The Antics of Living Happy

On the small of her back is a symbol of no significant importance though to her that Arabic calligraphy of her name holds the utmost significance. It's as if her name in a language she hardly knew could some how make her closer to those origins she lost. Not Arab; not American; she found herself somewhere other than the two places. Somewhere of no significance in physical reality. Not confused about who she is; but lonely, as if the world had some how determined her physical worth by a monetary value she knew so little of. Leaving her with the emptiness of materialism, herself an object she could not posses or understand.

In fact she knew little about a lot, and though this is a quality most share, for her it felt like the insides of her soul were some how exposed by this lack of knowledge. Naked to the world, she would have to admit her weaknesses over and over again. Though in her minds eye those weaknesses never felt apart of her. It is as if those mirrors she breaks for bad luck, any luck, are each a reminder of her wholeness, their pieces on the floor all shattered and broken a clear indication that this was inevitably not possible for her, though she longed to be in pieces, longed to be torn, transcendent even. Perhaps this was her own infantile dream of perfection. But she imagined a world where everything floated, and her physicality, her stubbornness are things she can't break through.
 
One day, an uneventful one, a Tuesday perhaps, or some mundane day, she came in contact with someone she never imagined she would face.  Standing in front of her, in her bedroom, the stranger completely naked, spoke:

"whats going on"
"not much"
"you seem freaked out"
"well...am I dreaming"
"you're very awake"
"what's happening"
"why dont you tell me"
"im going crazy"
"no"

And a pause chilled the room as if the cold was coming from inside her skin, all that bad luck she had so strongly aspired for, all that energy she was praying would exude from her pores, the possibility of something different, some kind of change chilled her intestines. The stranger spoke again:

"why am i here"
"you tell me"
"i can't tell you anything, you dont already sorta know"
"what does that mean"
"you know i dont really know, its something you say"
"i dont say that"
"you do know"

Another pause, the chill had settled onto the tattoo on her back side and some how she felt as if it were speaking to her, forcing her to speak.

"im tired"
"are you"
"very"
"what are tired of"
"being me, being here, buying, selling, eating, sleeping, I wanna leave"
"where to"
"somewhere close to home"
"home is a place, and your here aren't you"
"home isn't place it's a feeling"
"so make this place home"
"can't"
"why so grim"
"pessimism i guess"
"ahh"

This time there wasn't a pause, the stranger moved closer to her.

"dont"
"sometimes a touch can make the world feel less unreal"
"i dont want reality"
"what your asking for is not yours to give or take"
"why"
"because you are meant to suffer like the rest"
"so this is all suffering"
"for the most part...there are joys to"
"like what"
"like touch"
"what are you"
"what ever you imagine to be"
"that's a joke"
"why"
"because i dont imagine you"
"well what do you want me to be"
"lets say i want......"

And she didn't know. All this time, all the struggling, all the studying, all the effort, and not once did she ever address the question: What do you want to be? As if she could choose to be something other than what she is. So she faked the answer.

"i want to be something important"

The stranger laughed.

"you want to be important, you want to change the world, you break mirrors in the hopes of what?"
"i dont know, change"
"do you really want that"
"i guess"
"have you ever thought that you may just wanna be"
"what"
"you dont always have to have an answer"
"im confused"
"yeah, it's confusing"
"what is"
"death, everything really"
"is that what we are talking about"
"no"


Another pause and now the room began to fade and there was only white around her and the stranger.

