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Fresh Lebanese rant: the old man and my brand new bicycle

Is it really not Europe? Because when I got on this bicycle I thought I was going to Rembrandt square, how the hell did I end up in Verdun?

Oh hi, I’m sorry, does my face look poor? Oh or maybe because I’m using my legs to walk and not driving a fancy car? No? Oh this thing? Yes it’s called a bicycle, nope it has no relationship to my wealth or my social status.


Well I don’t like traffic, I don’t like to get angry for stupid reasons, only important ones. I also really like the environment, and trees and oxygen. You could say I’m a moderate person who tries to do what they could.

Where do I think I am?

Beirut, why I can swear it too.

This is not Europe?

No! Really? Don’t say that, don’t crush me like that. Pardon my French Mr. Francophone man, why are you stating the obvious and hating on this really well made, and actually quite good looking bicycle?

People especially those who bellow at the top of theirs lungs: do you think ur living in Europe? (مفكرا حالك بأوروبا) are the exact and utter reason why we have not yet evolved. They hide behind their embarrassing ideologies, they repeat non-sensical sentences, and hide behind The man, the establishment.

They think that they deter the younger generation from rising into the future by reminding us and projecting their own insecurities at us, they keep telling us just how irrelevant we are as a community let alone the deep and pathetic inferiority complex they want us to inherit. It is not my fault that you accepted your living conditions old man, so you do not get to lecture me.

So no old man, I’m not living in Europe, I’m living in Beirut, f u and all that you stand for, if riding a bicycle and all of the freedom that it entails threatens your inability to be original or crack the ceiling of fear and oppression that you operate within, i feel bad for you.

You know what, just move over, and let me pass, my friends and I will take it from here.

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High Diary of Footsteps in the Snow- the Amsterdam experience

The airplane sat on the runway for an hour in delay, and I was unsure whether it was the weather or my anxiety keeping it down. As soon the plane took off something snapped, my mind stopped; there it was: there I was, trapped by the moment. It happens so often it’s like an unconscious ritual by now. My tears start falling every time I leave a new destination, every time that the ground lets me go, my masks fall. All my heaviness is brought down by gravity and all that remains is a soul yearning to soar, and it does. It goes so far away, that I am a changed person the moment I touch down again.

So I keep on searching, and every time I think that I have arrived, I am weighed down by a trembling fear, a fear so tragic that time will not stop again, my eyes will not see the same wonder in the same way again. All the tricks I play on my mind become obsolete and I am left with myself, the self I have been getting to know slowly, and yet most of my light is still foreign, only to be found in the deepest quests inside, and the farthest trips shocking my senses out of a practiced sedation… And so I click my feet again and I leave the mud of familiar spaces.

Where do you go when you leave? What happens to your soul when you let it be? When you unburden yourself of all the excess weight? How do you fix the unnecessary glitches in your day to day conscious experience?

The search for wonder continues and I am nothing but a footstep in the snow. Almost never existed, melting into the bigger fluid experience. All i can do is dig my feet into the snow as violently as possibly and then just lift off lightly, as not to disturb the delicateness of the experience. But then again, nothing remains the same.