Notes from the Cloud

By Hubeyb Mohammed

We are the moody, doomed to misunderstanding, always accused of arrogance, because we are silent, we who do not resort to anyone when we feel sad and self-medicate. We are the morning lovers of the evening. We choose half of the light and dimming. We who thought that when we drown; We will die, we drowned in art, and because of this drowning: we survived. We get more mature with pain, not with the passage of time. We do not arrange the places of people in our hearts, their actions take over.
We are the only ones; we only meet in the pages of a black writer who knows about loneliness. We are the sons of grief of “Franz Kafka”, the philosophy of “Nietzsche”, depression of “Dostoevsky” and the absurdity of “Albert Camus”. We are all the sad writings written by unknown writers who were suffering from loneliness and sadness. We are sad by a musician who committed suicide from depression. We are the lines that Van Gogh drew with a shivering hand before he committed suicide. The last words of “Sylvia Platz” before her suicide and the last tremor of “Gandhi” before he was assassinated. We are the owners of the sad murals in alleys and dialogues, inhabited by the poor slums of love decorated with lies and hypocrisy, we are the ones who descended from everyone who was suffering from syndromes of fear and disorders of depression. We are those who sit in the last classes in the lectures no one notices our existence and no one cares about our absence. We are friends of the night, sadness and depression. We are the ones that no one knows about, and no matter how close anyone approaches us, they will have a little about us. We are the only ones who have no one to cry with about trivial things before the important ones, we are those who are accustomed to loss, pain and soreness, who suffer for children crying, and we may cry to see a sad scene in a movie, we are the ones who have no reasons for our actions and We do not know how to justify it or even defend ourselves. Those who are accustomed to staying up late for no apparent reason, who do not have any justification for contemplating the ceiling, in the sky, in following up the forms of stars, and we may create from cloud companions. We are the owners of antique brains that are sedatives that fail to remain, those who are irritable by a passing word, those with ever-changing moods, crying spells, and sudden sadness. We are the ones who do not care about themselves, and we no longer care about anyone’s matter. We are the owners of existential questions that are unanswered. Those who used to keep silent in the most severe situations that call for conversation. We are the ones whose words are never taken seriously. We are the ones who create arguments to apologize from attending parties and gatherings, we are everyone's friends but have no friend, those who have made music as a companion. We are the people who walk in the streets at the time of rain, those who weep in their room in the evening and wake up in the morning as if they had not cried for hours, we are the ones who have not sent messages, and the pain that cannot be uttered, and with the wishes that were not fulfilled. We are the only ones who are fake in front of people, who are honest in front of themselves, we are the ones who only have broken hearts and broken dreams and wishes. We are forgotten, but do not forget, the agonized, who are unable to hurt anyone, and the peaceful ones, some have assaulted our feelings without a reaction from us. We are the only ones in everything, in our solitude, in our moments of depression, and no one knows about our pain, we are the ones who cry in silence and suffer in silence. We are the moody with the curse of details, obsessive-compulsive disorder, syndromes of fear, closeness and concern, we are the unheard screams of pain and hidden tremors of sadness, we who never meet but know each other, we gather in sadness, depression, calmness and complete darkness, amid the crowd.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hubeyb Mohammed
• Release date: Oct 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005131654

Book preview

Preface

About the right moment that is late in attendance. About hidden beautiful things that no one knows. About the short moments when we come across something nice, then it fades away quickly. About the truth that no one knows. A wandering guide for those who are lost.

I always fail to try to craft what I feel in short words or phrases, it's like cramming the sea in a bottle. But here I tried to make my thoughts as short as possible. Please respect my words for I am fragile.

We are the poor of vocabulary, the weak expression, the owner of the poor texts, how can we explain to what extent we have been lost?

I read it in the meanings of being rhyme, I drank it in my articles and my systems. I glimpsed it in the eyes of a magic wink, in the sanctuary voluntarily cleansing the pain by my pen.

A climb to another horizon.

It has enough compassion tenderness within it to make you deal with others as if they are sewing their wounds.

I write because I love writing, and I love writing because life stops me, amazes me, occupies me, absorbs me, confuses me, and scares me sometimes.

