21:51:07
I’m sleepless at a distance from Beirut.
Red messaged me “Are you safe?”
Exactly twenty four hours had passed since the blast in Achrafieh that cast a heavy shadow over our glazed eyes, and I was beginning to wonder whether this guy really cared about me or whether he watched every TV channel but the news.
I was safe and I was happy. I was happy to escape into a corner of the country where I could love it with all my heart. The sea was a blanket of golden oil, one with the sky, and Yamamoto and I were zooming towards the blinding sun, our screams of free at last, free at last diving in and out of the waves and the wind pockets we left in tow.
“Let’s go to Cyprus!!! Yamamoto, shafte, shafte!”
And she was a glorious driver, my peals of joyous laughter justifying the tears in my eyes. We saw nothing but a soft blurred horizon, a barely visible line between nude lipstick and skin, something of an allegory for the days to come.
“After yesterday, khallas, I am not neutral anymore, this is not normal…”, her voice filled the car on our way to Batroun.
No more neutral. No more neutered balls. No more neutered innocence and innocent lives. “Patriarch, Mufti condemn the blast”, I read that morning on some .com. Tell us something new old men, because we commend the new, because we condemn your century-old neutered balls and we commend the new. This is no country for old men who struggle with creative writing, who plagiarize pages of dated history and cheat and pay their way to a passing grade. Let’s face it – you are failures and you have failed us. All of you old-timers have failed your people, your people and every single one of your Gods is witness to your failure. I don’t know how you sleep at night or swallow your food or sound your sirens when you bully us on the road, when you bully us with your cancerous roadblocks and your cancerous ideals. I don’t know how you wash your hands, how you dry your dirty laundry in the public square nor how you came to be so apt in self-brainwash. There is nothing noble or honourable you can do for this rich (now depleted) magnificent (now scarred) ancient (still stuck) land that you were lucky to be born in, but do not deserve to walk on, let alone serve. There is nothing noble or honourable you can do because you, when alone in your head or with your sacred book on your head, cannot even serve yourself the truth that you are failures, failures, failures. Any self-respecting well-meaning man or woman would either retreat or try harder and harder and harder until implosion. Instead, you jerk off upon all of us and spread your defunct, impaired, curdled semen into hollow craniums that may as well have been dug up from some Stone Age mass grave. We condemn your frustrated strokes and tugs and your impotent cloudy trickles, and most of all we condemn your demand for us to swallow. No more swallow, no more neutral, we condemn the whole lot of you. We don’t want you. We want new.
I’m sleepless at a distance from Beirut.
Red messaged me “Are you safe?”
Exactly twenty four hours had passed since the blast in Achrafieh that cast a heavy shadow over our glazed eyes, and I was beginning to wonder whether this guy really cared about me or whether he watched every TV channel but the news.
I was safe and I was happy. I was happy to escape into a corner of the country where I could love it with all my heart. The sea was a blanket of golden oil, one with the sky, and Yamamoto and I were zooming towards the blinding sun, our screams of free at last, free at last diving in and out of the waves and the wind pockets we left in tow.
“Let’s go to Cyprus!!! Yamamoto, shafte, shafte!”
And she was a glorious driver, my peals of joyous laughter justifying the tears in my eyes. We saw nothing but a soft blurred horizon, a barely visible line between nude lipstick and skin, something of an allegory for the days to come.
“After yesterday, khallas, I am not neutral anymore, this is not normal…”, her voice filled the car on our way to Batroun.
No more neutral. No more neutered balls. No more neutered innocence and innocent lives. “Patriarch, Mufti condemn the blast”, I read that morning on some .com. Tell us something new old men, because we commend the new, because we condemn your century-old neutered balls and we commend the new. This is no country for old men who struggle with creative writing, who plagiarize pages of dated history and cheat and pay their way to a passing grade. Let’s face it – you are failures and you have failed us. All of you old-timers have failed your people, your people and every single one of your Gods is witness to your failure. I don’t know how you sleep at night or swallow your food or sound your sirens when you bully us on the road, when you bully us with your cancerous roadblocks and your cancerous ideals. I don’t know how you wash your hands, how you dry your dirty laundry in the public square nor how you came to be so apt in self-brainwash. There is nothing noble or honourable you can do for this rich (now depleted) magnificent (now scarred) ancient (still stuck) land that you were lucky to be born in, but do not deserve to walk on, let alone serve. There is nothing noble or honourable you can do because you, when alone in your head or with your sacred book on your head, cannot even serve yourself the truth that you are failures, failures, failures. Any self-respecting well-meaning man or woman would either retreat or try harder and harder and harder until implosion. Instead, you jerk off upon all of us and spread your defunct, impaired, curdled semen into hollow craniums that may as well have been dug up from some Stone Age mass grave. We condemn your frustrated strokes and tugs and your impotent cloudy trickles, and most of all we condemn your demand for us to swallow. No more swallow, no more neutral, we condemn the whole lot of you. We don’t want you. We want new.
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