Mazloum

2012. What a year, eh? Sure, the world didn't end (I still call shenanigans on that), but no one can deny that this was a particularly feisty one. I won't lie; I'm not particularly sad to see this year go, especially since its second half was nothing short of a disaster in all possible aspects, but still, I choose to believe that it could've been worse, and that is one thing to be thankful for. Yep, thanks 2012, for not being an even worse year. Thanks for the roof above my head and the bed I sleep in at night. Thanks for keeping me close to my family. Thanks for letting me see them smile and be happy around me. Thanks for giving me the chance to hug my mom as often as I could. Thanks for the opportunity to hear my dad's voice, even if it's mostly chiding me for no reason. Thanks for the chance to hang out with my friends, and to see them happy with their loved ones. Thanks for letting me be by their side during the happy moments, and the sad. Thanks for al

Vignettes is a current writing project of mine, mainly a few short stories - some of them fictional, some of them real, and some just random musings about the state of the world we live in.  It’s one of those things you find hard to forget. Even if it does evade you for a little while, it still finds its way back to the forefront of your memory, sooner or later, and you decide to document it, if only to acknowledge that you do recall everything, down to the very details. The thoughts, the feelings; they all come alive in your head once more, and there’s nothing quite like it. This happened to me a few years ago, though the exact date eludes me. It was Friday, I believe, and I was just about done with Friday prayers. I was on my way out of the mosque, tying my shoelaces, when an old man walks over to me and starts putting on his shoes as well. Being the introverted recluse that I am, I really do not pay attention to the man, keeping to myself instead until I’m done and ready to

Leaders. Commanders-in-chief. Generals. Great men. Great men? It's a question that I've been pondering a lot recently. Wars have been part of human history since its conception, but the idea still irks me to this day. What is a war, really? At its very core, it's the decision that you're going to take someone else's life for some reason, be it conquest and expansion, or seeking vengeance for some slight, or a number of other equally viable (and ridiculous) issues worth fighting for. But then, you just have to think about it; the simple man, the smallest unit in an army of thousands, what's his stake in all of this? Is his life even slightly benefited by waging war against his fellow man? Does he even believe in a cause that - most likely - isn't his? It baffles me, how those generals and commanders manage to convince their subordinates to head into a bloody trench, in search of glory that is - by definition - fleeting and momentary. These men-of-war

I am at what some might call an interesting juncture in one's life. Currently, I'm back to being without a job, but - through some stroke of misguided luck - I'm back in class, studying (and teaching) my way towards a second master's. The past few weeks have been somewhat tumultuous, to say the least; errands to take care of, things to sign, paperwork to forget about, etc, etc...but it's not just that. It's been a veritable hell inside my head. I do not know how to describe it, but I have a massive problem with lack of clarity. Not knowing what the coming step might be irks me to a great extent, much like an itch that you cannot scratch. I toss and turn for hours in bed, trying to think my way through a situation, wondering where it might lead, and I end up not knowing. It is not an enviable place to be in. This all culminated in a night, a few days ago, when I couldn't take it anymore. I was literally freaking out, thinking that my future had been

How's your day going? Is it 'the best you've ever had'? It is 'the most awesome thing since sliced bread'? How about that cupcake? Is it '> life'? Are you 'experiencing multiple foodgasms'? Do you 'Loooooove this' and 'adoreeeeeee that'? Well, isn't that nice. Being an avid user of Facebook and Twitter, I'm no stranger to the expressions people use to reflect their current mood or thought. What troubles me, however, is the amount of hyperbole that keeps sneaking into such statements, that it becomes almost impossible to take people seriously (not that taking people seriously on such media is a good idea in the first place, but for the sake of the current argument, let's assume that you do). It is curious, because it's becoming unacceptable for a person to simply state how he feels, that he simply likes or loves something. No, you have to state how much you adore it, or how much it disgusted you. It ha

I've just finished Cloud Atlas, and there was this quote near the end of the book that I felt the need to share. "Scholars discern motions in history and formulate these motions into rules that govern the rises & falls of civilizations. My belief runs contrary, however. To wit: history admits no rules; only outcomes.  What precipitates outcomes? Vicious acts & virtuous acts. What precipitates acts? Belief. Belief is both prize & battlefield, within the mind & in the mind's mirror, the world. If we believe humanity is a ladder of tribes, a colosseum of confrontation, exploitation & bestiality, such a humanity is surely brought into being, & history's Horroxes, Boerhaaves and Gooses shall prevail" (Those are examples of villains in the book.) "You & I, the moneyed, the privileged, the fortunate, shall not fare so badly in this world, provided our luck holds. What of it if our consciences itch? Why undermine the dominance

