Michael Daaboul. 25 y/o from Australia/Melbourne. Creative designer & writer.
Michael Daaboul. 25 y/o from Australia/Melbourne. Creative designer & writer.
You wanted to find yourself in a life where your mission is to learn who you really are.
It seems like you have been born without an identity and your reason for existing is to search for what you didn’t know.
You escaped the talk and then you learned to walk.
Quite early in your life you realised no one will really be there if you needed help or if you fell, no one to give you a hand if you had trouble getting back up again.
It would feel like you are alone, but you watched everyone swiftly glide past you, with their cold piercing stare that often reminds you when you close your eyes. They used to be your friends, but you pondered, that is what they used to be.
So you wake up to another day, the Sun shining through the clouds. You lift up your hand to try and shade your eyes from the glare, as you look towards the Sun to see if you can tell if it is smiling.
On the outside we forget what we hide inside and what we are feeling. Understanding you were made to walk alone, you wonder how the Sun still burns so brightly.
Just as it sets, in the wake of the new moon, you now realise that your searching has come to an abrupt end and the reason you were born is to die feeling so lonely.
I have always been frightened by long and unfamiliar words.
They wander from street sign to street sign, shop windows and newspaper articles.
I remember back in primary school, how the words would often stare at me, without making much of a sound. You knew they would always be there if your eyes walked away, but still, they waited patiently to be read.
After lunchtime, the words would use the teachers to force us to read them, it was called 'quiet reading time'. I didn’t find it 'quiet', I could often hear the strange noises the words would make, a noise of discomfort, like they didn’t want to be read.
Things were like that though, we were often forced to do things we didn’t want to. I guess it comes with being innocent, you don’t know what is right from wrong.
During 'quiet reading time', I would scan the lines of words in my book, but I would never read them. Sometimes I didn’t really know how to read them; the words looked annoyed when I tried. My eyes would move at such a pace, I would panic in hope the teacher would not recognise my facade, although the words did.
I slowly became friends with funny looking words. At first, they seemed quite difficult to read, but if you make an effort, it is not so bad. Some words even have silent letters, they seem more interesting. Other words though, never really want to be read. They hide away from most areas visible to the eye, I think they call that the blind spot.
I still have trouble understanding or even getting to know them. It is not like they could go anywhere, they are always there, just waiting for a particular eye to undress them and find out their meaning and to have some company.
I still can’t say certain words that never want to be open or be read. They always seemed so long and foreign. After all, I could have been too long and foreign for them to read me. Maybe, I had the displeasing look on my face … .
My room is filled with words of all sorts; they make up a part of my life. I’m glad I read the right ones; but some words, they usually just stay foreign hidden away from wandering eyes.
I have been under this shed for what feels like an eternity.
I have no watch on or anything to tell the time, but the hunger of my stomach told me I have been here for quite awhile.
I don’t feel well, not that I expected to anyway. I shouldn’t really expect much considering it has been a long time since my tongue has tasted food or the drops from water.
My vision is a little hazy, but I didn’t need to see well to understand what is going on around me. You see, the noises around me are my eyes; the noises have become all too familiar.
At first, you become startled and afraid of gunfire, but you learn and become numb to the feeling. The constant screams and roars from voices, often paint death on my ears. I didn’t have to use my eyes to see anymore. The noises around me are empty canvases for pictures my ears could understand.
Every so often, there would be silence. The type of silence where noise is still present, however, the sounds of homing missiles have disappeared. I read somewhere that during wars; those who are severely injured receive 'humanitarian resources'. The wars would stop for 3 hours and continue after that.
I had ears to listen, eyes filled with darkness and a mind that had trouble figuring out the purpose of cease-fire.
It lasted for such a short time to aid those who had been injured that needed supplies.
After 3 hours had past, the wars would resume fire and bombard my senses with endless roars of artillery.
Wars are like that though; all who stand in the way of the 4 letter word would surely perish. Wars are nice enough to allow time to attend to the innocent (that is called 'cease-fire' ironically) which always included mothers, females and children.
The men have either died in wars or … died in wars. It was either between the two, but to those who had loved them, would agree it would be both.
I finally had the strength to get out from underneath the shed. I had 3 hours before my time is up.
I found it strange how so many crates that were filled with supplies where still left unopened.
I then realised, there was no one left to open them.
I don’t remember much of my life.
I used to sit back and look out the window.
I often watch the past fade away into the night. I get this empty feeling inside, but the nurses tell me that it is normal to feel like that when you sit and watch your past slip you by … but, I never really felt right.
I don’t watch television anymore; it reminded me of the past I left behind. I would change the channels that would lead me to paths that were nothing more than static.
