"fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up fostered alike by beauty and by fear"

Seed-time begotten and betrayed
Choices and fate, yet none its own
Fostered by fear, yet not afraid
Fostered by beauty and by scorn

A river waltzing for july
A humming bird, a butterfly
A rainbow thrown from sky to sky
A rose's scent, a rose's thorn

Seed-time of joy and golden rain
Moments to curse others to mourn
Much of it sensed yet e'er unborn

Seed-time deceit, seed-time in vain
When all your seed and all your grain
At sowing time is fully grown

Beyond tomorrow

I feel that my life is calling me to a place I have forever dreamt about. A place that feels like home, and yet that seems depressingly out of reach.
Today, and yesterday, I feel like the road that leads to great things is pulling me by the hand, great things that I always thought were mine and were me. Things without which I would be somebody else. Today I can hear the calling, but my eyes see little of a blur.
Must I follow a voice that might be none other but the screams of my own anguish and deception.. Must I turn away and take the road of a crisp horizon.. Must I trail my instincts and run after my dreams..

My life so far was chosen for me. The failures I might endure shall not be my own. If now I choose to take the ship that hugs the storm, the shores I might dock on will be ones of enchantment and wonder.
Yet if the storm wrecks my ship, I will be drowning alone. And I will be dying a million deaths, like the prophet who lived long enough to see none of his prophecies fulfilled.

My fingers are cramping. I feel strangely consumed. Consumed by my choice, when my choice is but one that was carved in the shape of my skull, the color of my eyes, in my father, my land, in each planet and each sun.

Funny. Consumed by my choice when my choice will always be me, but will never be really mine. Ever.

My fingers are cramping again. Maybe I should sleep. Maybe the night will whisper something in my ear. Maybe tomorrow I will know that beyond tomorrow is where I am truly destined to be.

I am thirsty

I am thirsty. My lips are dry and cracked.
My soul is shrinking.
I cry.

The light is calling me. The night. The world. I am tired of my clothes. I am tired of my hair and my toothbrush.
The streets are wide open for me. The sun is waiting. It won't set today. It said it will wait until I cannot run anymore.
The trees and the birds, my friends. Butterfly, my guide.
Tangerine moon bathing in my pond, lay your tangerine kisses on my fingers and my cheeks.
Take me to you and keep me.
Take me now.
Take me and I shall not return.

In the warm shade of my tangerine moon,
I cry.

I am back

I am physically back. But my feelings are a blur and a part of me is still roaming the lit up midnight alleys of downtown Beirut. People with people watching people. Eating, drinking, laughing, dancing. Pulsating with a strange and infinite energy for living. Like all of existence was but a smoke-choked flesh-packed red-shaded quaking underground club of formidable sin that never tires and never sleeps. Part of me is still there, painted on the walls and the sidewalks like some ugly graffiti, stinking the fumes of other people's cigarettes, exhaling the vapors of other people's liquor, drenched in sweat and nectar, fallen and drowned in the vortex of a deeply perturbed consciousness, yet a consciousness that has come closer to its origins than it ever has or ever will again..
I am back, but the midnight alleys of downtown Beirut and its sinful children are still pasted on my clothes and on my skin. As I am pasted on theirs.
And the clean and empty streets of this city need nothing from me. Have nothing of me. And nothing for me. I walk them like a prisoner walks the hallway between the cell and a visiting room where he knows no one is waiting.
Yes I am back, and I am here, but I know not if I ever was here. And if I was, or thought I was, I know now that I never will be back again.