sharing the evolution of my thoughts as i perceive the world

real words

It often feels like

Piano notes coming in and out of my lungs

like a little rose sticking out of the mud

on a winter day that is kind of sunny

but not too warm; just light

coming out and through branches of trees half worn out and half resilient after fall and winter’s wind.

Stepping in and out of fringes of immaterial gold;

magic of a massive star and a wooden structure,

gold and silhouettes,

two worlds and a third have met;


think of death that hasn’t come

and life that’s been so numb

yet so gentle

and beautiful

in little things like butterflies that cliché quotes youngsters preach when they don’t know what they’re saying but they say it either way,

for hope,


and eternity.

The denial of death is the mode of our thought

and the fear of it the mode of our lives.

Thirsty for life we drink water and hungry for more

we take food to decay faster

we smoke cigarettes

and to turn it off we drink it away.

If it’s too morbid then its opposite is too overwhelming cause that’s death and the latter is life and there’s no middle it’s 0 or 1.


not like machines yet wired like machines to breathe and survive in the middle of the desert or in the deepest of the oceans where it’s all-dry and air is out, to hold and be held, love and tears are shed.

And all of that with five senses I wonder

what it all would have been had they been a hundred or none.

And so we paint and get tattooed,

sing and listen to songs,

capture moments in faceless pictures and never see them again for it isn’t the memory that counts:

it’s capturing,


breathing in and never out until we blow up and fall again, ceaselessly, into the deepest of the oceans and the darkest of the nights,

where we dance with no sound, make love outside our bodies, and grieve over what’s not lost.

Neurotic, exhausted.

Transient, romantic.

It is not beyond death that I want to live,

but beyond life itself.

What is real is not the wall I lean upon

or the words that I utter and write,

but the fairytales and saints that have walked and praised my feet and not the ground, my mind and not my feet, my heart and not my mind.

A cyclic pull from what’s real and what’s not; and what’s not to what is.

Existence, essence, and a bunch of other words to describe what being is and

call it defined.

The delusion of immortal souls and gravity,

afterlife and space-time continuum,

god and man,

and all is real, yet all is not.

And after god comes love,

not the one in the bible but the one in my bed and in my dreams,

in my red face and my tears,

and a lover to hold it all until she cracks like I did at the knowledge of godlessness,

at the knowledge of my condition, that I too fear and tremble, vanity and emptiness, all disappear.

This too shall pass, but no! I want it to last!

But to ridicule religion and call it a day, and claim that I am a realist is not any better a way; remember, what is real is not.

What I’m trying to say is

if with only five senses and we call things real,

then what about all that we feel?

What about god, he who is felt by man but not by me?

What about that tree or that wooden table that stem from one

like the cloud and the cup of water,

the dust from which I come and the dust to which I return.

Perhaps I am god, or perhaps it is that tree or that wall I lean upon;

remember, what is real is not,

in a heartbeat and an upshot.

A third meditation outside the flow, on the next morning, after a long night dream that flashes in an instant, just as post-birth and pre-death;

perpetual post-traumatic recollections of the spark that ignites for an instant in the dark,

the spark that is me,

that is my life;

intermittent in a time-frame of utter blackness, as pre-birth and post-death.

And it shall wash off in instants as my dream last night,

for time is not only inevitable but also a hoax,

not only symbolic but also real,

and remember what I asked you to remember about what is real: it is not.

I see it not in a clock hung upon a wall, but in the ruins of fall.

I see it not in digital figures continuously changing, as it must, as it is wired to, just like us, but in the wrinkles on my mother’s face and decaying bodies that caskets replace.

I see it not in marked years and feasts and what man celebrates, but in the wistfulness of the end of those days, and the bitterness in all that decays.

I intend not to

escort myself to death.

On the contrary,

to pull myself out of it,

like a little rose

in winter’s wind.


tree of knowledge of good and evil

Is it such a sin

to wonder

what could have been

and ponder

what might become

if under

a sheet of scum,

I discover

a life not numb


I could not understand

why divinity

lies beyond man’s land

and infinity

seized in grips of a father

who in humility

left us all in the gutter

with affinity

to die and kill in his honor


Beyond good and evil

one must

consume all of Eden

not just

the tree of knowledge

but with lust

until one is fallen

to dust

with the leaves of autumn


Inborn thirst for truth

well spent

in fountains of youth

then bent

the arrow of time

we dreamt

of a godly light to shine

heavenly sent

to forgive us our crime

poet’s eyes

to animal is to fantasize
to man, to romanticize
a fanatic must consume
moderate, sparks and fume

