the 13th floor

I know that if I was going to jump from this building no one will catch me, but I’d like to think someone would.

Thinking about it is easy, but looking down from the 13th floor, the difficulty starts to increase.

As I open the window, the wind makes its last attempt to communicate with me in the way it knows best, by surrounding its force around my face and pushing against my body. It’s almost like I can hear it speak to me, making me feel important.

It’s funny how that happens. No one would notice if I was thinking about jumping off the 13th floor or understand the reasons why, but it felt like the wind did.

So I close the window and sit back at my workstation. I look at the computer screen and ponder about what just happened.

If I had jumped, would the wind have saved me?

lost and waiting

All the time wasted, with every minute gone, all this time that is spent hating, with every hour gone. I have come to realise how much time is wasted.

It’s difficult to measure the pain when everything feels numb. It’s hard to measure what the world is feeling, when it feels so far away from home.

I have lost my way, within the brightness of the Sun and the looming sadness of the moon, it doesn’t seem like anyone understands.

With the pretending aside, you kind of feel like you know what is going on. Reading the situation like you know what went wrong, and you have this convincing feeling that it might be you. It might be you that is wrong.

But then, another day comes; something new, something to look forward to, although, it’s not long until you’re reminded that the stain of yesterday didn’t sleep the night before.

And then, you’re left lost and waiting, for a brand new day.

the exiled poet - misery (finale - a valentine’s day special: 2011)

(Read Part 4 HERE)



He looked at the clock; it read 11:55 PM, 13-02-2011.

“Valentine’s Day!” He said.

The poet sat back down on his bed and read the skies painted on his bedroom ceiling.

“This is where I write my best, on Valentine’s Day. The pen I hold shouldn’t rest, but my hands are getting fatigued, I should let them instead.”

His mistress didn’t make an appearance. The poet thought hard. He thought, what if he wrote words peculiar enough for them to come alive?

A little voice stargazing inside his head said, “You’re only a poet, how can you make words come alive? You’re not anything special.”

The poet looked at the Moon as it seemed like it was frowning at him. The Moon floated away, as it was turning away from the poet. He fell to the floor knowing how powerless he could be.

Were the words he wrote stronger than the sword this time? Or was the sword just too sharp and torn his words apart?

He is still waiting.

The poet still dreams this endless dream, a state of sedation, a dream of consequence.

The poet is still on his way to her … somewhere … he never really knew that she would become his misery.

He never knew what he lost …

The … poet … was … exiled … forever …

…

(fin.)

the exiled poet - the king (part 4 - a valentine’s day special: 2011)

(Read Part 3 HERE)



The poet woke up, ending his dreamy bliss; the dreams that won’t let him forget.

Never forget.

The poet noticed that she was a long time ago and yet his mind doesn’t want to leave her. I guess the poet is still thinking about his mistress … or the girl that he thought was his mistress. The poet forgets. He had trouble separating reality from fiction, he could never be certain.

He lives in two worlds, one he is like a king, the other, a slave.

When he dreams, he didn’t hear that voice that told him how “defenceless” she made him.

The poet sighed, and as he woke up he received a message from her, or did he? It was a note on his workstation that he had kept from his dreams. He forgets about this particular note, a note that he could only read.

Suddenly, the poet’s emotions took a different direction. His emotions twisted and turned, out of nowhere his mood changed. He didn’t belong anymore. He came to this sudden realisation, the state of sedation his dream bestows him creates a world of side effects.

“Side effects?” He thought.

The poet dreamed a dream of a scene that didn’t exist. He dreamed about what would become his consequence. Like a drug, like an illusion, she was a part of his head, a part of his heart but not a part of his reality.

(to be continued …)

the exiled poet - origins (part 3 - a valentine’s day special: 2011)

(Read Part 2 HERE)



He felt his heartbeat again, this time; it felt remarkably different from before. His body arched backwards.

The poet dreams this endless dream.

His mistress was there of course, she was hiding behind that tree; but, she came out and this originality and colour of mass charisma fused into her.

The poet pondered, “How could anything compare to her?”

It made sense, it somehow escaped from her, it was his mistress! She was that amazing cosmic immense, one that exists in the poet, so strong and powerful; one small step can blow him away for miles around the poet’s imaginary, fanciful world, which now exists as … her.

Like the words he writes that can move the most toughest and coldest of mountains, the poet finally belonged!

This voice that the poet could not hear told him his mistress was “faithless”.

The poet was on his way to her. Writing about what would end up becoming his misery.

The pen wrote what she didn’t feel, but he thought she did.

(to be continued …)

the exiled poet - the dream (part 2 - a valentine’s day special: 2011)

(Read Part 1 HERE)



Originality and colour ejected some of its material in the shape of a cloud and became more luminous than before, almost as beautiful as his mysterious mistress, can you believe?

The poet stood and thought nothing more amazing existed other than his mistress. Even his precious words didn’t come close.

