sharing the evolution of my thoughts as i perceive the world

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.

the subject’s emergence

I’m a sucker for moments where I fall hard and heavy into skepticism of reality itself; what a wide scope that is the most subjectively objective experience bound by all the dimensions we know of, or for the sake of subjectivity, we claim logical.

A few days ago, I had my close friend report me a tragic incident that had occurred at the same point of space that has been occupied by himself every single day, repeatedly, but not at the same point in time. A human being was shot dead; corpse left in the middle of the street. In a single second, a subject became an object; from an accumulation of experience, thoughts, memories and consciousness to a body that cannot even feel the ground it lies upon, nor the rain it sinks within. Senses shut off, consciousness gone dim; decaying matter was what’s left of him.

Replaying on repeat was the scenario in my mind, the image of a face that once held expressions of happiness and sadness, now pale and receiving nothing but drizzle, unknown or unfelt of. A still frame to symbolize the variable of time, which had defined a subject as it ran, come to a standstill, and then abandon. Synchronously, my thoughts struck by existential questions, that forever will be, open-ended.

Just like that, from subject to object.

No heaven, no hell, not afterlife, not even reality itself; an expired body, no longer functional, finally demonstrates the mind’s fate, and thereupon ‘I do not think, therefore I am not.’

Just like that.


As the sun rises the next day, and as it does every day, that man is nothing but a memory, which is also subjected to forgetfulness and nothingness, for he who remembers him, will die, too. Time knows only he who knows time, and with the transformation of the subject to the object, time is unknown. Ironic how the objective truth hides behind the mask of pessimistic subjectivity, which is merely an observable reality that is transcended, deeply, in the ‘heart’ of the observer. Notice how death is an avoided topic on a dining table, and how it is perceived as an event that is unlikely to occur ‘any time soon’. Always self-programmed to believe, trustfully, “not today.”

How sad it is to be reminded of one’s own fate, and how disastrous that the subject (mind) is after all finite in regards to the object (body).

Now of course, one tool of immortality is earning oneself a proper death certificate with a proper “cause of death” as a sophisticated data point. Most probably, we will fail to project ourselves onto the Heavens, so that is ruled out. Of course, our so-called immortality projects are bound to fail just as much as we are bound to die. The transference objects we have assigned might as well be observers to our tragic transformation; nothing rules out the possibility of dying before my lover or my child. Thus unfortunately, a firm and respectable “cause of death” on a massive database is our last and only resort, “realistically”.

See how subjective?

Subjective in that there is a difference in empathy towards an elderly who dies peacefully and naturally and towards the man referred to previously. That is the subject’s threat; that sets the gravity of the fearful reminder of the ultimate. The subject would rather imagine himself go peacefully amongst his fulfilled goals, than rot on one of those man-made roads. As if ‘cause of death’ on that futile certificate entails “tragic” or “peaceful”.

Subjective in that there would be a “real” measurable difference if that man had been a priest or the president of the United States of America. As if none of these men discharges feces once or twice every 24 hours; as if these men are immortals.

Everything is measurable in our world; it is our world, isn’t it?

However, a few things are just not measurable, and if you’re alert enough, almost nothing is definitely measurable, which leads us to a messy point.

At a point like this, we plunge in skepticism of reality; and there is nothing more fearful, truthful and beautiful than a point so dense at which the accumulation that is you converges to a halt. You would expect an answer, but find: nothing.

At that point, it is only allowable to say, “I exist, now.”

How mournful that in my mind I escape a bullet, fly over Earth, and travel at the speed of light; yet in the realm of existence, a bullet takes me away, gravity pulls me down, and science betrays.

down the road

count i lost for countless times

unknown how long i must wait,

addicted to consistent chimes

how i wish i could hit and wake


days passed i could not reckon

full of memories i can’t recall,

all these faces i have forgotten

i wore them off, after all


intermittently came my episodes

if only time i could bend,

& hitch-hike down the road

for every episode comes an end

what went down

in my dream i wake in a cave

on a shore that sees no sun,

inhaling the sound of every wave

stranded on a land that holds no one

in my dream the moon is my lover

for a sky of black ignites a spark,

in its ephemeral nature lies forever

destined is light when there is dark

at the edge of the shore i see a face

breaking silence with every scream,

the moon was torn out of place

i wake up, it’s just another dream 

to a reality so limited and cruel

in freedom we cannot roam,

never fails to take me for a fool

i came to realize, i have no home

cheaters of death

there in the end is where we stood

transcended by the moment, wishing us good

wonders in torment, on the quest of godhood

seeking immortality, in fire and wood


& there in the end wears off the night

consumed by words, blinded by light

shredded apart by fears of fight

all we wanted to be, was minds in flight


there in the end, we existed to be

born to die, to set ourselves free

a life too short, for us to see

cheaters of death, I wish we could flee




One of the very first phenomena instinctively realized by my brain and injected externally by my mother’s voice was learning that my human body needs food on a regular basis in order for my existence to persist. Three meals per day; some animal flesh served on a manmade plate accompanied by a manmade knife on the right-side and of course a manmade fork on the left-side. What a beautiful presentation to symbolize our sophisticated evolution: consuming flesh, morally and ethically. The irony.