victims of transience
eternal fall into silence
nonexistent, nor alive
never again to survive

a reality of distortion
time is but a notion
to grant a little sense
to the world in my lens

and a river of words
to capture in our works
beauty that never dies
seen by the poet’s eyes

to the skies

Doors to numinous

Trails of transformed

Perspectives, numerous


Mourn for tedious

Minds rather uninformed,

Objective still dubious


Embracing rhapsodies

Lost thoughts tied

In grips of melodies


Images of symphonies

As nature last sighed

Sounds of sceneries


Oh grand surprise

That god had died,

Thus is man’s disguise


From dust I rise

To dust I return

Not to the skies

in the sky

From place to place

along the arrow of time

with an ageing face

I disperse in lines

To find home in walls

or amid the flowers

no longer significant

in ambivalence of my powers


To outpace time and space

hold fight in flight, &

seize a speck of grace

of what’s left in sight

Upon walls of a home, or

rotten flowers by the ground

a light-beam or mote of dust

linger upon a world of sound


No father art in heaven,

abandoned thy condition

No scripture or saint

thy canvas thy paint

Thou shalt not kill

for thou shalt perish

Thus take thy will

to love and to cherish

when love wears time

The human life is a mode of existence, an odyssey bound by temporality and an experience of dazzling self-awareness. It is observable that nature evolves in an ironic way, in that it tends to protect itself from itself like a tender rose and its thorns. At the same time however, bees and flowers engage in symbiosis to provide each other with the privilege of survival and preservation. It is incomprehensible indeed, that it is in the nature of things to destroy to preserve, and so death, life, and other necessities, are too humanly rejected. Us humans, we love, feel and grieve; how do we make peace with transience and time if even our soulfully constructed infinities are bound by finitude?

I often argue that it is only within the human life that God can be found, that God is a human thought and construct merely for the catharsis from the burdening self-aware existence; yet to follow the logical causality to the very origin, it must be true that God is without nature, unbound by it, unaffected by time, dimensionless. Then by demonstrating how interactions can only be realized between two existing agents, nature and itself, it is quite unreasonable to have God exist. And if God is to exist, then sadly enough, the ultimate human wish is deceived by the tragic reality: everything existent shall die, and then God too will die.

Man is not only nature protecting itself from itself; but an even grander scheme, man is nature in existential crisis, tending to rather stick itself out of itself. The idea of God is a self-projection of what man might become: as long as man dies, God too will die, and if man is to one day live eternally, outside of time and nature’s forces, he becomes God.

In the past 200 years, the world has been embellished by the touch of the most brilliant minds, minds that have shaken the ground of conviction in the direction of progression, a keener genre of preservation. It is no coincidence that the delusion of having an interacting creator of the universe that is outside of nature is in a process of demolishment. It is no coincidence either, that within this quick progressive preservation, ideas have arisen to suggest that God is not detached from nature; rather, God is nature.

Soon enough, as soon as man grants himself all that is needed to constitute the characters of God, “He” will once more stick out of nature, and achieve boundless infinity.

For the time being, we smoke cigarettes and get hit by cars. We make films, write poems, and make art. We love, feel and grieve, because we die, still.

The romantic state is a continuous cycle of love and grief. Love is a mode of life, and life is a mode of existence, so love too is a temporal tangible creed of an unfaithful eternity. When I realize that I am bound to uncertain death and simultaneously feel my attachment to life, I recoil in existential crisis. In a similar manner, when I realize that my love is bound to end just as life to death, and I am profoundly in love with a speaking flower, I recoil in existential crisis, ever more powerful. It is rather melancholic, to mourn over someone not yet lost, yet it is inevitable as I was born mourning over myself.

I have been both impaired and intrigued by love and its escorted melancholy. Why is it that the most marvelous sensation, a catharsis greater than God, truly sensed by all means of perception and beyond, tragic, even before it ends? The perplexing contradiction in the nature of love, in that it is both transient from without but infinite from within, is what makes it the prevailing force of the sadistic human life. “We accept the love we think we deserve.” No love is unaccompanied by tragedy, and that is because no man is deserving of endless love, for he himself is not.

