For Your Birthday

If I collected all the texts I wrote to you but didn’t send,

A novel would come to life.

Sometimes the urge to write when you cross my mind is stronger than the urge to talk to you…

Do you even exist outside of my words and beyond my lines? I might never discover, and these words shall never be said. But here, I am sending you a post card, I hope it arrives in time.

via Daily Prompt: Conveyor


In Her Memory

There’s no greater satisfaction than reading hearing one putting your ideas and thoughts and sentiments which you’ve had in your brain and soul unorganised in a beautiful prose.

I should think about death, think about death so that I decide how to feel about it when she arrives to anyone I love. I had forgotten death existed as I had forgotten about life. Vacuum, Time. Time and space of a third world dimension had swallowed us. All we are is a downward journey through the throat.

I cannot write beautiful words. I cannot express myself in English. I am weak. I cannot express myself at all. She left us too soon. With her words. Her prose her Grief. I weeped, silently, as I read her Grief.

Featured image by Krikor Avessian.


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…