A Message from within

Ahmed Pasha street Al-Tulumbat Street Burgas Street Reside my memories. Silent memories. Wonders of a tresspasser. Dreams of a wanderer. Distant sole aspiration of an old soul. Lost in the endless search of an non existing identity. Confusion of vulgarity and elegance. Endless intersections and crosspassing. No resolution. In these houses, I have memories. Scattered ones. Whenever I passed or visited I taste the agony at some corner of the heart. As if I had lived there during a past life. I connect. Deeply and intensily. Can any connection be any other way? I love and humbly know every single stone and entrance. Every single apartment and name. Hours I spent on the stairs. Previously playing freely and later smuggling myself there. Sitting on the stairs. Reading or just visiting. The stairs. Not the people. The elevator. Not the souls. I am sure they know me and remember my smell. I am sure. I search for my marks there, but there is none. I never actually left any. On purpose. Or mayb...

I opened my window today. Removed the bambo wooden curtain and looked out. It was such a nice sunny day. Quiet and a bit warm except of the chilling breeze. I looked out and whispered in a tone that I knew very dear, a light mix of sarcasm with funny tone along with a thread of wish: why dont you take it easy! Just work 3 days from home, take the money, and take things really light. Who really cares? It is quite an achievement to just secure your job and have a light time. Why the struggle and actually investing in work and what you do! Well, I promised myself, until i close the window at least, that this is my new strategy. Just do what's enough. What's wrong with that? Absolutely nothing wrong. I will at the end still take the same amount of money if not more, take the same amount of respect if not also more, and much much more, I will be loved and social and everyday I leave the door of my company, I spit on them all with a smile instead with a sour feeling. I think this is ...

Surprised by the deep attempt to include. Was not the norm since a while now. I immedicately changed direction from lacoste to khan. Sat upstairs after some adventures and best route manipulation. I sat there eating casata and drinking latte. It was freezing but I was warmed with the excitement of seeing the whole picture, mute but I can see it live. Masimo Dutti brown very elegant jacket. Lovely grass green light wool pullover. Orange shirt and a brown pants. Lovely colours. Good choice. Ugly light blue high collar pullover. Mediocar stone robe. Ugly blackish pants. Nice black jacket. Insignificant Insignificant. What do I get? Aggressive. very aggressive acutally. In the hand moves, the way of speaking, the face, the movement of the mouth. Very aggressive. I can tell why it is annoying to sit with or carry a conversation with. Too irritating and when talking to and start teasing as grown ups, the thing turned to a little bit of a friction and someone turning a lip inside. It's in...

It is strange. The world outside is cracking, shrinking and expanding; fighting and making love; bubbling and exploding with all sorts of legal and illegal activities, while we, or I, are sitting on the stairs. The stairs of the most favourite place to my heart; a vast, old, humid yet elegant and quiet building that seeing it and entering it just makes me feel home. On the stairs. Just leaning my head to the stairs wall; looking to the servants stairs; the old black window; the 2 green elevators; the old smell; the old names of the building ranging from abaza, nasim, hachem, taymour, ratib, and some new ones. The doors are the same old, same old. Light brown with a dark brown rectangle to cover it. Very tranquil. Very solid. Very so non impressive. Yet, to me i feel my heart sank as I take the stairs from the 8th floor down to the basement. I walk slowly. One stair step at a time. Have this smile on my face as I penetrate to the walls and remember. Many things and none at the same time...

17 swiss institute. Now with a new name that I saw them hanging while I am sitting on the bawab's wooden bench under the immeuble. I asked what are you hanging? 'Oh, the new name?' And what was wrong with the old one! Probably nothing and the new name also means nothing still. Apart from the famous name but who is the person to change the name of my street to without asking for our permission. It makes me snarl and think that these people have nothing better to do than just changing the names of the streets to some other name, while people still call it by the old name. SO why bother? Do they have to force us to change what we are used to? Was not it enough the detour they did to the streets? Now the removal of old names to the new ones. I wonder what's next?

Sometimes the best way to being a parent is not to be a parent for a while. This is someting I am trying to do but fail miserably everytime I attempt to. Well, I have decided since quite sometime to backoff and watch the little baby as it manuvers and find its own path and urge. With lots of struggle I let it be, and I am letting it be up to this moment. Either through being harsh, kind, available and discrete or simply over parenting. It is tough especially with personalities that are not only as controlling as mine, but also that have the minimum amount of patience and like to get things down. I am not open in general, but sadly more not open to a lot of bullshitting under any name; spoilt character or indecisiveness where choices are not an option to me but a must take or just leave. Well, I see where the baby is going. From here to there but no no, for sure not to the old habbit of biting your nails. Will attempt to make me watch while you bite your nails, I will make sure to cut y...