What if I told you that your existence is a mere second of thought within a much larger mind? Would that fascinate you or scare you? We are always inclined to lend importance to our existence, that our lives are a big deal. We're here for a reason, we keep telling ourselves.  But is that a truth, or is it a lie that we perpetuate and repeat ad infinitum, in the hopes that we'll believe it, or perhaps in the hopes that saying so would make them so.  Of course, there is nothing that suggests otherwise, and for all I know, we might truly be a big deal, but it is sometimes interesting (and quite funny) to note the tricks that we play upon ourselves, during the grand quest for self-worth.  But then, how would you derive your sense of self-worth? Do you base it upon the opinions of others? The opinions of the well-cultured few? Perhaps your very own opinion. It's quite funny to discuss this with people, and watch them tear apart each hypothesis with such furor that

A quick thought.. It's funny how, in modern times, technology has led us to feel that we need to stay 'connected' at all times. Losing one's internet access is akin to losing a limb now, and it's actually quite ridiculous. What's even more ridiculous is the fact that through such 'connection', we are actually 'disconnected' from the actual, real world we live in. Our world becomes confined to an LCD/LED screen and a few scrolls and keystrokes, and we're completely fine with it. How long until we wholly forsake real connections for ethereal ones? Until all our senses are tethered to something that's not really there? Will we mourn or celebrate it? I worry, sometimes.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being is a very special book. I came to it not knowing what exactly to expect, I’d never read any of Kundera’s books before, and most of my friends -while confirming that it’s a great book - refused to tell me more, opting to tell me that I have to read it to know what’s so special about it.  I thank them for doing so. Upon picking up the book, and starting to read, I realized that Kundera has a very interesting way of approaching his story. He doesn’t go for the pure approach of simply listing events and characters, neither does he wax philosophical about motivations and motifs without purpose. He achieves an amazing balance between both, weaving events and thoughts together in a manner that had me hooked from the very first page.

The worst thing that can ever happen to an over-thinker is being faced with a situation that actually requires him to stop thinking and actually wait and act accordingly, because all he ends up doing is sitting there, thinking about all the ways things can go wrong, and thus he ends up caught in a nightmare that is not yet real, but is very likely to gain form through his own misgivings. It is a sad, worrisome thing.

Let's Talk About is - going to be, hopefully - a series aimed at discussing things that I've read, watched or listened to, and found necessitating further discussion later on. Stay tuned for fun stuff. Note: This is mostly aimed as a rebuttal, after reading Shereen Gaber's review of the movie here . All right. So, last week I've had the chance - or rather the misfortune- of watching the movie adaptation of Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter, a novel by Seth Grahame-Smith which aims at sprucing up one of America's most famous presidents, by making him moonlight as a vampire hunter.  I actually enjoyed the book a great deal; it was well-written, played its cards right, and even though the entire situation was completely ludicrous, my suspension of disbelief remained entirely untouched. So, when I learned that the book was to be adapted into a movie, I rejoiced! It seemed like a perfect match, and they'd even managed to bring in Grahame-Smith to write th

Here's an excerpt from the anthology Other Worlds Than These , a short story entitled Impossible Dreams , by Tim Pratt. It's really quite awesome. (Visit the website here for more info about the anthology. All credit goes to Wired for sharing this.) ‘Impossible Dreams’ by Tim Pratt Pete was walking home from the revival movie house, where he’d caught an evening showing of  To Have and Have Not , when he first saw the video store. He stopped on the sidewalk, head cocked, frowning at the narrow store squeezed between a kitschy gift shop and a bakery. He stepped toward the door, peered inside, and saw old movie posters on the walls, racks of DVDs and VHS tapes, and a big screen TV against one wall. The lettering on the door read “Impossible Dreams Video,” and the smudges on the glass suggested it had been in business for a while. Except it  hadn’t  been. Pete knew every video store in the county, from the big chains to the tiny place staffed by film students up

