Shahd Alshammari's Blog, page 11

Kissing a soul..

Kissing a soul..  

 

“Don’t kiss me if you’re afraid of thunder. My life is a ...

“Don’t kiss me if you’re afraid of thunder. My life is a storm.” And even with a million warnings, you still do. 

“I loved the way she survived. Survival looked good on her. There were no dark marks under her eyes. Maybe deep inside, but I liked the way she looked through them and laughed at life. She did it gracefully. She’d walked over glass and through fire, but still smiled. And, honestly, i’m not interested in people who haven’t lived and died a few times. Who haven’t yet had their heart ripped out, or known what it feels like to lose everything. I trust those people, because they stand for something. I knew what she’d been through. I wanted to thank her for surviving. And her to know she now had someone willing to stand with her too.” 

J. Raymond

“You speak so many bloody languages and yet you never wan...

“You speak so many bloody languages and yet you never want to talk.” 

  

Earlier today, completely unprepared and taken by surpris...

Earlier today, completely unprepared and taken by surprise, I was asked to speak on stage about poetry. What poetry and I am missing a part of me, a part that has been severed and decapitated, not by any choice of mine. Funny, I wished you were there. I wished I could call you, hear the excitement in your voice, hear you say “I am so proud of you.” The way you used to say it, thinking that my achievements were yours, the way you’d say “it’s like looking at my twin, I even sound like you” and I would smile and agree. I wished you’d still exist. The worst part is death… Of everything. I used to think even death was negotiable. I was beyond wrong. It doesn’t matter what I wish, because the universe stops listening at some point. 

Different types of love

I have heard this before, and I can say I know that it’s very true. But this article I came across was very enlightening: 

http://www.artparasites.com/what-kind-of-lover-are-you/ 

Questions

I always ask way too many questions. Funny, I hardly ever receive answers. Or, in other words, I don’t get satisfying answers. My request is always for more clarification. Perhaps it’s the professor in me. Clarify, elaborate, explain. I don’t want to make assumptions, and I am afraid that my assumptions are mostly inaccurate. I have learned that bravery is to ask for clarification. I draw in my breath, draw my sword, and ask you for more.

To want more is to be greedy, in a sense. It is hard to satisfy my hunger for you. I have survived on crumbs for too long. If I can preserve you, freeze you, keep you safe away from the inevitable pains of life, would that make me possessive? Obsessive, irrational? It is one thing for me to be in pain, but to watch you hurting is a horrible place to be. I stand helpless, watching you, unable to change events, to change the outcome, and to shelter you from the storm. I still think I have access to the skies, and that all it takes is a fight. I still have a fight in me. To fight for a better world for us, a safer life for you, one that doesn’t continue to separate us. Have I finally gone mad? I was a thief, your thief,  you said. To steal your heart, to steal a part of your soul, that makes me a soul thief. I doubt that you know how many times you have asked me, silently, to steal your entire soul.

You know the worst part about sleep? You don’t know if yo...

You know the worst part about sleep? You don’t know if you’ll wake up. You don’t know if you’ll have another day, another moment. But  with you, I let you sleep, waiting to wake you up in the morning, waiting to check that you were still here. I find my way to you, your lips are the stars I need, and the darkness of the night engulfs me. There is nothing more beautiful than knowing you still belong. And as far as I go, and all the unknown lands I will visit, I’ll always hear your voice guiding me home. I stopped believing in geography, in borders and barriers. The space between us ends once our souls touch. 

  

Mornings

Mornings. The fresh breeze, the start of the day. You seem to have forgotten what it felt like in the morning, the taste of honey, the bitterness of coffee, the sound of my groggy morning voice. 

“Hello,” I say, when all I want is to say more. But like everything to do with you, it’s about balance, about the right note, the exact timing. 

Some people don’t talk in the morning. You were one of them, and I wasn’t too happy about morning conversations, but it was our time anyway. The first person you speak to. The first hello. The first question, how did you sleep, what did you dream (nothing, I don’t dream, you’d say)..  

And a day that begins with you, how could it be anything less than exciting? I told you once that each morning I used to wake up, checking that my eyesight was still here, that my legs were still functioning. I never told you that the only way I would check my hearing is when you’d say good morning. I had lost my hearing a few times over the past years, randomly, as usual. It was one of the senses that I wouldn’t remember to check. But then speaking to you in the morning made me realize this was yet another day, where I had my sense of hearing, and I had you. 

That was the beauty of mornings- and the beauty and blessing of you in my life. So here’s to another morning, another day, another moment, where you still exist on this planet, and that, for me, is a good morning. 

  

Great things and darkness

  

We are strange creatures. Everything has an expiry date. ...

We are strange creatures. Everything has an expiry date. We know this, and yet we continue to ignore it. We go on assuming that things will stay the same, safe in this logical fallacy. You and I, we always knew. We knew that we were the equation that defied rules, time, and dates.

Remember when I told you I have a problem with time? I still do. I am always fighting time, wrestling with understanding it, trying to catch up, or I am just a second too late. Perhaps in a past life I promised you I’d return before some war ended, but I never made it home. It seems I’ll never make it this time around either.

There is a scar on my skin- I am not sure where it came from. But it stares at me every day, reminding me of what I wish I could forget. The body, also, has an expiry date, and the body, also, fights time. With time, people forget, they say. With time, wounds heal, they become scars. But scars aren’t always pretty. Scars seem to get darker with time, standing out against your skin, and they make a statement: I was here. I witnessed this.

Just like sometimes, I wonder, was I really there? Were you? Did I really witness you staring at the mirror, getting ready to leave, fresh in the morning, and did you really witness a part of my life’s journey? There seems to be no evidence of this. You have left no scars at all, nothing that says you were here. And time, as always, threatens to take away even my memories.