إنه مجرد وهم

expressive free-writing blog. all rights reserved to Reem AL-Abdullah, 2018(c)

Month: January, 2016

“blue reminds me of my sadness and yellow represents the light you are; green is my favorite color….”
-as you could see they’re not kissing.. yet, (despite that, they’re already ‘merging’ in a sense.) for it’s too soon still; their love is still young. however as it shows in these early stages, it could be predicted that it’s going to be spectacular.. it’ll be worth it all.

View on Path


I am not the well, but only the piece of ore lost within./

one day, one day I’ll meet someone who’d look deep into my eyes and see beneath my facade. see me for the shattered pieces I actually am.

see that I’ve already lost too many parts of who I am along my way; help me retrace my steps; take my ashes and bury what’s left of me within them.

I don’t want to be, anymore.
heaven knows how fed up and tired I am..

from the shadow that has always been bigger than the seems.

from the girl they all speak of, but I don’t see.

from me.

in my name; I shall never write again. in yours, the words would simply come afloat on my unstable skin like pretty freckles; you’d love so much

here I sit, drinking my dose of bitter, sour in its room-temperature, shot of caffeine. it brings you to mind; you, our simple randevue and how when I first met you I attempted to replace my nicotine with coffee in hopes that the air wouldn’t get too thin for me.

here I sit, listening to the songs I played when I first stood naked -in both senses- for the first time; I recall your peering eyes and how I hoped they’re truly as pleased as the beetles eating away at my honeyed skin.

here I sit, with a book in hand attempting to read, but three sentences in and my buzzing-with-madness brain takes refuge in recalling your words from last night; right before our mundane fight.

oh yes, same feeling I get whenever we have our usual talk about who’s going to be the “housewife” despite the fact that we both would love to live out our lives with my plant, your future child, always in the same bed we plan to die on top of (maybe next to).

I’m scared again.. you and your repetitive ways of pushing, expanding my horizons.

and here, I sit, huddled; with a pile of books written by most my idols surrounding my vision, I recall a feeling.. a feeling I had never felt before.

“…when are you going to do it?”

[they needn’t know. I just want to bathe in the beauty, in recollection of the amount of faith you have in me every time I read this pointless piece again.] …

a faith in an imperfect entity. a faith all the gods that ever came to existence would never come to understand.

remain envious, they shall.