the subject’s emergence 2.0

I have come to realize the gravity of our subjectivity and the confines of our reality by our perceptions within every ‘conscious’ encounter, literally. I could not stress more that, relatively, mind surpasses body on some virtual evolutionary scale; however, I could not but doubt what the mind muses about. To elaborate, claiming that I am mind and not body is erroneous for the mere fact that my mind (essence) cannot be without my body (its existence). What I have failed to comprehend in my mindful recollects, is the meaning that men of language set to the word existence, and how it is erroneous to attribute essence to existence in absolute, rather than existence to itself, hence the relativity of existence. I cannot say my mind exists, but I can say that my mind exists within my body, and my body exists upon a rocky planet that harbors life, and then the chain of existence and sub-existence goes on and on until uncertainty is met; until we are left meditating over oceans of ceaseless debates that have emerged only from human fallibility and a struggle to define, describe, and attribute the essence of anything to the existence of everything, in absolute. Therefore realizing the ability to doubt, and realizing the absurdity that envelopes, I could not but submerge reality in skepticism, a false-hearted arena that bogs the mind and sets forth ‘logical’ solutions that are not satisfactory to being a subject. When man falls in skepticism, he is indulged in a self-fight activity in that the subject can never become objective, and that the absolute is merely an idea or conception of what man wishes to become: beautiful, objective, immortal, free, perfect, absolute, God. These are notions that are thought of and brought up in man’s ascetics on an almost daily basis, inasmuch as man lives by them, and cannot reject them; because to doubt radically and question the self’s purpose in a purposeless universe, is fatal for man who weeps, hurts, dies and loves.
Then, to doubt the mind that doubts, to push reason to the furthest stretch, is a scheme of thinking that is not on the basis of questioning the creator of the universe, but questioning creation and its purpose, the validity of existence itself, and the validity of the absolute, way before the validity of God and man’s fate.

To spare the intellectual anguish, Descartes’s demonstration of radical doubt would suffice; but what I am after is not the endless doubt, for the outcome is futile if one’s will is far from self-destruction, rather hooked on self-understanding and preservation. I am rather after the fact that even Descartes, the radical skeptic, came to halt at a conclusion that is, “I think therefore I am”, which is no less subject to doubt than the idea of God itself, for even that could be doubted furthermore, but it is far beyond human actuality to be radically skeptic of anything “absolute”. It is indeed necessary for survival of self and sanity to halt at a point of, not acceptance, but admittance of our folly in the search of the absolute, the admittance of our fate, the only truth man can know; man weeps, man loves, and man dies.

For even radical doubt of everything and the absolute is an exertion to grasp what man wishes to become; however, to admit human actuality is the first step to become what we want to become inasmuch as to admit that man is not free, is the first step to freedom, and to admit that man does not know truth is more truthful than any notion man lives by. I once came across a statement I truly appreciated, it is that man falls victim to his own grammar in that the verb (the act) is to be preceded by a subject (the actor), and the error lies in attributing specific acts that man cannot himself commit, to greater actors, such as, God (absolute).

Correspondingly, in our efforts to immortalize, to become absolute: we write, we philosophize, we paint; we produce.

Beauty is thus attributed to the limit of man’s production and effort; what we find beautiful is what we cannot produce and cannot grasp with our five senses, and why we find it beautiful is the inability to be as beautiful, or to be artisans of such “perfection”, and here is where the concept of the absolute perfection arises from: when nothing more aesthetic can be actualized. The universe is perfect, it is the “grand design”, for as long as it is the only universe we know of, it is the only design, it cannot but be perfect and the same can be said of all that man claims to be perfect. However, as long as the validity of existence itself lingers as is, it is erroneous to claim perfection upon anything; it is rather a conceptualization of a possible better, so then absolutely nothing is perfect, rather what is perfect is only relatively perfect. By the same token, nothing is absolute; rather what is absolute is relatively absolute, only for he who ponders upon the absolute. Just as God exists for he who believes in “him”, and humbly does not for he who does not believe in him.

The subject’s emergence is thus the realization that in the dominion of the absolute, man is not. It is the act of stepping out of the illusion of man’s purity, in the admittance that man is not pure, he is one step closer to purity, in that he weeps, loves, and dies.

to the cruelty of life

To the cruelty of life

I beheld my tears

In the absence of light

I shattered my fears;


For when the light penetrated

through the wooden pale windows

and gently touched the ground,

We danced there slowly

in the absence of sound.



To the cruelty of life

I fail to utter words

In the absence of essence

I mused upon the absurd;


For when the light cracked

through my vacant vessel

and gently touched my heart,

I stood there silent

amid emotions torn apart.



To the cruelty of life

I have suffered, I have lived

instants gone with thought

to repress in memory

what my mind had sought:


Surreal beauty

arising from dust,

ecstatic romance

emerging from loss,

& a will to live

as death come across


Over the quest for essence

In abandoned anguish

Feeding over presence

I sought and sought.