I remember staring without having any direction, hoping that my path would adjust and I would be able to see more clearly of where I was headed. That is until I found the window.
The window is very clear from what I could remember. You could never change the channel with a remote; the window changes the view for you.
The nurses explained to me that I wouldn’t have to get up anymore; life would change for me.
I liked the idea of not having to move, but I didn’t like not having control of it.
The window is not as clear as it used to be.
The doctors told me that my eyes are slowly dying and that the nurses would soon have to move me next to the wall to make room for someone else to sit near the window.
I got this empty feeling inside again, but the nurses tell me that it is normal to feel like this.
I don’t know where I sit anymore. I feel the wall next to me, but I never knew sitting near the wall would be so dark.
I still feel like I belong near the window, even if my eyes have died. I still feel like I belong there, but the nurses told me that it is normal to feel like that.
My eyes wandered above through the weightless dust to see your eyes sitting patiently inside the canvas.
Not very conventional; technology has abandoned nostalgic painting styles.
My eyes can only communicate to yours through pixels. Your eyes used to be round; they are nothing but square now.
After the dust had subsided; my eyes were semiconscious. They are tired from rising through and are red from all the debris, but they were very aware of the sensations around.
Right after the Sun has vanished beyond the horizon; my eyes admire and lock the imaginary bedroom door. The pupils expatiate and they gently sit on the juiceless floor. The iris of the eyes likes to sing; when they’re nervous. The seething sound slowly wanders through the pixel canvas, swimming and dancing around your lips in the hope that your eyes come alive.
As much as the iris likes to sing, no matter how much it did, you did not come out.
Hidden behind the pixels, are your eyes; which hide inside of you. They want to talk; however, conversation is minuscule … once put together, inseparable.
My eyes still watch yours; they wonder about how beautiful you really are, in the hope that they will never look away … my eyes can only wander so far. Through the dust and debris, they wander above through the bedroom door, waiting for you, as they levitate gently on the juiceless floor.
He waits for you at your front door, thinking of lines to tell you about how he feels.
Even when it’s raining outside, he won’t leave in the cold without telling you.
She looks outside watching him from the start, slowly as the raindrops; the drop that falls from his heart.
She thought it would be better if he was left behind. She thought it would be better if he would die alone, and he thought it will last forever.
The rain kept on falling and she thought what a perfect day. She smiles anyway, even when he is not there. He is so cold sitting by her front door, finding it hard to breathe and wondering why the door never opens. Wondering if you were the air that he breathed and yet, he spent his whole life wondering.
She looks outside watching him from the start, slowly as the raindrops; it drops right from his heart.
She spent her whole life dreaming. He spent his life waiting by her front door. Both never finding their worlds of make believe.
For years the rain never stopped. He wonders how she is, asking how her life worked out.
He is still waiting for her to come out as he sits by her front door. Still wondering if everything will be okay.
She looks outside for the last time. Watching him until the end, slowly as the rain dropped; it was the last drop that fell from his heart.
Death toll passes through the city streets and isolated boundaries every time of the day.
It barely moves, but it’s very active in-between life’s busy routine.
No one really cares about the number of victims the death toll adds to its collection of dead statistics. It was not uncommon for anyone to find these things important enough to notice.
The death toll is quite subtle in its takings. It usually only takes its victims when they indulge in the things they love. If you are ever fortunate enough to watch it move, you will get the chance to tell the newspapers about your story; in form of a dead statistic.
The death toll loves dead statistics because they don’t ever make a sound. It can quietly take without any sense of noise … it doesn’t like noise.
No one really cares about the number of people who died from smoking last year or how many people died from car accidents. People have never cared about those who overdose on heroin in their children’s playgrounds or in hidden alleyways. People have never cared about those things.
Death toll cares though.
It barely makes a move, but it’s there waiting to rise. Death toll has become a little infamous, especially in the holiday seasons. You could find its collection hidden away in the last pages of the newspaper, in an isolated corner, near the bottom of where no one reads.
As the death toll rises, so do the activities that have killed them.
You can still see death toll lurking around near playgrounds and empty roads. The city streets and train stations are but a few of death tolls favorite locations to feast on.
Even if you never get to see it, you can always try to read about it in the last few pages of the newspapers. That stuff never makes it on the front page. I guess the latest celebrity sex scandals are more important. The type of gossip that gets reader’s attention.
If you are interested though, if sex scandals are not your thing, you can always turn to the final pages of the newspaper.
Not many people know where to find it, but if you look at the corner near the bottom of the page, where no one reads anymore, you are sure to find a little excerpt about it.