Because torment of distance fold when I write.

I will die one day, and my name will not immortalize in a page of a book, nor will my history be carved on the face of a rock. And it will not rain that night, the sunlight will not fade in submission to my absence, there will be more films and more songs, I am not a character required, but I have to carry a biography. Such is buried without glorification.

We are the moody, doomed to misunderstanding, always accused of arrogance, because we are silent, we who do not resort to anyone when we feel sad and self-medicate. We are the morning lovers of the evening. We choose half of the light and dimming. We who thought that when we drown; We will die, we drowned in art, and because of this drowning: we survived. We get more mature with pain, not with time. We do not arrange the places of people in our hearts, their actions take over.

We are the only ones; we only meet in the pages of a black writer who knows about loneliness. We are the sons of the grief of Franz Kafka, the philosophy of Nietzsche, depression of Dostoevsky and the absurdity of Albert Camus. We are all the sad writings written by unknown writers who were suffering from loneliness and sadness. We are sad by a musician who committed suicide from depression. We are the lines that Van Gogh drew with a shivering hand before he committed suicide. The last words of Sylvia Platz before her suicide and the last tremor of Gandhi before he was assassinated. We are the owners of the sad murals in alleys and dialogues, inhabited by the poor slums of love decorated with lies and hypocrisy, we are the ones who descended from everyone who was suffering from syndromes of fear and disorders of depression. We are those who sit in the last classes in the lectures no one notices our existence and no one cares about our absence. We are friends of the night, sadness, and depression. We are the ones that no one knows about, and no matter how close anyone approaches us, they will have a little about us. We are the only ones who have no one to cry with about trivial things before the important ones, we are those who are accustomed to losing, pain, and soreness, who suffer for children crying, and we may cry to see a sad scene in a movie, we are the ones who have no reasons for our actions and We do not know how to justify it or even defend ourselves. Those who are accustomed to staying up late for no apparent reason, who do not have any justification for contemplating the ceiling, in the sky, in following up the forms of stars, and we may create from cloud companions. We are the owners of antique brains that are sedatives that fail to remain, those who are irritable by a passing word, those with ever-changing moods, crying spells, and sudden sadness. We are the ones who do not care about themselves, and we no longer care about anyone's matter. We are the owners of unanswered existential questions. Those who used to keep silent in the most severe situations that call for conversation. We are the ones whose words are never taken seriously. We are the ones who create arguments to apologize from attending parties and gatherings, we are everyone's friends but have no friend, those who have made music as a companion. We are the people who walk in the streets at the time of rain, those who weep in their room in the evening and wake up in the morning as if they had not cried for hours, we are the ones who have not sent messages, and the pain that cannot be uttered, and with the wishes that were not fulfilled. We are the only ones who are fake in front of people, who are honest in front of themselves, we are the ones who only have broken hearts and broken dreams and wishes. We are forgotten but do not forget, the agonized, who are unable to hurt anyone, and the peaceful ones, some have assaulted our feelings without a reaction from us. We are the only ones in everything, in our solitude, in our moments of depression, and no one knows about our pain, we are the ones who cry in silence and suffer in silence and cry in silence. We are moody with the curse of details, obsessive-compulsive disorder, syndromes of fear, closeness, and concern, we are the unheard screams of pain and hidden tremors of sadness, we who never meet but know each other, we gather in sadness, depression, calmness, and complete darkness, amid the crowd. We hide in the last seats and we hide from the silly looks of pity. We are the only ones as the last child on earth in the city of the dead.

Glory be to us, the ones whose resurrection is based within us, and only calmness and balance are shown on our features.

What is the shape of the fancy finale if this was the first?

How can I turn off the streets light, empty the roads, let the world sleep, so that I can sneak into your heart without anyone hinting me, without you feeling that there is a fugitive who escaped from your alienation to reside inside you? How do I tell you the word I love you while I seek you in my silence? How do I write to you I miss you without reading it and realizing that you will be concerned?

