuous motion of the same ideas again and again trapped each time under the shadow of a new persona in hope of recasting it as new.

As much as the age excuse seemed plausible, it was not the only one. I may be inevitably older but I am also invariably lost. I dare not say that this loss qualifies for finding a voice or polishing a pen or seeking something to say, then the will then the words to. Perhaps, at times, they did intertwine or I might have confused one for another. But I most certainly do not any more. I know that so many before me have trodden this road, and I've seen the ending. A grandiloquent journal in a drawer. A folder surrounded by other folders of the never to be read antiquarian files.

This loss is not a loss of a voice but, the sound of it. I am no longer genuine, have I not said? I don't know which language is to be spoken. I am no longer genuine since I lost my Arabic and since I lost French. I am often believed when I say that I read far more in French than in English and that I wrote better in Arabic than in any another. I wrote better at the age of Twelve than at Twenty Four. Although I find it as wistful as disconcerting, it irks me most to realize so late that I actually never had my Arabic.

By the end, all in all and despite it all, the sound of my voice is scarred. I must sit far too long to craft a little piece, to trigger then to quickly discard. I am waiting. I spent half a lifelong waiting. I guess that if I am good at something, it is waiting. Yet, it feels like every time I sit and wait, I am saying goodbye. A far too cruel and too long of a goodbye. And the only pieces left that could be found of me, are those crying my memory.

I have lost the words when

I saw the icon to the left. I

think I lost myself when I

decided to only write due

to stress. I'm writing due

to stress. I am in pain for

my age. I am filled with

dread and dispair. I am

keen on getting at it

again. Not today. I

might do it again,

if things go my

way. A way.

Away. For real.

Too real. Surreal.

Pathetic lay of words.

Empty shell of a hurling

little girl. How did the days

go by? How did the bay become

so pale? Beyond the sea, I prayed for

the morning. But, I never went to sleep.

Watched the night lurk, crawl then creep.

Writing to unload a sea swollen by mistake

in fury of a bay, in silence of a pray, in mercy

of a forgotten day.

Somewhere lies all your dreams and your lies.

And your eyes speak of your midnight prayers and sighs.

One day light will break through

Where you buried yourself under the mud and

The blues

As your soul rises higher and higher

Away from your walls and your isles.

I can not create art. I am not an artist.

I can not enchant anyone’s eye.

I can not thrill anyone’s ear.

I can touch no heart, I can heal no wound.

I can rise no soul.

I am passing by, passing by, passing by.

I stroll by the sidewalk, as it rains. And the streets are as dark

as my heart, as my light, as your hair

slipping through my fingers.

I dare break a nail, track your tail.

watch you sleep on the silk of a stranger’s bed.

I am not a priest, not a saint. I am not a cheikh.

I am passing by, passing by, passing by.

I can not love, I am not a lover.

My heart shut by the end of your time,

the dark of times, the dead of light, of your might.

The sky is red and orange

but I see it blue,

as the tide, as my heart, as your eyes, as your nails

helding me your hands, so I lift you up, rise you so you

don’t drown

in the alley behind the stranger’s house.But I carry on,

I am passing by, passing by, passing by.

I stroll by the sidewalk, as it rains.

.------------------------------------------------------------

I think this is a song. a jazz-y one set in the 30′s with a deeper, darker jacques brel’s voice.

I have become interested in writing songs, But I don’t know how to submit it or what to do with it. Also ghostwriting.

Please tell me what you think about that and the lyrics/poem and if you have any idea on how to proceed.

#Song #ghostwriting #lyrics #jazz #heartbreak #revenge #lost #meaning #futility

#anger #sore #dark #darkness #night #opinion #indifference #care #wrong #worries

I have not written anything for so long. I lie when I say I do. Does that make me a liar?

I live by the hope of writing something new, not just rephrasing the same thoughts.

I forgot about this website and this account. And here I am now, here again.

I lost count of the years. four? five?

My heart is warm. I like it that I found my way back to different memories, to a time I nearly folded away. I can get very forgetful.

These Kind of challenges, I wish they were word limited.

I hate to have all the time and all the words possible and fail.

But aren’t we all bound to fail answering such questions?

I’d have to read and reread myself to polish it, I find my self fashioning a newer one.

I try to be as true as I can: I am what my people see me. I am what I am to them.

I wouldn’t like it neither. I am not just a continuim of opinions and significance.

I am a stand-alone oeuvre.

All of the great expectations, all of the high hopes.

I am all of the adjectives one can decribe himself with.

No. I fear I fall for vanity.

I am all of the adjectives and none of the adjetives.

Thus, I’ll surely draw my self in a darker or lighter shade.

I am a wanna be euridite, I mastered a methodology of thinking.

What I am is a human being. What is a human being?

Phases, we define it by phases, Biology, Philosophy, Sociology, Psychology..

I am phases and phases of science. Each phase unlocks a phase.

It does not matter how deep you dig into knowledge, I am still not just a Human Being.

I am more. I am more significant that just bone and blood. ah, Vanity.

Who

are

you?

What a darling question to fret over, to wake the soul that wept itself to sleep.

I am a girl, a 21 year old girl. I am a Law student. Sometimes I forget that I am a Law student, but I tend to forget a lot. Sometimes I wish I was an Art student and sometimes I am just too proud for being a law student.

I

am the shadow of something bigger.

I

am pending.

I

am here. I am here and it makes me feel something beautiful.

I don’t know if it is hapiness, or if it will last for long or if I will, here. But I am here, not just in this website fooling my self for a long white-bearded philosopher. But in the world, I am here, in the world and is that not enough to be sure of?