He felt his heartbeat. It was beating with such force; he fell a little to the right. The poet isn’t clumsy, it’s his heart. Depending on the beat, it makes him flinch from left to right, side to side, sometimes even being surprised.

…

Silence!

…

The poet was on his way … watching, dazed, it was like a cosmic explosion, similar to the dance and encore that happened when the universe was forming. It blew the poet away several metres, landing in a state of bewilderment, just missing a tree!

It marked the beginning of something inside of the poet … he never knew, it would be the start of his misery.

(to be continued …)

the exiled poet - imagination (part 1 - a valentine’s day special: 2011)

The poet was on his way. He just descended out of a dream where his mistress dominated all the fields of colour flowers.

He’s late, but still, it feels as if every time he enters the room, he makes it just in time. The feeling of knowing he could enter that door at any moment makes your palms aroused enough that they perspire.

The kingdoms have no sanctions, no authority figures. They didn’t need laws to control the people; they’re civil, sane, and moral and they value life. Different to our world; an imagination, that seems so far away in thought but so close in distance that order has become forgotten.

Imagination.

A discussion spurred from the mouths of those that knew him or felt like they knew him, they always wondered if the poet dreams in black and white or in colour.

The poet said, “They were wrong.”

Every conversation is floating above his head and he could tune into them without being seen.

“Sometimes, words are enough to see the bigger picture.”

They don’t know that he is there, but everyone feels like a ghost is in the room.

(to be continued …)

crimson deeds

Have you heard them say that the dead don’t bleed?
It’s not true
I don’t have a heartbeat and I still bleed
I’m empty inside …
I linger and yearn
For happiness to return

How you made me bleed
With your crimson deeds
Did you bleed for me? No
Is it just me or is it getting cold in here?

Have you heard them say that the dead don’t feel?
It’s not true
I don’t have any senses and I still feel
It tears me apart …
I will never forget
The hurt you gave with no regret

How you made me bleed
With your crimson deeds
Did you bleed for me? No
It’s getting cold in here

Have you heard them say that the dead don’t cry?
It’s not true
I don’t have my sight and I still cry
All I can see …
A happy ‘beginning’
All that’s left is this ‘ending’

How you made me bleed
With your crimson deeds
Did you bleed for me? No
It’s cold in here

Written by Charles Daaboul

rose land (new year special: 2011)

She rose from the ashes holding a secret. She hides in the bushes because she knows no one can keep it.
 
She was concealed at birth, sweet-smelling.  She was queen of this earth, breathing, alive and living.

Beautiful as the moon, the river butterfly would tell you that, “She rose too soon.”

Autumn leaves up far into the sky, falling alongside her withering away.

Violet flower.

She tried to free her mind talking to a Daffodil, poor old Lily was left behind. She couldn’t sit still.

Lily was hoping for new rain, that lovely spring water winter stain.

Violet asked if she could go, Daffodil replied, “She didn’t know.”

Nothing more but a wild rose; in Rose Land she had a pink silly nose. Spring shined upon their soil, as far as Water-lily would know. Rain was just enough as the angles poured forgotten Lily with brand new hope.

Violet thought about all this stuff, yearning to be sent free.

No matter how big this secret was, the flowers of Rose Land scene, is home for you and me.

notes from the traveller’s christmas journal (the finale)

(Read Part 17 HERE)

The North Pole, Northernmost Point on Earth

Silence was all I heard, until I remembered the letter. A letter from Santa. He didn’t have time to explain, he said he was late. He knew about my journals, he knew that they would be read by someone one day.

I didn’t visit The North Pole, but I feel like I did.

He lives in the Northernmost point on Earth, he lives alone …


Letter excerpt:

Snow.

Surrounded by an outpouring of snow.

Look to the left, look to the right, all you see is snow.

An empty land filled with snow.

This is where I live.

Alone and cold.

No magical elves, no Mrs. Claus and no flying reindeers.

Christmas is the only time of the year the door opens. Fate concealed my destiny eons ago.

This place, a white canvas that was forgotten by the colours, left to be an idea that can never be thought of.

The wind whispers often here, not pleasant, but soothing for me. The silence finds refuge inside and it’s hard to accept it. During the darkest part of the night, the wind screams and howls, I can almost understand it, as if, we both are looking for some sort of comfort, some … company.

I work all year, making, creating gifts in time for Christmas, working hard to meet the deadline. Working and trying to beat the hands of time, trying to be one step ahead of fate.

I always wondered what it would be like to run away from here. Run towards a mountain, see a tree, and maybe even look out into the ocean during the day.

If I stop, would anything happen? All the children, the festive feeling, the meaning will be lost.

The feeling feels like it’s gone. The meaning has become meaningless.

This is all I know. This is all I have known.

Is anyone thinking about me during the year? I wonder what it’s like to receive a gift.

This is where I live.

Alone.

If you look to the left, you will see snow. If you look to the right, you will see snow.

This is where I live.

In snow.

- Santa Claus

(fin.)