When I love, I talk about death. When I cry, I talk about death, and when my intermittent laugh comes up, I talk about death, but when I die, I will talk a lot, very much, about life. Any bereavement in death? And any death in it? I will be there safe and sound, and it will not bother me to erode fever or melt my bones in the sand. There I will be more attached to life, and my grave may, after a while, become a garden or a clover farm where the cows graze: What is the difference? In death, I will be at the heart of life, not just a part of it. I would be honest enough to laugh out loud at idiots crying themselves whenever they walked in a funeral or remembered a death hidden in the air. When death comes I will smile with a calm smile, a beautiful pure smile, no one has never seen it on my face before, I will forget all my rebellion and violence; To become peaceful and innocent, loving my loved ones, loving and thirsty for life, be a companion in my smile O death, and save it as long as possible in your memory; because I will die a lot, and smile a lot, a lot, when I become a flower or tree, a fish or a dinosaur or a handful of sand.

I do not belong to anything, I indulge in myself more the more time passes by me, it is as if my soul has become so strange that it is always going alone

Patience is a duty, to be honest.

How are you standing in the middle?

And you want, and do not want something

And you want to get closer and getaway

You wish you were a little closer, but fear yourself

Fear the distances, the windsurfing, burning hearts, low spirit

Standing in the middle, just looking at crosses and peace

You see the distances cumbersome

How are you after losing your soul and torn apart?

I pray to God that I do not cling to what I do not have, not to try for something that I will not get, to stand when I feel the necessity of standing, to transcend whenever it is necessary to override.

My dreams used to joyfully wander between peace and reassurance, but every day that passes I know very well that they do not agree with the sometimes stinging and cruel contrast of life.

The exhausting face that the nights gave you, when you flipped over the overwhelming anxiety self-adherent of your heavy head it's all you have my dear friend.

In my second life, I saw myself

Becoming a tree

And a book on a third life

I was the old folded paper.

What is the importance of arrival if it is followed by departure?

What is the use of work if I am not interested in it?

What does it mean to attend if I yearn to be somewhere else?

How does a person fear spreading pleasure?

How to imprison good words in his belly and place them with words that resemble missiles.

My life is a small farewell to great farewell. Since I was created and I bid farewell to things in succession. My mother's belly, my heavenly shirt, my wooden bed, my old house, and my friends one by one, as if all things were a slight handshake and then I started farewell to those who loved me, and when I finally become a goodbye, bid farewell to myself, bid farewell to my old faces, bid farewell to the love that inhabited me, bid farewell to parts of me, and receive others, bid farewell and receive others, but this no longer make a big difference to me, because people will leave, and my face is the one that I thought it will remain attached to me. Now it seemed like a mask, how many masks I keep removing and never reach my true face? And because things lost their value, all small and big farewell seemed painful, because I began to look at all the something equally, everything has a dark side, which cannot be ignored, and this aspect will only be real!

Getting used to it?

I've read something in the textbook. Something about getting used to things here is the concept in short; when we smell unpleasant things, our olfactory organs send the signal of distress, after a while of staying with the smell and distress we will be relieved. Do you know the meaning of this concept? It means that there are sensitive hairs in the course of smell that dies and are no longer sensitive. Then, the nervous system is no longer alerted. The same is true when you pass on a beggar asking you, the noise makes you nervous at first then you will get used to it as the people around you get used to it simply. It is the same that happen sensitive capillaries and sensitive nerves in the ear are dead! We are not used to it my dear unless something inside us is dead too.

When the storm ends, you will not remember, how you managed to survive, and you will not realize whether the storm ended or not. You will be certain of only one thing; when the storm comes out of you, you will not return the same person as the person who entered it.

I do not like these silly people who graduate at high grades and have important academic specializations, but they do not hear music, they do not know a single poet, they do not attend a movie or try to write a poem. I do not understand these people who have ritual personalities without habits without details, do not care about the color of buttons, nor the wood of their seats and are satisfied with any red hot liquid so they do not stop at the type of tea. Life is in detail, in the sensation, in the taste, in the shake that you shake your head with sadness, joy, or capture of a clip from an old song, or you get excited by the smell of incense blowing from the ancient street on the street.

You do not know the extent of your beauty, you think that the reflection of the mirror in your face is your real beauty.