People usually do lists on their blogs, right? Thought I'd get with the program. Here are a few things I'd be quite happy about them happening before my eventual demise (read: ascension to Valhalla and bro-ing out with Thor and Odin): 1 - Travel to seven different countries. Get hopelessly lost in one, have a life-changing epiphany in another. 2 - Be on the roof of a really tall building at sunset, stay there chatting with friends until sunrise. 3 - Wake up one day to nothing but the sea and the sky. Oh, and a book. Clothes optional. 4 - Punch someone. Doesn't have to be a massive one. Just a punch. 5- Be hugged lovingly by a child, and not just because I just gave them candy. 6- Write a best-selling book. Tease my nemesis endlessly about it.          Addendum: - Get a nemesis. 7 - Jump off a waterfall. Hopefully not land in shallow water. 8 - Live long enough for someone to discover a drug that would make my parents live forever

I write to feel right. This is - quite basically - the reason I write at all. My brain is often a cauldron, within which thoughts are constantly frothing and bubbling, threatening to spill over the edges, but the cauldron is tightly sealed, and so the thoughts keep percolating endlessly, never surrendering, only giving rise to more thoughts and ideas until you feel like your head is about to burst. And so, I grab a pen, and with it I carve holes into my skull, allowing all the thoughts to filter through in an orderly (or not so orderly) manner, so that I can simply stop feeling like my head is three times its size, so I can stop grinding my teeth so hard that I feel my jaw giving way. I write to stop feeling angry, or sad, or tired, or even to celebrate my happiness or random bouts of content. I write, because I like words. It's ironic how I've managed to fail to find a word that expresses how I feel about words. There is no word, sadly, to describe that feeling you

A few minutes ago, I looked out my window, and saw the moon. Then it hit me; I am on the surface of a planet, looking up at something thousands of kilometers away, reflecting the light of something that is even farther than that. Scale is such a funny thing. We think the world of our problems, whereas we're really, really small. Take a moment, look out your window right now, and think about it. Is it really worth worrying about?

This was initially triggered by a six-word suggestion from a fellow Twitter user. Thanks, Amenah. This is also dedicated to Adly , who was one of the first people to encourage me to start this blog, and who's leaving the country soon. You shall be missed! ----------------- You were in my dreams again yesterday. You stood there, clutching that lace umbrella you loved so much. I watch in awe, as you twirl it playfully in your hands, and I can see you’ve painted your nails blue, that brilliant azure color that I’ve always loved so much. I smile, you’ve always had a thing for all things Victorian; you called them regal, austere, beautiful. 

My existence is a series of questions that I attempt to answer everyday, and the answers never really impress me. I start with the obvious. “What am I?” - that one is easy enough. I am a man, a human being, an assortment of organs linked together by myriad vessels in a body that runs like clockwork. I am a being that is recognized by fellow beings as one of their own, part of a herd, member of the not-so-exclusive club of Humanity. At least, that’s the physical interpretation of my existence. I am okay with that, it is clear and clean-cut, and it’s hard to argue against. It is what I perceive myself as, and it is close enough to what I perceive others as. So, it’s all right. Then you move on to “Who am I?”, and that’s where the problems start; how do you know who you are? Do you define yourself, again, by your physical existence? No, because then you’d lose your individuality, that you fought for so valiantly by popping out of that birth canal, and you just become another

I'm writing this post because a certain trend has come to my attention, which is no way new or unexpected, but the repercussions of which are truly staggering. We, as humans, have this amazing tendency to abuse whatever privileges we manage to provide for ourselves; various forms of energy, all sorts of ingenious inventions, but no privilege has been more widespread in its disastrous effects on the human race than the exponential growth in technological advancements, and especially the internet. Consider your life right now; you spend your day connected to the internet, browsing a massive amount of websites, reading, watching videos, checking in to your favorite coffee shop (then whining about how everyone now gets their coffee there and you have to stand in a queue for half an hour...God, those troglodytes!), then you see something nice and you decide to take a photo and maybe share it on Twitter or Instagram, and maybe then you'll record a video of your favorite undergroun

