Life As A Writer

Michael Daaboul. 26 y/o from Australia/Melbourne. Digital Designer & Creative Writer.

creative writing

the memory thief

Following the path to the greenest and most marvellous hills I have ever seen; tall and majestic; my vision blurred by its awe. The wind gently brushing the long grass as it fills the gaps between my arms. Just for this moment, I feel like I can fly.

There is a distant smile climbing the mountain; a distant wonder I can’t follow.  A winding road just ahead and it seems like a celebration towards the end. Not needing to live in pain, not needing to pretend, this gentle voice of clarity, a soothing voice of redemption, a touch of peace, a distant dream.

I’m walking inside my mind and my eyes open. There is the smile once again, a tear that is shed so long ago.

These memories of unforeseen reasons, this everlasting reminder of what little hope there is; a change for the season, how our thoughts get crushed and hidden.

Sedation and stress free; not longing but a premature feeling. Watching the changes, not the magnificent howling experienced, but the constantly repeating nostalgia of what we miss.

Still miss.

Thinking about it every day until something will change. A constant swirling of routine, assures of a long scenic drive of a never ending view just beyond the windscreen.

Memories are stolen and deceive you as they have faded, decaying, as the Memory Thief is begging.

You really don’t know what you had until it’s gone, if the Memory Thief makes it this time, be sure to remember for one last moment what made you smile before your memories are gone.

314 words of intangible knots

My surroundings fall as I walk in and out of my dreams. All of my hope is fading away and the first thing that comes to mind is you and wishing that you were by my side.

As the world had trouble keeping the sky in place; all I heard was silence; your only gift to me.

My thoughts drift further away from my mind, they escaped the empty darkness and they told me they needed time; this, empty darkness of thoughts, held heavily in place with crowded knots; a crowded population of misplaced knots.

I closed my eyes and they were already gone, escaped and torn. The world has become a fountain, but it did a good job of disguising the rubble as tears.

I don’t believe anything anymore. You say that your thinking protects you and anything you do.

I remember you like it was yesterday. A brand new day and like yesterday and tomorrow, I’m reminded of where I’m not and where you will be; stuck in a series of intangible knots.

It was hard for you to give me honesty, forgetting my name and everything, forgetting who I am.

Walking as my surroundings fall between, my limited sanity accepting the apology of the world as the rubble falls like rain.

Don’t say it, I don’t believe it. This apology, don’t dare say it, the world won’t accept it. The world is torn and the darkness has escaped.

Today it feels so strange from the falling. All of this leftover hope … silence was all you gave me.

This silence was all we ever gave this world in return our world reflecting our forgotten and misplaced thoughts.

The sound of trumpets and puppet masters walk beside me in River Street beside the left and right lanes, the ending to The World’s very own tragedy, and an epic written in 314 words.

the train driver

I look at the windows on the train passing by and I don’t see my own reflection. For a few seconds this scene is frozen. On this platform, no one has a reflection looking on to the train. Everyone could see without distraction everyone else riding along in a consistent path to nowhere, hoping the train will take them to salvation, or a better place.

Some ride for the thrill, some put on headphones and get lost inside another world of their own music clips, some bounce their eyes from side to side watching the scenery and others have nothing left to live for so they journey along with the rest of us.

The train driver doesn’t have a reflection as he never parted from the train and in turn was never able to see if he had a reflection. In fact, no one from inside the train could see their own image reflected from the windows, but they could see us outside, and so I came to the conclusion, no one was able to see their true selves any more; stuck inside a world without any projection, or any significance.

The train driver knows this piece of information, most people do, but especially the train driver. He doesn’t come out of the train even when he doesn’t have to be inside there. He is scared and fearful that he might not have a reflection and therefore will be subjected to the same subjectiveness we are all subjected to.

Subjected to torment, subjected by imprisonment of a moving catalyst leading to nowhere.

We all just try to get along moving to a destination made of circles, never truly knowing why we have stopped leaving behind our own image or why our soulless tombs has become so soulless. 

As he might not know what is going on, or where we are going, the train driver feels as if he has an important mission to get us where we need to go, although that’s how he feels and if he wasn’t the driver, then most of us would be left waiting on the platform and standing still on the train.

After all, just like the train driver, none of us really know what is going on; sometimes, even with a train driver, some are still left waiting and standing still.

no surprise

It’s no surprise the truth never becomes acquainted with the lie. It’s no surprise; the lie was created by the failure of truth in the beginning of its creation, the devil of the leftovers, the trail of betrayal, the black blemish hidden behind the glory of the truth.

Behind all the pretty lights and the unconvincing smiles, the lurking burden fails to understand why the brighter, more powerful concept was able to thrive without its flaw.

The failure left so the glory could be had with the perfect being, the perfect concept. Unfortunately, you’ll never know what they knew, it wasn’t what they said.

What they said …

It’s futile. It was too cruel out there. It’s a stage made for the strong, and you know how the next part goes, even the strong know when to fall.

That’s no surprise.

The darker part decided to leave one day, sick of being left behind, behind the curtains of shame, covered behind a hidden world of blankets. 

"I see the truth. It’s not really made for you."

"But I …"

"It’s not made for you."

It’s no surprise that your dreams reminded you of the betrayal and the unfaithfulness of your own kind, your own blood, the not so perfect strain of life, and, the embarrassing part.

You tried to understand, understand your deficiencies, but you knew where their true heart lies.

the curse inside your eyes

What if you told them to stay away, even when they try to look into your eyes, you could have warned them, but the curse kept you from killing them inside.