"is it my time"
"i don't know, do you want it to be"
"i can't live with the reality that every turn and every movement there is fixed consequence, that everything is sorta linked and that i have no control, its just like that, and it sucks that everything is so aligned in some ways, and in other ways the alignment is utterly unclear, and then sometimes its almost like there is no alignment, but there has to be for it to make sense"
"how do you explain me"
"your not real, your an illusion"
"am i"
"yes"
"so what"
"so nothing, this is all fabricated, its all jack shit"

At this the naked stranger seemed hurt. And began to fade,

"wait dont go and leave me alone"
"you dont get it"
"get what"
"i am life surviving, and that's enough. but you are so unbelievably hard that in your vision of the world chaos and logic, contradictions and truth, place and home are everything, but most of the time they really aren't anything at all. you might see politics, or science, or thought, as being the heart of what makes you, progress, the root of mankind, but in one sweep the earth collapses and your gone and thousands like you gone, you dont get it, i am you, and all you see is an illusion, a white plea for death because the answers are so hard to come by, but the questions are not everything, sometimes waking up is enough"

Seeing herself like that, seeing her naked body talking to her, saying those words as if they were her own, in her own voice, knowing they weren't, made her some how quiver with fear, for the first time she realized there was indeed more to life than she could ever think, for the very idea of life stretches far beyond imagination. Sometimes it's just enough to be.

Chapter Six

Chapter Five

Chapter Four

Chapter three

Chapter Two

Chapter One

 My mom gave me the idea of writing a short story online that came in sections to excite my readers. She seems to think I can write or should write like Murakami, but I'm no way as nearly developed in writing as he is. I'm more of a poet at heart but here is my multi-sectioned short story: CHAPTER ONE

On Routines

You wake up in the morning distinctively prepared to start your day, realizing that the day has begun without you, the phone rings. A friend is on the other line "Allooooo", "Hey what's up? Keefuk? Ca'va".

Conversation about this and that ensues, none of which is particularly interesting, a former friend has rejoined the group, another is traveling to find work abroad, and still another is distancing herself because of a boy she recently met; same old, same old.

The group of friends you now know are relatively the same group of friends you met in college, or through work, and they are replicas of each other: boys dark hair slick and brushed back, short cut, the random weirdo has long hair, and sometimes you will find a blond in the group. The girls hair colors and textures vary dramatically, from curls to simple straight black hair, but they are all wearing Mango, or Zara, or some rendition of the recent fashion ins.

You could categorize groups of people by language and hobby, the english rock stars, the english nerdy weirdo's, the english druggies, the english rich snobs, the arabic religious people, the arabic non religious people, the arabic confused people, the arabic politically affiliated people, and then the (wait for it) french. (the author means nothing by this comment as she willing falls into the category of english nerdy weirdo)

Of course categories aside there is little fixedness to who hangs out with who and how and when they hang out as the country is very dynamic and in many contexts the sects are forced to interact with one another. This is not the case all throughout Lebanon, simply in Beirut.

Anyways, your phone call ends, and there you are deciding what to eat for breakfast, whether to go to work, or university, or where ever you go. Clearly, the choice is not in your hands, (most of the time) so you dress, do the deeds of the day till 7, when you meet up with your group of friends who are cursing that the traffic at five could not get any worse, which is odd since everyone leaves work essentially (or so they say) at 7.

Conversation erupts about who is right and who is wrong and who is destroying the country and what political representative needs to fry; a voice in the crowd mentions they all should fry, and general agreement is warped back into this group versus that group, and how this politician is hurting his followers versus that politician who is not.


In any case, the evening ebbs, the week ends, and you are at a club with friends drinking a little too much for your own good, but hey its the weekend and Gemayze is hopping as are you from place to place as they are all full. Dressed to the tee you find yourself a cosy friend to have serious guy talk with.

The conversation turns sour quickly as the number of decent guys in Beirut are dwindling...this is tantamount to the fact that there are not enough men in Lebanon.....but it really is worse than this, there is an epidemic-there are no good guys in the world, the universe, hell there is no hope we are dying alone and single with cats and bad skin.

The night ends after some flirting with some guy you just met at the bar who you wouldn't date because you met him at the bar, but you never know.

And finally you are back in your bed waiting for the week to begin again wondering if the monotony of this routine will wear off eventually. For regardless how dynamic a place is, and Beirut is up there on the list of Dynamic and fun places to live, most things do succumb to routine, and once that happens......................