What am I doing here? I’m in a country I don’t know, working with people I’ve never seen before, discussing a topic that I’m not even sure I’m interested in anymore. And yet, here I am, walking down the only street I know, trying not to feel like it’s all a waste of time. And then I see this famous donut shop, and I realize that even though I’ve been there for weeks, I haven’t even tried a donut. I never even thought about it, even though I walked down that street probably a dozen times since I got here. Apathy? Perhaps. Maybe I should just go home. The thoughts are still circling my head, giving me no respite, as I walk into the shop and decide to maybe try one of the donuts. I walk up to the counter and... ...you know what? I’m sure you’ll think I’m exaggerating, or maybe you’ll roll your eyes when I say it, thinking that I’m just another person spouting off nonsense, or perhaps I was in a deeply impressionable state, but I’m pretty sure that the girl I saw working at the counter th

“All right, you know what? I’m leaving.” “What? Why?” “Because I’m sick of this. Of ALL of this. I can’t take it anymore.” “But, you can’t leave.” “Why can’t I?” “Because...I dunno, because you’re not supposed to leave. You need to be here with me.” “Really? And why is that? What makes you think I’m not supposed to leave?” “You’ve been here with me since as far as I can remember!” “That’s not a good enough reason.” “No?” “No. You could say that I’ve never...known any better, and so I just resorted to sticking around, seeing how things go.” “And now?” “Well, now I can see that this is not the best use of my time, and so I’ve decided to move on.” “So, it’s like that then?” “Oh, please. Don’t give me that wounded dog tone. It’s not like you ever paid attention to me in the first place.” “What?” “Oh, yeah. When was the last time you thought of me? Talked to me? Even looked at me! Think about it. It’s like you don’t even know I’m there.” “But, I do know. I just...” “You j

Having recently acquired an iPad, I realized quickly the value of the device as a means of reading digital comic books, and seeing as I do enjoy them and have been hankering for a way to read them more efficiently (and with enhanced mobility), it turned out to be a lifesaver. I dove right in, picking up necessary reads such as  Fables  and Neil Gaiman's stellar  Sandman . A close friend of mine,  Marwan  (a multi-talented artist, musician and comedian whom you should follow right now), told me to drop everything I was reading and pick up  Daytripper  instead. I listened to him, and I'm very glad I did. (Note: This might include spoilers for the comic.) Daytripper Vol. 1 I really had no idea what to expect when I started reading it. The cover seemed imaginative and interesting, and the artwork and writing were stellar, to say the least. The main character, Bras, is introduced as an aspiring writer who's stuck writing obituaries for a newspaper. You learn a bit ab

Okay, so.. I've been debating writing this for a almost a week now, because I wasn't entirely sure whether I wanted to do so in the first place. At times, I thought that I needed to do so or risk my head exploding. Other times, I felt that it was completely unnecessary and a waste of time. I would be lying if I said that right now, I leaned towards one opinion or the other, but since I'm trying to regret as few things as possible, I decided to get this out there instead of wondering whether I should or not. Last week has been a particularly stressful one; I'd been hurt pretty badly by a person quite close to me, and in the ensuing void created by that person's absence, I've been driven to wonder about a lot of things. Primarily, about the peculiarities of being happy. I am not afraid to admit that being around that person made me happy, and that for the first time in ages, that happiness seemed to be a dynamo that was urging me forward in other fields of li

Wow, it's been some time since I posted anything, hasn't it? But why, one must wonder. Was it because I was too busy with many things? Nope. Was it because I had suddenly and spontaneously grown a life? Nope. Was it because my mind was empty and I didn't have anything to talk about? Hah, far from it! It was simple, run-of-the-mill 'I'm so lazy that I don't even feel like letting what percolates in my mind find its way into the ether.'. It is somewhat pathetic to think about now, so perhaps I should keep the pace up instead of finding myself addressing this again. I mean, one can only deal with so much embarrassment. (Though your mileage might vary with regards to that. I seem to be reminded daily that some people have no shame.) So, why are we here today? Well, some of you might have heard of the infamous "Scumbag Brain" meme, which makes fun of the fact that the human brain can be quite the asshole at times; forgetting the important things you