You are wrong!

I regret that you cannot see the glow of your eyes when you laugh, or how a shy smile escapes from you when you talk, your sharp looks, and those full of lintels, your beautiful details are a lot!

I will fight

In the most peaceful way

With laughter

And hope

And dance.

Every time I was afraid

I live waiting

And die, stranger

I found my name soaking wet

So I settled it

But my name always longs for absence

I breathe clouds

Planes and storms

I breath dead bodies

Blood and skeletons

I breathe ancestors of orphans

And monsters

If I were a river

I would cry

But I am a lost rain

Give me some shot

I have a notebook and a pen

I have a cat that is trapped in its pain

In my heart, there is a tree

That grow up thinking to flee

I say I am a stray tree

And I say that I named it

I say that I am a corpse

And I mean I lived in it

I say that I am a river

And I mean I cry like it

If I wrote you a poetry

Believe me, I am it

I hide in the language

Searching a place

To make you fit.

Be angry and please nature, like a cloudy sky, cool breezes, or shady trees, as if God's hand always wipes your heart in many ways.

Those who told us

That when we get older we would understand

Where are they now?

We did not understand a thing

Except that days suddenly leak out

From the crack of a lifetime.

The world in my heart is dead

But when the music stops

And the rooms are closed

I take it out of my heart

And put it over my bed

Beg him to forgive me

To not remember what passed

But he likes the feeling

He opens the music again

His skin crumbles

Only its skull and bones remain.

What do you expect to hit you

From the face like a moon

That displaces the consciousness of confusion

And poured stars into your ears?

The fact that you have passed a stage in your life does not mean that it is no longer complicated, but rather that you have finally slipped out of its surroundings and many remained there, who are trying to cross it, there are things that we can only realize its size when we are in it you do not remember how much it was guessing the outcome of one plus one is difficult, and this does not mean that its solution has become easy.

I know well what does it mean to stand in the middle of the road and wait for a miracle because you have taken all the means but you are helpless and tired.

Whenever I see him

I see him smiling

In the war,

When you tremble from your existence

And you should be grieving for the life

He is smiling

And in peace

Even though nobody cares about him

He is smiling

In the ritual of sorrow

He is on his happy version

And in joys

He won't turn bleak

He is still smiling

This strange man

The world that doesn't change him

As if he's a long celebrating

Or is it

A dead man

That died

At the moment he smiled.

I will not lie to make you feel at ease with me, I am a miserable man, I was born from the womb of boredom, anxiety is my blood group, and my mood is like a naughty child who could not handle his swings, my countless inconsistency but I swear I love you!

The more you realize the more you lose.

Like the beginning of a book

Like mother's milk

An astonishment

Like a priest's fight

Like a magnitude of a cross

Like the breath of a church

And the blood of Christ

Like the euphoria of cigarettes

Like wanting to stay

As childhood and friends

Irrigation in water

Clarity and purity

As an idea of shiver of a first kiss

As sunset,

As a sunrise

You are!

I ask about those curved waists she has

And the sorrow in her eyes

Makes me curious about her curved smile below

Why despite the joy of her lips

Draw sadness?

Why are these two flowers on her cheeks

Cut off by roots?

And why?

In her hug is the smell of ash

And the coldness of dead?

My mother doesn't know Dostoevsky and does not know how to pronounce his name and wakes up early. She does not drink coffee while listening to Aster, her mood is not cloudily watered by roses with ghee trumpets and she cries when she listens to the killing of young men without knowing his nationality. My mother without twitter express her feelings with tears.

I run slowly,

Like the last drop of water,

I run crawling slowly to join the flow

And slowly evaporate

Some of my stay in space,

And some will sink into the earth

I am late for my friends

I crawl but I don't reach

Piece of me lose them,

The one that accompanies me is exhausted

Of me being wasted

Even if I arrive

So far I don't.

One may get tired of slow endings.

I cannot stop being convinced that I am a wall, or perhaps something sturdy, silent forever.

It was then he calmed down then eased and then disappeared.

This interpretation is irrelevant to his place at the appointed time, but it is born with the desire of the individual in