Now everything feels like it’s coming your way and then you listen, you listen to the beats of your name. You hear it coming, coming to the beat of your name. No one can feel the same, the same way you can feel inside, no one can feel any emotions like you can feel.

Honestly, it’s not a game, but you tell them it is, just to break away from the pack, but nobody told them to stop looking into your eyes. They couldn’t stop, the enduring gravity pulsating from your eyes.

You could have warned them, but you knew the curse would have killed you inside.

You’re sick of this bleeding, the bleeding that’s embedded into your eyes, embedded inside this hole; the hole that you dug for yourself. 

You dug for yourself.

They chase you, but you know it’s not a game. Some day they will find you, they will find what’s hidden beneath the disguise. They will tempt fate and even try to seduce your mind, even though they know they will lose, every attempt they made was foreseen by their own abuse.

They will make you, break you, say, I love you. They break you; make you; make you feel alone inside. If you get bitten this time, don’t throw your world away; write a song about it, like the curse that’s hidden in your eyes. 

You know, with one breath, you can save everyone hurting inside, from the mess around you, you will send every stranger packing away tonight.

waiting for the end

I’ll stand here waiting for the day to end and I will know that today will never be the same again.

I will do the same thing with tomorrow and I will know that tomorrow will not matter.

How can I let this day go when I know it will fade away?

And now I will follow the day everywhere until I know it’s gone for good and I will stand there on the edge of the cliff of hidden mountains, accompanied by the darkness of the night.

I can still hear the day fading away and it will know, even when it’s gone, I will still be listening.

The day taught me to live like it was the last few moments in the world, it taught me not to be so helpless. Now it has gone, I’m chasing after what I know would never be the same again.

When everyone has forgotten about you, there will be those who will remember …

When everyone has stopped listening, there will be those who will listen …

In those eyes that have waited, they will be reminded of you and within you, they will not fall away. The pain will subside and your voice will whisper through the wind when the branches of our life bend.

If they bent the truth far enough and if heaven has become a lie, we’ll all realise it was the last time we’ll see you rise and the last time for anything.

We have the memories to remember. It’s hopeless. It’s not enough to replace what has faded away. It’s become worthless.

Today will never be the same again and tomorrow, will not matter.


Sometimes you could feel it, beating and pulsating around your head. It’s letting you know that you’re alive in those moments where you don’t feel like you really can go on.

All across the night, you hear it beat to your tune, that consistency is pleasing when nothing seems consistent in your life.

And during this night, often cold and miserable, you think to yourself why is it the only time you would like to converse with someone that isn’t there. Yet, you feel as if there is someone for you that could listen to what you have to say. But instead, you whisper the words to the Moon. It’s always outside your window, at any time, in any part of the world. It’s probably there, beside every window ready to hear what is no longer heard.

For a moment, you thought that you found calm during the night. I guess you could feel it beating again. You have so much to say and you feel like you’re stumbling over your own words and running out of time before the Moon vanishes before you as the Sun starts to hit the sky.

You run outside the house, extending your arms towards streetlights and swinging to the next hoping you could tell the Moon one last thought, in hope that it would hear you that you won’t ever tell a lie. You just want to make everything feel right.

The magic in your life seems to be limited and everything around you has become a little too ordinary.

You don’t believe in prayer, or the ridiculous things people do when there is nothing to resort to.

You walk back home, this time, feeling the beating as you might have forgotten that you’re alive and you might have gone on by and you start to understand what being on autopilot means. Life has a way of escaping you when there’s little self-awareness.

Even though the night is still and quiet, it is the only time when the world outside wants to hear what you have to say inside. Even when you know the world is a cruel, conniving bastard, you have it in your heart to forgive all its sins for one more moment.  

It gives you time to walk and swing on the streetlights within your thoughts, when no one is around, the patience of the night often makes time tick a little slower than normal. It’s your chance to recover for another day on planet Earth.

running past lies

The truth made it to me, eventually. I couldn’t understand what it was saying because it had trouble catching its breath. Running past lies all day is tiring, I thought.

But, it did make it to me and I listened in anticipation, but nothing came out; hot air, but no words.

So I sat there with truth, just waited and staring with curious thoughts.

Truth stood there looking at me, dazed.

The lies it would say. The lies. It made truth feel like a fraud. 

The lies destroyed it in every single way possible. Lies never rested, it was brutal and relentless. 

I don’t feel like myself truth thought, not like this

It would seem people can’t handle the truth any more, knowing the secrets that lie in the deepest parts can destroy. 

It was then, at that moment, truth realised it had a lot in common with a lie, both brutal and relentless with what they hold.

With truth came closure of its destruction, but with a lie, a more devious attempt to sustain the death of what it holds until it absorbed every bit of life from its receiver. 

I am responsible for instant deaths, but the lies, prolong death, it’s terrible truth thought.

castle mountain

Death she says. Death. That is all she is saying when she has nothing more but to live.

Taught and preached that there is such a thing of life after death. I’m dying to live again she thought. Why can’t I stay living here, immortal and youthful.

Taken away just like that she says. Just like that and with a snap of a finger, there is nothing left. Just. Like. That.


Heaven is pretty far away if you think about it she says. If you really think about it, you can’t even think about how far it really is. We don’t even know where it is. We just imagine a far away location in the distance somewhere beyond Castle Mountain. Like a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but you’ll never get to the end or if you did, you’re not going to find your salvation. 


This is heaven for all I know. It’s pretty good if you ask me she says.

My body can’t take it here, the gravity, the stress, the people and, especially the emotions. It takes a toll, so I’ll eventually die from this heaven and fade away into reality.

Within death, that’s reality she thought.

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