Blasphemy by Hawra’a Khalfan

A journal entry on feeling stagnant:

It is blasphemous for me to feel this way. It is blasphemy to nudge the world with my thoughts by putting them on paper. It is a miscarriage of ideals to almost be as good as I want to be. I feel as if I might as well have been born still. I feel nothing but friction, vibrating back and forth but never going anywhere. I feel like I was born to stillborn parents, never having learned anything from their mistakes. I feel as though the world owes me everything and nothing. I feel like I am an intrusion. A peculiar future death waiting to happen. I feel as though the only purpose I serve is to give the race less air to breathe, less space to live. I am a living cultivation of what it looks like to ungrow, to unthrive, to be still.

Blasphemy by Bader Shehab

It’s quite often that I pluck the burning cigarette onto the curtain cloth, it’s a bad old habit. But you know what they say: “old habits die hard” or something of the sort. Pease, leave me a receipt after I check out and I’ll have your curtain replaced.

You know what… I have been on a bit of a bender as of late; in and out of motels and moving state to state. Sometimes I’m not sure if I am entrapped in a fight with time dimensions. I can almost see my past when I exhale the smokey hallucinations. I could feel the joints in my wrist, twist and bend and flex to the paperweight of my Marlboro. Continue reading