- Few things rival that feeling, when nostalgia creeps up your spine, and finally reaches your eyes. There's then this faint squeeze upon your eyeballs, and before you know it, you're all teary-eyed. - More often that not, I can trace where a relationship has gone wrong back to an exact phrase or expression. It is not a good talent to have. - Relevant to the prior point: I spent the entirety of my teenage years wishing I had a time machine to rectify mistakes in my exams, or in conversations with my parents. I often went to sleep wishing I'd wake up to repeat the prior day. I was a weird kid. - When I was reading Half Blood Prince , I could feel my face grow red when Harry kissed Ginny. It was not lust, it was a feeling of jealousy that I'd never experienced in real life. (You can get the Forever Alone jokes out of your system now. Done? Good.) - I rarely curse in Arabic, and when I do, I feel awkward afterwards. Same thing regarding dirty jokes. - I have a v

Note: I had a thought that brooked writing, and then it all essentially tumbled out of me. Here is what transpired. The mouth of the cave yawned before her, bleak and menacing, as she trudged through the dreary forest. As she topped the final hill, she stopped to survey her surroundings, standing at the edge of the forest; the lands around her seemed as unfamiliar as ever, yet she couldn't bring herself to be surprised by the realization, just as she couldn't bring herself to be surprised by the fact that she was decked in a full suit of silvery armor, brandishing an ornate sword in one hand and a torch in the other. She did not know why she was there, but she knew that there was a reason, a purpose for her existence and location, and her curiosity got the better of her - just as it had for the past few hours - driving her forward so as to uncover the inscrutable mystery. The woods sighed softly as she left them, moving closer to the cave's entrance. She peered inside

One of the most annoying things about writing is when you cannot articulate how you feel in words and phrases. The emotional spectrum of human beings is far larger and wider than the vocabulary provided by the English language. This does not take into consideration the abundance of medical and psychological terms, because while these may manage to describe symptoms and statuses, they fail to reflect the true essence of the state: the emotion. I am currently faced with a monumental task here, that of describing how I feel. Some readers might find this a bit redundant, since my very first post was entirely about my thoughts and feelings, and how they figure into the process of writing. But, it's been some time now, and I'm more confident in my capability to write. What is suspect at the moment is my capability to discern how I feel. What bothers me at the moment, is the fact that I feel immensely alone. This is not an attempt to whine, nor is it a cry for help, sympathy or p

I hate ruffling people's feathers, but I will inevitably do so when I broach the topic of religion and beliefs. See, the fact that it ruffles people's feathers in the first place is what's wrong. People find it immensely hard to realize that religion is theirs, and theirs alone. Sure, it's nice when you have others who share your point of view (or faith), but it is not necessary. Let's examine something; what is religion? Faith. Belief. It is a decision you make, based on 'something' (be it reflection, introspection, family's handed-down beliefs, seeing God in a donut or a bagel), to have certain thoughts about the world around you. Perhaps you believe that there's a higher existence or a deity that created the world. Maybe you think that the world just came to be through some sort of cosmic incident that came along. You might be under the impression that the world is borne on the back of a giant turtle (If you do, then hello, Terry Pratchet! Glad

Note: A long time ago, spurred along by a friend of mine , I tweeted a few statements starting by the word "She". They were supposedly directed towards a woman, an entity who might (or might not) exist,  attempting to encompass what she was to the writer. It was a fun endeavor, one that I undertook several times afterwards, and so I decided to see what would happen if I attempted it upon this platform instead; wanton prose in essence, directed at the mysterious yet omnipresent She. You look into her eyes and you see everything; your own self, reflected in the ever-flattering mirror that is her beautiful soul. Those orbs of vision, they always comfort you, telling you that you're not so bad at all. The whites of her eyes, crisscrossed with rivulets of red, a reminder of the purity you once had but misplaced. She tells you that it's still there, buried beneath the years of disillusionment, pain and disappointment. Her irises, much like everything about her, are in co

We live in a curious world; one where the honest portrayal of feelings and emotions is frowned upon. We're encouraged to be secretive, to keep our emotions and thoughts to ourselves. We all do it, thinking that we don't want to be a burden upon others, we don't want to bring them down with our own sadness (or, alternatively, don't want to flaunt our happiness in their less-than-fortunate faces), and so we keep to ourselves. Problem is, this is also combined with the revelation that 'No One Cares'. It is hammered quite intensely during several years, that no one really gives a damn about those thoughts and feelings you have. 'Everyone's got their own troubles, and they're not exactly keen on having yours added to the mix' as someone once told me. This just reinforces the concept of humans becoming thought islands, forbidding in their remoteness and almost inaccessible. It saddens me, especially as someone who's inherently socially inept.