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Bedoor Bluemoon

Everyday writing to expose the soul

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Humanity

Relocate

Relocate

 

tree

The world is vast and the opportunities endless.  It is our perception of values that keep us planted into areas we no longer wish to be.  Roots that no longer exist in this age where every person watches out for himself.  Gone are the days where neighbors cared to watch over your children as you get yourself a haircut and gone are the days where you can expect people to care about you.

Family ties are weakening.  It is the naive who think otherwise and who hold onto the hope that Sunday family dinners make a difference.  What difference when we are distracted by the outside on the tips of our fingers?  Children stopped visiting their mothers and don’t ask about their fathers anymore.  Days go by, weeks pass, and months turn into years if we let them because we think that we can easily relocate into somewhere with less responsibilities.  Yes, the world is vast and the opportunities endless, but where would you relocate?  And if you choose to relocate, would it really make a difference where you go?

Humans are social creatures and the lone wolf cannot survive without a pack, one way or the other.  We are not sole survivors nor can we delete all roots that connect us to our past.  We can relocate our bodies but can we relocate who we are in the midst of the hazy lines between cultures, races, and countries?  Are we turning into global citizens or are the homogeneous clusters we see around a representation of the roots we ignore?  Can we really merge or will we always have our differences?

Are we ready to relocate our minds before our bodies or is breaking new ground the hip thing to do?  Yes, we are not trees and we can move but we must move our perceptions to understand that sometimes relocating does not necessarily mean forgetting who we are.

Life as a Fraud- Inferiority Complex

Fraud

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They say confidence is key.  Key to what, I wonder as I put on my beige dress.  Here I am getting ready to graduate at the top of my class from a great university and I still wonder how did I get here?  I never thought I was the sharpest tool in the box (is that how the saying goes?) and I never really did so great in school; and yet I got accepted in the state university on a full scholarship.  I remember joking with the counselor who insisted I apply for the scholarship telling me that I was a great student and all universities would love to have me.  I thought he was joking but I got nudged into it by my mom who held the camera as I played the violin.  I missed a few notes but didn’t feel like redoing the whole thing, so I sent in the tape with all the mistakes.

A few months later, I got the acceptance letter and felt ecstatic.  Scared, but happy.  Then my complex kicked in: am I as good as they think I am?  Am I really worth the money they’d be throwing away?

I walked around campus those four years trying to keep to myself most of the time but it was evident that things cannot go unnoticed.  My high grades got me on the honors roll and I was turned into one of the university teaching assistants and library buddy.  I was also playing the violin in university performances and was given awards for “best performance” and “Classical music guru”.  Yet I kept wondering what they see in me.  What can they see that I can’t?

When things go against my will, I understand.  I live in that unknown and thrive in knowing nobody is watching.  Then I excel, and everybody watches… and I start questioning.

Am I a fraud?  Am I an illusionist who has everyone scammed into believing I am made of something that I am not?

Then I look around, and see people who have accomplished less than I have, look half as good as I do, and are less talented but who are booming with confidence.  I choose to keep quiet in seminars, even though I know the answers before anyone raises their hand.  I try to live in the shadows of my doubt, to live behind those who are in their fuschia and turquoise dresses, screaming for attention.  I choose to stay in the shadows where only those who are looking for perfection would find me, could find me.  They would take me out, polish me a bit, and stand in awe at who I am.

And then, as I stand glistening in the sun, I will still wonder if I’m a real diamond… or a fraud.

طفل سوريا

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لا تشح بوجهك عني

انظر ما اصبح من حالي

كنت في بلدي البسيطُ

طفلٌ يلعبْ، ولا يبالي

حالتي، نعم، لم تسرُّ

ولكن امي كانت قبالي

تقبّلني كلَّ يومٍ

ارتمي دوماً في الأحضانِ

تُلبسني احمر او اخضرْ

تشتري كلُّ ما في بالي

كنتُ مدلَّلٌ محبوبٌ

تَعَبَتْ لتوفِّر كلُّ آمالي

ويوماً سَمِعْتُ أنّ الحربَ

جائَت لِتسرِقَ كلُّ ما لي

أصبَحَتْ امي كالمجنونة

مصدومة بهالاحوالِ

ولا زِلتُ العبْ وأرقص

فما الداعي لكل قتالِ؟

مطمئنٌ كنتُ كلّ ليلة

العب، أرضع، فأنامِ

وتبقى امي ساهرةً

تضرِبُ اخماسٍ واسداسِ

كأنها علمت بأن الموتَ

سَيُخلِّد يوماً أنفاسي

وجاء ذا اليوم المشؤومُ

انقلبت كلُّ حساباتي

لن اكبرَ وأصبح طبيبا

سأكونُ عَبْرةَ الجيّاشِ

احضنّي يا بحر، احضنّي

لن اري قلمْ او كرّاسِ

سلامٌ لك يا كُرَتي

سلامٌ يا كلّ النَّاسِ

فها أنا ذا الطفلُ البسيطُ

افضحُ نوايا ذوي الكراسي

خيالُ طفلٍ على شاطئ

مات، ومات الإحساسِ

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