In flesh I am awake, I am moving and I have no choice but to travel with the speed of the wind and the speed of the war planes that fly over our skies. I am alive as I engrave in tears. Tomorrow could be the end of this chapter but I will carry on till the pen leaks through my veins. I am the victim that writes, I am the pen that writes, I am Ash-sham that carves tears waiting to drop at Sea.
But don’t forget my mental state, because you can’t see it, does not mean it is not happening. It is all up there. The horrors of the war had shattered my dreams. I am mentally drained but I saw my home, reflecting in my eyes, yearning for our freedom. I hold it. Freedom it is! What is my freedom? Our freedom? The freedom that was tarnished by Western and Eastern interference. No matter how many times I erase bad memories. The ones that grip around my neck, press against my chest, I am finding it hard to breath, pull me out, and I need to breathe a little more to say much more. So much to say, I don’t have much space, my mind is occupied, I am busy a human being finding ways to survive, it is what we do, it is the norm that lives on the land I walk on.
Remember, I the victim that writes, you that follows the pen that writes. Remember my childhood memories because I seem to forget, I fail. Insanity began before I entered the adult world. The world of reasonability and consequences. I am tired in a world that does not understand. I always dreamt to live amongst the stars, today I begged to live with the stars. As I write in darkness, I hope my words are clear because the heart refuses to lie.
Share my story and let my words flow like the rivers of dreams. Let my words reach the ears that know little, let my words reach the hearts that have become disheartened. Let my words soften the hearts that have ignored the tongue that sacrificed the voice for your freedom. The freedom of the dropping prices of oil that was sucked from the pipes of the land that I once lived in.
Death is upon us all, we all die right? But death knocked on our door when we were looking. Our death was caused by human interference. They wormed their fingers in, in a box that never prohibited their existence but welcomed them to our land with the human arms. Time and time again, we accepted the refugees that knocked on our door, today no-one opened their doors for us in return. Did they not remember their history? Do they not know? I never wanted to travel, I mean run away from my home, but want can one do? What can a child do? What can I do? They told us to fight back, fight the enemy that breastfeeds from the West, and the another clings on to the East. The doors are locked and they hid behind doors. They peeked from the key hole as we burned to ashes. But my voice was saved, saved as it followers the pen of the victim that writes. But one day, one day. The day will come…