Champak in Japan

its been a while I didn’t update my page with information about what is going on here in Japan and specially in Tokyo. Today is a good day, i guess.

We were informed that typhoon is hitting Japan (tonight) and we better stay inside and not to go out. It’s me and my pad now. I will write about my university a little bit. I am studying at Musashino art University. Which is pretty known and famous in Tokyo beside their rival university Tama. At MAU ( Musashino Art university) which is known as Musabi, I am at the science of design department. I am supervised under two professors Kobayashi and Bando. Both are highly professional designers. We have also another professor the creator of Muji stores prof. Hara. I will be honest with some points to compare my German university with the Musabi. Here is awesome. Period.

What i…

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Perfume: A Story of You


The years. The dust. The shadow. Not seen a single ray of sunlight for decades and hidden behind sacks of unread book piles. The closet covered in pale wall papers. Pale rosy wall papers.

It enters your nostrils and crosses through your throat to reach your stomach and you can taste the odour. It is sour and sharp.

You immediately hate every inch of it.

First you have to hate it.

The fingers, the touch, the blouse, the smell of the wooden closet which hasn’t been opened for years. It’s a place where things are kept secret behind the doors, or maybe it’s an elephant in the room.


Outside of these rosy wallpapers opens a flower. It ripens as It’s petals open widely in front of the cool breeze it receives, shivering every inch of the body. The petals are caressed and carefully stroked to be fully watered in a matter of seconds. It grows in glamour ready to be picked. It releases its finest smell and covers all the surrounding dusts with its aromatic enchantment. Its time has come.

You love it.

You cannot not love it.

It’s you. 





This is a confession.

This is my confession.

I did not leave my bed today.

This is a confession.

This is my confession.

I did not leave my room today and I walked down the stairs to                                                        the basement to pick up some tools to prepare my bed. The stairs were broken so I           decided        to fix them on my way.

I picked some nails and a hammer. I wore the glove hanging there. Tak-Tak-Tak-Tak… I made a noise through my mouth imitating the hammer’s. I continued going up and down and up and downer..

My house doesn’t have a basement and I live in an apartment…

This is a confession. I always talk myself out of going to the basement, because climbing the stairs is a challenge for my immobile feet. I always go and I am back for now. They say ‘one step at a time’. What should I call this?


Your women and My S(h)elves

Last time you gave me your hand and drowned me in your pages was with Zahra (The Story of Zahra) and now, after three years, I decide to give my mind to you again, for you to steer it to your direction.

I skimmed through your little game, I read all of your names, Suha, Tamr, Suzanne, Nur… I am not afraid to be your women, I am not afraid to become one with them. I am totally ready to dive into your words, to allow your lines to submerge me deeper and deeper, until I suffocate and forget to breathe.. But guess what, my Library knows me the best, she knows all my identities hidden in her shelves and I know that she will pull me out from you and dip me into another kind of you and I will equally enjoy every bit of it.

And if your women and I make it to the lands, I will allow you to scribble an abstract on how we made it to safe havens having passed through your flames…




It splits her chest open to enter her from the thoracic cage and winds around the lungs to get inside her arteries. It irrigates her entire entity, completely soaking every inch of her cells in it, turning them into blue, navy blue, all the layers of the color blue, until her skin becomes cyan. Her lips though ice blue color, dribbles what is left of her inside liquids out.

Eventually, on her last breath, she solidifies.



featured image credits to:

The Labyrinth

She gave it one last look. Walked down the corridor to the door while Brushing the dust on the shelves with her fingers. Although it burned her from inside, she couldn’t stop to look behind her shoulder, because she knew the rule; she would turn into a pillar of salt. The challenge was to step out of the door with a smile on her face and sprinkle of love in her soul.

She didn’t look back, nevertheless she went into the labyrinth of the rooms. She went into one room which led to the garden, the garden led to the kitchen, the kitchen led to the dining room, the dining room led to the balcony, the balcony led to the bedroom… She was running from one door to the other, forward always, but never in progress. She found herself at point A. Where it all began.

These doors trap.

Finally, exhausted, she took the paint, colored the door with bright white, drew a window instead, unlocked the window with her pen and threw herself out.

When Bodies Contest the Space

I cross the curtain to sit on the parquet floor putting the soles of my feet together and holding them in my palms. I start moving my knees up and down to be part of the individual warming ups taking place on the floor. I look around and enjoy watching my shadow enlarged on the opposite wall, where photos of dancers cut from black and white newspapers are plastered. My shadow tangles with other peoples’ shadows once one of the choreographers comes forward and tells us to walk around the dance floor in order to become acquainted with the space.

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