As I grew older, I started taking my meals for granted, as if speeding up the process of aging and death would shake at all my very destiny.

When my body, the limitation of my mind and conscious existence, ceases to function, I will cease with it.

As I grew older, the degree of my exposure to time increased and continues to do so until my very last moment. The universe can thus epitomize the phenomenon of consumption, until of course it has consumed itself to the end point of time ‘as we know it’.


Consumption is the recursion of existence; thus my yesterday self is just as nonexistent as the meal I had consumed for lunch exactly, say, 4 years ago. Thereupon, the human brain is soaked with this jinxed recursive affair. And to exacerbate that burden, the mind reacts to this injustice; no body is sane, we are all neurotic in 7 billion different manners.


Neurosis is a lifestyle; it is a way for the human mind to behave according to the given. Depression, which lies at the heart of neurosis, is the mind’s expression for being unfairly limited by a human body that is endangered and tormented by reality, possibility, and randomness. We fall in an ocean of possible events, not knowing where to go and what to choose, thinking that no choice at all means possessing infinite possibilities in our hands; where frankly not choosing at all drowns us in that ocean furthermore. Because ultimately, all the paths taken by every human being in time converge at the very same point through consumption: death, so why choose at all, asks the depressed. Unlike the clinically neurotic, the ‘sane’ average man chooses to choose, but why? Once you have chosen, you are fighting your way out of that ocean; you are escaping self-consumption by consuming on paths you claim rational. By the same token, the depressed, by not choosing, ‘chooses’ to drown, because the depressed is subjected to too much truth; because the depressed knows that fighting his way to the surface or allowing self-consumption both escort him to the same end product.


Clinically or not, we are all subjects of depression; we will all ultimately drown in this ocean of truth, because as the clinically depressed, we are all dependent on nurture and surroundings. The human being will always instinctively attempt to find a transference object; one who could hold the burden. To project one’s life onto the transference object is to give the object the role of God; the one who protects and reassures immortality. That is why when a beloved one passes away we encounter denial, for if our transference object dies, we die too, and that cannot happen. Our dependency on the transference object cannot bare the consequences. We deny our own death.

Ergo the paradoxical question: How can the depressed allow self-consumption yet deny his own death? How come we do not self-destruct ourselves and speed up nature’s quest?


With all due respect to Zen philosophy, which asserts that we are nature itself, I would like to assert that we are not only the universe in experience, but we are forces of nature who are able to tame with it, to self-evolve. We choose to live because we are existentially neurotic; given that we will die, we will always attempt to project ourselves on transference objects that are perfect tools for our denial.

Scientists took a deep plunge in the dangerous ocean of truth and succumbed to self-consumption only to introduce the concept of time. Hence we now ‘know’ time better than the universe itself. Mathematicians have come up with the concept of probability only to measure the certainty of a possibility’s outcome; however, the universe does not know probability, it only knows certainty and existence. The universe cannot choose. And that is how we extend ourselves from nature. 


In light of existential neurosis, we choose to choose even by not choosing.

“How many sunsets shall I see set?” I ask, with a little guilty, greedy hope that the sun will cease to set once I have died.

Being all victims of existential neurosis escorts us to two outcomes: on the one hand, the existential angst eats us up, on the other hand, we do not fall victim of self-consumption, but instead we “rage against the dying of the light.”

like cockroaches in paradise

Not long ago, I went on a summer stroll with a dear friend. It evolved into a hike to one of the highest, most beautiful peaks in the country. When I made it to the top, it felt as though I have surpassed a sort of threshold of breathing. Too much beauty might kill you, right?

At the top after I have settled, a cockroach takes a hold of my attention; it had been struggling while fighting the wind; it reminded me of the human animal, as Ernest Becker calls us. It reminded me of the human condition, which is the desire to be in a Godlike position yet pinned in a mortal sack, always fighting life and falling in attempts of sticking out of our nature.

One of the roles of the human condition is that it permits us to initiate our drive in our quests of immortality, by thrusting into beauty and ‘moments of now.’ My involvement in beauty rendered me, a human animal, feeling more of a God than merely a conscious being. This immersion in life and beauty, meaning and time, made me feel that I have mounted over the condition that I was so unluckily disposed to the day I was born a conscious being.

