These are just plain opinions; they can be rejected, refuted, argued against or accepted. These words are not meant to impose my ideals upon anybody , and they are not going against the law of the diversity of thoughts~~

Thursday, 10 July 2014

Write Write Write

This Word Document view is pushed to the left, and I do not have any idea how to fix it. What else can I do if I can’t manage an outdated word processor? I kept thinking about all sorts of philosophies and technical knowledges in which my interest has no boundaries, yet here I am ,stuck with the smallest of nuisance, and I can’t do anything about it.

      I have realized that it is not in my power to decide when and how I should write. When I wished to write something real bad, I often end up staring at the screen throughout the night  with perhaps a paragraph or two, and nothing else. The words I had written then would appear to be so repugnant and compulsively condescending. I could not write something good if it was not by the request of my conscience; not borne of my desires, even though I willed myself so hard to write.

         The desire and the ability to write something from the heart is something impulsive. The idea and the whole composition of words would come like a revelation; and I would feel the urge to write overwhelming myself all over; a feeling akin to drowning. I would be gasping for air, my heart pumps harder out of adrenaline, and I would stop doing anything at that moment to type or scribble away on scraps of paper.

         But most of the time that kind of impulse never presented itself; pretty much like sunny days in an autumn. I longed for it and mulled over the feeling in front of the laptop with almost a perverted longing. I would write out pointless things like this note and end it abruptly; and I would never continue writing on the sentences I left unfinished.

        I wish to write about Palestine and pour my tears over every word, and tell the world how disgusted I feel, but every word seems so hypocritical I end up stuck again. There are rallies , charity bodies giving their account numbers, and all sorts of people reminding you not to eat at Mc Donalds. After a few more men are killed, the Israeli  and the Palestinians would sign a treaty of some sort to stop the atrocities, and thus peace had returned again.

            The cries for Palestine on the internet would die down , as if people has forgotten everything that ever happened. It is there in their minds, but there is no need to voice it out anymore, because everyone else had stopped in the midst of their enthusiasm. During the heights of the killings they would throw insults on everyone who did not share their statuses about Palestine or those who appeared not to care. When Palestinians are murdered , it is wrong to watch football or play games or buy new cars or eat at restaurants while the Palestinians starve. You can’t even feel happy because it is fundamentally wrong to be  so while our brothers are dying, because it is schadenfreude, although by God’s name, we take no pleasure in the suffering of others.

              People mock others over their apparent ignorance, and they craft the most cynical words possible, as if being cynical ever stopped a murder. If anything , people grudge and direct their enmity towards cynics who put themselves in high places  and  curse others as ignorant peasants who know nothing but hedonistic pleasures and endless consumption. I think that if there is a statistic about the character of murdered people, cynical people who exerted themselves to appear wittingly sarcastic at all times would top the charts.

                 Then the killings would slow down and the bastards would retreat to their holes, and the sarcastic cries would stop. “Yougottadance”, said the mythical sheepman in Murakami’s Dance Dance Dance to the confused protagonist. Dance to the rhythm, said the sheepman, so that the poor guy would follow the flow of fate decided upon him. The attack on Palestine has been a yearly routine of attack-kill-treaty, and  so has been the concern of people over the oppressed land ; it rises and dies away yearly like some sort of an annual festival. Next year , when the Zionists start killing again, we are ready with slightly improvised sarcastic comments for our ignorant friends.

       Edward Said wrote in his Representations of the Intellectual about the characteristics of enlightened people in bringing reform and ideas to the people, but he warned against cynism because it always involves reductionist views. Gabriel Garcia Marquez in his account about the Buendia family wrote with a passive neutrality, even when the members of the family did the vilest of acts. It seems like he was merely an observer amidst the town of Macondo, not a righteous shmuck hell bent on preaching his views. He showed his respect towards the intellect of his readers, and he let them be the judge for the deeds done by the numerous Aurelianos and Arcadios. There was no need to be cynical, yet his 100 Years of Solitude was widely acclaimed to correlate intimately with the social and political conditions of the Latin people.

              I feel hopeless and weak, and I despair for the fact that I do not have the strength and the wealth to change the way things are, but you don’t have to mock me and add to my despair for things even you can’t do. I sat drinking tea not too long ago beside the Azhar Mosque  in Cairo, when almost two dozen kids ,one after another came to me , selling tissues and asking for money. I thought    that if I had the capacity I would marry all their mothers who live on the streets and take these children as my own, but then someone would get really mad. The  kids harassed me for change, and as they went away they took  my salted pistachios on the table and ran. As I watch the salted nuts become the next victim, I realized that all of those wishes were merely wishful thinking which won’t develop into actions. I won't ever take these children home or give them food, because apparently it is a crime to do so.

             They are all empty big words, you sarcastic bastards.



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