Michael Daaboul. 25 y/o from Australia/Melbourne. Creative designer & writer.
Michael Daaboul. 25 y/o from Australia/Melbourne. Creative designer & writer.
She had a face that was slowly dying, it was the only reason why she was crying. Makeup hides the world that she lived in and she never saw her troubles building.
When she moisturised her skin, illusion created the softness she was in. When she wakes up from this mess, she will realise life is not as she guessed.
She is stuck on thirty something, as time escapes from the sands of time, she has lost everything. She has never seen how wrong she had been.
She had tried to accept her situation but realises she is the cause of her own destruction. Wrinkles are the only thing left in her soul; everyone now can see what’s underneath.
No amount of makeup can hide you from your all time lows.
The sound of a flute tells the story, a sad ring that she will hear when she is forty; she still wears the makeup she used to wear at twenty.
When she wakes up from this mess, she realises life is not as she guessed. In life everything catches up to you, it’s a beautiful illusion she was subjected to.
From the same place she started to hate him, he couldn’t understand why, his heart is the place she used to live in, now it’s the place she will never be in.
When she wakes up from this mess, she realises life is not as she guessed.
She is stuck on thirty something, as time escapes from the sands of time, she has lost everything.
Now she has never seen how wrong she had been. She had tried to accept her situation but realises she is the cause of her own destruction.
Her tiny heart is beating, it’s barely breathing. It’s suffocating in blood; it’s feeling the weakness inside, like a flood that is drowning her.
The clock is ticking, she is fading pretty fast. The only person is Death by her lonely side.
She is running pretty fast, but she is falling behind. She is finishing last. The weakness is slowly killing her, her heart is barely breathing.
It came without a warning; it was just waiting to attack her heart. She found it hard to remember, that saying about the calm before the torture.
That night in December her name was picked from fate’s short hand and Death was gladly to be the only person by her side. Her heart is barely even beating, but Death is still waiting.
Death is always there, until she fades to the end, as her memories are on time, “Not a single friend to call mine”, she recalled.
Her heart closed its eyes; it blinked for the last time, that familiar irregular beat, that dear girl of mine.
Her life has gone and has taken what little she had left for a little ride.
Death had its way, she ran so fast to end up last. She was so tired; she kept on running … even in death she was still suffering.
That’s all she ever did in her life, because she didn’t want to die. She just ran and held hope by the hand.
Her heart was barely breathing, with her own blood suffocating her that stopped it from beating.
Pages often hide between the binds of books. They can’t move, although, it is not like they have anywhere else to go.
Pages are stuck and cannot afford the price of freedom, even though pages don’t know what freedom feels like. But they have read about freedom in books that don’t end. They have heard of books that never end and books that haven’t got binds.
One day, a page fell out of a book. A rather old book that no one reads anymore, the type of books dust likes to keep warm in places no one knows exists.
The page glided over the air in hope of finding those books that never end. It glided until no more wind was present enough for it to move. The page cried the word freedom in its last attempt to feel what it had read long ago in a time where dust wasn’t the page’s friend.
As the page lied quietly in the midst of an empty space, in a place where no one looks anymore, dust came wandering by.
“Are you lost, page?”
The page replied, “I’m trying to find freedom …”
“You won’t find freedom here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Freedom is a place that no longer visits.”
“But, I have read in books that never end that freedom does exist.”
“Those books never end, although, they always do.”
“What do you mean?”
“What was once there isn’t anymore. Books that don’t end are when pages like you are read constantly and endlessly.”
“You mean the popular books?”
“Yes, those books are endless …”
“No one reads me anymore?”
“No one reads you anymore because no one wanted to read you or better yet, I don’t think they could reach. You were placed in here, where no one looks, on the highest shelf even the ladder is too short to greet you, page. The place everyone has forgotten, away from the popular books.”
“But you haven’t forgotten us?”
“I am dust; I don’t know how to read. I probably could, not like I ever want to anyway.”
“It’s not my job. I keep things that no one wants or uses anymore warm. Things no one uses or needs anymore get lonely and cold.”
“But, you could still read us though!”
“I could, but that would mean you would be used again and I can’t let that happen. You can’t be read.”
“Because it means I wouldn’t exist anymore …”
Every morning I woke up to the songs sung by birds that lived in the tree next door.
I had always wondered if birds sung in a language other birds could understand, but even if I couldn’t understand the language, it had a smoothing sort of melody to it. The tune relaxed my body.
I wouldn’t get annoyed like my neighbours did. They told me how much they hated the birds that lived in the tree next door. They would label the singing as dreadful noise. I guess their light sleepers or they just like the silence; they’re pretty old and bitter. I don’t want to be like them when I grow old.