Cruelty of life,

When time welcomes existence

as it creeps within my skin,

I am left with no choice

but to love it all

as it burns and burns


Youssef Bouchi

Sisyphus in love

Of all attempts to immortality man might ponder upon, of all ways for the profound subject to project himself onto transference objects that break the bounds of mortality, the true, ultimate, fundamental transference object not only for man but life itself, is love.

It is one of the toughest and trickiest matters that scientists and philosophers have encountered, for even them, the objective rational ones, free-fall senselessly into beauty. The bond amid love and beauty is explicit: no conscious being can deny that love is beautiful; just as it is quite a consensus that the universe is the grand design. Then the scientist’s skepticism and the philosopher’s addiction to thought dig into the secrets of love, to try to rationalize it, or dress it up with theorems and hypotheses, but they will forever fail to conclude. For love is not merely an abundance of neurotransmitters firing in our brains, nor is it a metaphysical theory to be debated about; it is more than that, it is real, and it is the essence of life itself.

In the quantum world, ‘quantum entanglement’ is when two particles, regardless of the light-years that separate them, interact in such a way that the fate and quantum state of one particle is dependent on its entangled partner. In such an observation, recognizing the secrets of such a phenomenon and describing it in mathematical equations would be futile in light of its beauty; for sometimes learning a magic trick renders it dull, for where is the magic then?

To tackle the entanglement that ties two lovers, we must first detach them from one another, and look at the individual on its own; and after doing so, we realize that our sampled conscious individual carries the weight of being merely a mortal embodied mind limited by bounds of reality and sinking into the voids of confusion and absurdity. Thus ‘entangling’ with another conscious individual bearing other existential weights renders man more complete in such a scheme; just as much as detaching a particle from its quantum entanglement would render it incomplete.

Here, one must not ‘imagine Sisyphus happy’, rather imagine Sisyphus in love; for if Sisyphus falls in love, it would be futile to return to the rock, and wiser to abandon it.

It is evident that love is human’s preferable means of immortality; even in technology and futurism we tend to enhance human connectivity, or ‘human entanglement’ for the sake of the analogy, by pushing ourselves further and experiencing digital entanglement, we’ve come so far in evolving our ultimate weapon of transference that even a virtual text message has the power to get our hearts pulsating, goose bumps dashing across our skin, and our minds tripping on memory lanes.

A photograph that is merely an instantaneous imprisonment of light has the legitimacy of taming with our emotional memory and dissolving our ego into tears.

We long for awe, we long for immortality, and thus we long for love.

When in a moment of now, in awe, in a flow state of connectivity, time is compressed and an instant is equivalent to a thousand. Therefore, love and other wonders transcend us to a dimension where time, and henceforth death, are insignificant. & just like that, we cheat on time with our human mistresses, and cheat on death with our offspring; thereupon making love the most powerful weapon in our war with existentialism.

It is ironic though, how love battles time and ephemerality, while time and ephemerality are what give love meaning, just as the value of spring’s blossoms lies in the heart of fall’s transience.

And so here one’s fear of love develops as a result of the fear of the heartbreak; why indulge in such an intense spring when fall will wear it all off?

It is identical to the development of the fear of life as an upshot of the fear of death: we do not invest in life for one day death will wash it away, we do not indulge in awe for the sun will set and darkness will rule the night, we do not fall in love for love is fleeting and the heartbreak awaits.

However, only through experience and time, emotions and pain, could one grasp and draw, little by little, the fine line separating love and loss, life and death; and there comes a time where it might be a little too late, which is why I urge you to plunge in, run, feel, cry, scream; I urge you to be human. For the more one allows a free-fall into beauty, the more humane one becomes. The absurdity of life is evident in how some processes are irreversible, in how we age, in how we die, & the righteous response as Albert Camus would recommend, is not by abandonment, rather by revolt, and again by not going ‘gentle into that good night but raging against the dying of the light.’

Do not fear life for the randomness, absurdity, and halt that death awaits, rather live ceaselessly because you will die; love endlessly because it is ephemeral, and because it will hurt.


Love is more.

Love is particle entanglement.

Love is time distortion and a manifestation of value in ephemerality.

Love is personifying “god” and sinking in the feelings of grandiosity that are entailed, just as that of the sunrise, into a human body that regards with emotional eyes and touches with overwhelming hands.

Love is two subjects throwing loads of individual experience at each other as two galaxies indulged in an intergalactic dance that only ends when the pair merges into one.

And as it ends,

Imagine Sisyphus in love.

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