my favorite tailor

330283-guernica-l-exposition-au-musee-picasso

It always impresses me how Picasso’s “La guernica” portraits me, and almost all of my close friends who have been through the same path more or less, except we look normal from the outside, the mess is only from the inside. I recognise how fragile my balance is when I can not engage in a conversation about how difficult it is to have your mother visit you over Easter while you have too much to study… my mom can’t visit me, that nice old lady will not see the beautiful red London buses or the stunning architecture. So yeah, I have more time to study; I will not have to be her tour guide in London, I will not take her to the Thames or London Eye. She will not see my room or the garden where I read my books.

My colleague was complaining how she doesn’t have time for her mom’s visit, while all I said was “Yeah, I know it must be difficult”, I showed a fake smile of sympathy and thought to myself, is it my fault that I don’t sympathise or that I get angry at this type of problems? I know that everyone is fighting their own battle, but why should my battle be this difficult? Why can’t I worry about my food not being organic enough or not having my vacation in the best island in Greece or even spending my birthday alone! These are the kind of problems my colleagues complain about on a daily basis, while I stay silent fearing if I talk about what worries me, I will hurt their feelings or ruin their evening. It worries me not to have a place to go to after I finish my masters because my country is not accommodating and is not a “pleasant” place to live in. It worries me not to ever see my mom again. It worries me that I don’t have a place to call home, the uncertainty, the loneliness, the exile of everything and everyone I love, death worries me… life too does… I wish I can just worry about global warming, then I would go every day to protest in front of Westminster with those nice people, but I am too broken to worry about the Earth. I wish I am that sane and sweet, but I am neither. If I am given the choice, I would probably choose to complain about the amount of field work I have to do, that I have to travel 70% of my time despite being paid three times more like that guy I met today, but I know I would be grateful to get a job unlike these people who would seize every opportunity to complain. I am not like them, I am broken. I would like to believe that I am unique because I left my pieces behind and tried to stitch myself nicely. I stitch myself on my own, I am not a good tailor, but I do my best. I do my best to be nice, to sympathise, to understand, and appreciate. I am not always a good tailor, but I am my favourite tailor.

I am sure that to other people in my country, I am like my colleagues who complain about spending their birthday alone. I live in London and I share nice photos on Instagram, oh God! We are all broken, but do I want to be fixed?

No, I don’t…

Happens, sometimes that you want to…

It happens sometimes that you have a heart that doesn’t fit right in its place .. it needs a bigger room .. your chest isn’t big enough maybe .. so it beats fast all the time, and wants to stop every now and then ..

Image

Happens sometimes that you want to change your lungs , because they are too small.. you try to inhale all the air in the atmosphere to get enough Oxygen and feel  breathing makes sense like before .. like the air is reaching your brain and your vessels ..

Happens sometime that you want bigger eyes .. to see beyond  material .. to see all those who left , all those you miss .. bigger eyes that can see the truth, where no truth matters but the color of your blood, and the origin of your riffle.  

You may want to change your voice , your throat , your generous lacrimal gland, and your small busy brain …

Also, it happens that you want to change your memory .. get a short term memory .. a memory of a fish maybe , the five seconds memory .. then you won’t even know about your heart or eyes or lungs …

And the worst that happens, is sometimes you want to change the fact .. then you recognize how hollow you are..  recognize that changing your heart is more rational than changing the damn fact.. war is crazy ..

If stopping the war is not in the hands of those who fight.. Nor in the hands of those who die.. then let me change my eyes  or lungs, makes more sense ..

 

Being lucky where luck has packed and left..

Lost and heartbroken, I sit in my room, despite the death around I chose to play a Spanish song that I hardly understand.. freezing to the bones though the springy breezes and green trees making a rustle that I used to feel lovely a long ago but not anymore..

It’s another bomb attack.. in the place where I was supposed to meet a friend if I woke up
Imagea bit earlier. But I missed the appointment for I was too lazy to wake up.. or maybe too lucky to wake up?  Am I really lucky for not waking up?

Should I keep on sleeping until this all ends ?

My friend wrote about her lucky father too.. Actually he woke up, and went to his appointment which was in the same place of the bomb attack, how was he lucky then ? by being a hundred meters away..

Adrenaline rush in his blood… all his life passed in his mind for few seconds.. he fell down.. after he made sure he’s alive, he checked out his legs, his hands.. he could move them .. “Thank God I’m alive, I can move” that was his first thought..

What about the rest of those who weren’t lucky enough to sleep more and miss their appointments? Or to be a hundred meters away ?

more than 10 girls.. 10 students until this moment, of those who woke up early and went to school, will today sleep eternally without the sound of “Democracy” to disturb their deep sleep.

 

you just can’t understand a human being actions.. I mean;

Despite this destruction and this unbearable situation around you still be thankful for staying alive (like me and my friend’s father), and at the same time another human being comes from a different place, a different continent sometimes.. gives up his life in a suicide bomb attack to kill other innocent school students.. why? to go to heaven.. because these students shouldn’t have been at school .. they should have stayed at home, emptied the city for the “rebels” to end up what they came for .. they came from different places around the world to “raise the word of God” as they believe.. that God who feeds on blood Is definitely not the same God I know..

Who knows, maybe I was lucky not to wake up . maybe I wasn’t . maybe it’s life giving me more time to feel this heartache and anger of this injustice of the world..

The anger for those innocents sleeping eternally by those seeking for their God who feeds on blood and mothers’ tears..

Image