I couldn’t help but notice how cheerful the sound the birds made. It was like they were happy. It made me smile in the mornings; it was always such a great start to the day. I had always wondered if birds showed emotion or felt it at the very least. They just sounded so glad to see the morning greet them in such a spectacular fashion to be merely instinct.
I have been told that animals couldn’t understand emotion, maybe they don’t, I’m not so sure.
I woke up one morning much later than I usually wake up, something felt a little different. I heard silence, the type of silence that old, bitter people hear. You don’t usually hear that when you live next to birds. Well, these particular singing birds. I thought, all birds sing.
I made my way outside; I thought I should visit the birds that lived in the tree next door.
I looked up to see the birds, but one was lying on the tree branch. The other bird was close by the other bird’s side. It seemed sad. It might have died, I don’t know. I stayed there for hours. The Sun was close to setting, it was getting late. No bird made any movement, but one was clearly alive. She was alive. Apparently, it was all instinct it seemed. The bird didn’t know he died, but it just laid there with him … not moving.
I’m not a morning person anymore, because I realised that she would never sing again without him.
Egypt, The Last of the Lost Pages, One for the Ages
In Egypt, robberies, shootings and deaths peak on Christmas due to the deadly regime imposed by government officials working with the Orthodox Church.
Christmas starts on the 7th of January here, they call this regime Advent and it’s in place for 40 days. People are forced for 40 days not to eat, drink, and leave their houses or shower.
This used to be a voluntary activity until the officials declared this compulsory in every household, a sickening form of dictatorship.
No freedom, no rights and especially no privacy. The Egyptians were under constant surveillance.
"Surely, you could sneak in food in your homes, they would never know."
"Of course they will know! I saw my neighbour and his family shot in front of my own eyes, they know, they see all."
The resistance are a group of rebellions trying to fight this order by using crime. They break into stores and shoot soldiers in the gentle passing of silence in Egypt.
Most of them are dead now; the resistance were no match for the force, no match for this heartlessness.
The dead bodies are placed inside the pyramids, as a reminder at the end of Advent, Egyptians are shown as an example what happens if orders of the President is refused.
As I was leaving Egypt, I passed by Tahrir Square in Cairo where the new resistance was taking place, hordes of brave Egyptians protesting their rights for a better life. I didn’t stay long as the horror was about to explode into a bloodbath of human tragedy. The military dressed ready for war destroyed the uprising one by one, the bullets flew from all corners, battens released hitting the face like a baseball and women stripped and beaten to death.
This is the last of the lost pages of my journal entries, I hope they never see the light of day as if these events would still occur in a world that seems educated and more developed means this could have been, might have been a delusion of the past.
In fact, nothing has changed, if we took a picture from a long time ago, our souls have remained unchanged, but the scene is different. We’ll remain alive for the time being, but not for long.
Before the end of my trip from The North Pole, you know, the northernmost point on Earth where everything has remained pure, I wrote a letter to Santa Claus about my Lost Pages, he replied back and from his reply I knew all hope was lost.
Not a quiet moment goes by in Great Britain in the lead up to Christmas; it’s a day the people are rushing as if their lives depended on it and during the night, not a soul in sight. Perfectly calm, no wind, empty park benches and owls lurking on top of red telephone boxes.
It’s during the night that interested me; I didn’t care much for the day as it was too busy for my liking so I often slept in.
The preparation for Christmas was obviously set for when the Sun was high in the sky, and when the Moon made a show, it seems it was a lingering sadness when no one was in slight.
An old man searching for food in trash bins was wandering nearby, he said, "Strange black cars follow people during the night and they park to ambush their victims."
"How did you know what I was thinking?” I said with a rather baffed look on my face.
"It’s written all over your face. You’re not from these lands; you’re foreign which explains why you’re out at night."
"I’m pretty sure there’s others here not from Great Britain."
"No. No one comes here anymore other than those who live here."
"Were you not paying attention? I told you black cars come out at night and ambush their victims."
"Is this every night, or does it only happens in Christmas?"
"Just during Christmas."
"I don’t know, I usually stay in the park, no one comes here. I have nowhere to go, so it doesn’t bother me."
"You should leave, but stay here for the night; it’s not safe right now."
With that advice, I stayed with the old man for the duration of the night, I’m not so sure if I can accurately determine if anything he said had any truth. He may be in an altered state suffering from hysteria.
In the morning as I was leaving Great Britain, I saw several black cars pull up near an ally way.
This entry was thrown in the rubbish bin as a precaution. The old man might have been crazy, or maybe he wasn’t.
(to be continued …)
Corruption and conspiracy plague Greenland as during Christmas time mercenaries dressed in heavy chain armour raid unexpected homes.
