I am a child of the 80's.
I can not fathom the true meaning of the word kamikaze and I can not say I have been in the shoes of those driven to crime by hunger.
I do not know the dark harshness of poverty and I wasn’t allowed the bliss of ignorance.
I am educated and I am opinionated but I am not free.
I am creative but I am stifled.
I have thoughts that are housed outside the box but are contained by the chains of my capabilities.
I am an arab and I know for a fact that arabic is an expressive language, yet I can not orchestrate in words the symphonies of beauty that my language affords me.
I have stars in my eyes and a thorn in my side.
My thoughts raging and my imagination volatile but my tongue muted... not by censorship and not by oppression but by inadequacy.
I’m well versed yet suffer the restrictions of my vocabulary.
I am fluent but still the power that my pen possesses in English becomes nothing more than a want...
a desire..
An aspiration to manifest lines that are eternal not because they provide answers but simply because they are echoed through the sands of time... because they are read... memorized... repeated and are a magnificent testimony to a glorious language. I yearn to create pros and stanzas that move mountains. I am filled with expression and no way to materialize them. How do you portray what dreams my come if you don not know how to sleep?
And so you see...
I am not free...
I am bound by me...
1 comment:
The dark side of me says, 'perhaps one is not destined to dream...afterall, where are we now?'.
Well done, hun. I like how you expressed that despite imagination, history, fluency...one is limited by one's abilities...the pen stops.
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