I had opened and stretched my arms as though I was symbolizing my readiness to give in, to give in to the grandiosity of the universe and life, which I have been deeply plunged in.

It’s called the “flow state”, that moment the human animal skips the ‘being’ stage and knocks out the barriers of Godhood.

However, being subjected to beauty, meaning, and life comes with a cost: time. Time is what gives way to entropy and death, time is what led the wind onto the cockroach and trembled the ground we stood upon; with no time there is no motion, no change.

Yet, a butterfly with a broken wing gives more color than an identical butterfly that is alive and free to roam with the summer breeze. The human being seeks Godhood, though conscious of his own fate. The cockroach was at a peak, higher than any other cockroach, yet paying the cost of fighting the wind.

In a moment of now, as I like to call it, time seems slower, and life seems more meaningful, as if we are destined to something other than our mortality. As I opened my arms and was prepared to give in to the power of now, and the colors of beauty, I would close my eyes and forget that I’m at a peak, until the heavy wind moves me slightly and snaps me back into my mortal body.


Why do we allow the idea of death and human condition to interfere with our moments of Godhood? Death and time have known each other “forever.” Why is our fear of death and time our biggest fear and drive? Why fear time so much when it’s what gave meaning to life? Agents of existence cannot be in two places at once; we would not have existed without this notion.

As long as time rules our universe, the clash of existence and beauty will never cease; the beauty of a flower is found at the very root of its ephemerality.

It took us 14 billion years to make it here, and our atoms have been fighting their way for all this time, for we have not been born on our birthdays, we have been born and alive for 14 billion years. What we don’t and won’t understand anytime soon, is that we are the universe because if we all die today, who will be there to define its existence tomorrow? We are the universe, we are continuity.


One of the most burdensome thoughts is the fact that everyday is the first of the rest of your life. How often do we say that to ourselves? How often do we get out of bed in the morning thinking today we are newborns, but only a day older? The idea that everything we have experienced is only just a memory, and we call it the past; what makes it any different than a fantasy? Every single second, reality has been renewed, and many things in the universe have changed. Every single second, the universe grows way larger, and there you are, grown a bit older. Lucidly put, there is no past—the future is all that is left for you. This is where the worthlessness of reliving the past comes in; this is where we realize the worthlessness of explaining a past event—a memory; for in that moment of now we could be experiencing life anew. By the same token comes the contemplation that we are star-stuff; that just as much as the past is nonexistent, the future has its terminal point. Lucidly put, it places us in a spot where life is enclosing in on us through time.

And as we observe ourselves being enveloped by time, we are struck by a “what now?” moment. Now, life hints that it has not set you an ultimate, well-defined purpose, that “we are star-stuff, we are a way for the universe to know itself.” Maybe the burden of being conscious beings is no burden at all; perhaps it is an opportunity for us to capture and reproduce beauty. We go so hard on ourselves to try to make it somewhere that we forget how beautiful the journey is. We focus on certain phenomena so much that we forget the big picture; and when the big picture is mentioned, we dismiss it, by undervaluing it in contrast with our big concerns.

Perhaps our purpose is to take advantage of every now and of our consciousness by discovering the underlying secrets of the cosmos buried deep within every single one of us, by asserting our position as the frontal lobes of the universe. Hence the noble efforts of those who still live among us today in our books and in our references, the enormous efforts of capturing and explaining life and its beauty. Perhaps this lack of ultimate purpose sets us a purpose that drives us more than ever; that assigns our desire to colonize the universe, our desire to hold the world in words and gaze at a sunset that renders us as “butterflies who flutter for a day and think it’s forever.” We’re like fire that needs more heat, conscious beings that want more of life, and more of now.

We are filled with the desire to feel more. The desire to feel more than just sexual intercourse, the desire to feel more than just happy; we thrive to burn, not to just feel warmth.

When I am struck by a beautiful sunset with awe, it renders me a little sad, not just because of its ephemeral nature, but also more explicitly because of my desire to feel more of it, because of my desire to hold it tight and hug it in the most literal meaning.

Profit well of every “now” moment by blooming out the child in you that craves discovery; because if you don’t do that often, and you follow your big concerns and dismiss the big picture, you will wind up someday in your midlife thinking “what now?” again. If you don’t, you will find yourself contemplating on your past—on the memory of the maze-like journey that led you to feelings of nothingness, to the illusion that you have been cheated on by life. There are some walls in that maze that are worth breaking, and scenes behind them that are worth plunging in, no matter how lost you feel you are.

Indulge in that moment of “now” where you don’t have to beat the clock and attempt to live it all, because you cannot live it all, unless you can only live fully, now.

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