I didn’t see any Christmas trees here and it was no mystery as to why such green wonders were strangers to homes.
The mercenaries are hired by unknown entities that are believed to have paid the mercenaries unbelievable amounts of funds to carry out their sadistic plans.
The rumour that floats around Peary Land here where the air is too thin to breathe, the riches of riches have too much on their hands and as a form of mercilessness acts of their petty amusement, pay ruthless brutes to film and carry out acts as a result of their own inability and cowardliness.
If Christmas trees where seen from outside, the mercenaries would charge in through the front door and set the tree in flames. The flames are put out and the house saved, but the doors become locked and the deafening silence remains.
I had no way of leaving Greenland for the time being and I was told that I could go seek refuge at the local inn where I could wait out the cold for a better day for safe travels.
However, mercenaries are also here at the local inn and women are slaves to them, or so it seems. The women satisfy the mercenaries in an attempt to poison their beverages. As their breasts creep up to their eyes, the lingering poison is dropped and soon after their hearts stop.
The women here are seen as heroes and gallant warriors for the sacrifices they have to make to bring peace and order back to Greenland.
God bless their souls, as the only monsters in this world are humans and if children are put to bed at night saying there is no such thing, a terrible element of mendacity rusts the souls of innocence.
The treatment of the Greenlandic people is one of sad torment and grief; the evil hordes spend their money on destroying humanity on Christmas where families are together instead of giving to the poor or donating to a wonderful cause.
This entry is too sad to keep, I threw it into the fires of a burning Christmas tree that was about to go out.
(to be continued …)
The Sun disappears in Holland during the festive season; St. Jabiru is believed to be living somewhere within the underground waiting to give gifts to children who have been behaving.
However, it was not all that nice, as the rumours flowed like the Nile River of Africa, but I was cynical, I didn’t believe until the priest told me to leave this place.
He warned that St. Jabiru would break through the ground with a list of children’s names that have been unsound during the year and makes examples of them.
The famer’s in Holland sound their long horns during Christmas Eve, the sound of death as the locals call it, the sound of hell. St. Jabiru breaks the ground and vanishes through the darkest parts of the night, everywhere he goes, and it’s dark, as if light suffocates in the midst of his presence.
No warning at all the children are usually asleep, God bless their doomed souls, he strikes at night, a spear to the heart, his hands with one swipe cuts right through the bone, they had no chance.
Even if the children tried to escape, but they can’t since the sea’s volcanic eruptions cause tsunamis too wild to think about leaving via a ship and the skies roaring thunder and lightning make it never safe for flight, you can’t go anywhere, there’s a high rate of suicide in Holland.
This is a saint of madness, a fallen angel of the devil’s own work for its amusement, the saint that we believed in for so long, deceived us.
No child is safe in Holland, some remain, some hopeful, the crime rate is low here, but not at this cost.
As a warning, I decided to not stay for Christmas, and this entry will not be shown to children or anyone else for that matter, as this rumour could scare them away from an otherwise gentle and pleasant place.
(to be continued …)
In Micronesia, the small islands are quiet; you can hear the wind and the gentle brushing of the trees speak to each other.
Not many people are around during Christmas time, so I decided to see what everyone gets up to. I was thinking it would involve family gatherings and overindulging on coconut juice. However, a young boy told me all the adults go to church, which to my surprise wasn’t an option I had been considering since most of the places I visit have something to do with a church.
Arriving near the entrance of the church, I decided to take another route and climb the edges that were sticking out. I could finally live out my dream of feeling like I was part of an Assassin’s Creed video game series. I had an unusual feeling that something wasn’t quite right, the type of uncanny feeling you get when you have just watched a horror movie and you feel your room is infested with ghosts and demons.
Everyone was so quiet.
I reached at the top of the church, crazy I know, but it wasn’t that high, well, okay, pretty high. I couldn’t see anything regardless. I decided to look the other way towards the exit. People were coming out like they were suffering from vertigo and their eyes as white as the clouds.
A strange hymn was sung from within the church but I couldn’t understand it, not a language I have heard before.
I made my way down from the church and the boy stood there like he was suffering from vertigo.
I asked, “Did you go into the church?”
He replied rather hastily, “The adults only go into the church.”
I felt threatened but this boy didn’t seem normal, I didn’t feel like continuing in these small islands, I had no idea what was going on in any other part, I’m only near Kiribati.
I started at the bottom end of Micronesia and didn’t venture anymore, I felt the atmosphere crashing my lungs and I needed to get out of here and decided to leave this entry out. I can’t encourage any traveller to go near the small islands of Micronesia.
(to be continued …)