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It was a jungle of concrete...the sun was setting, birds where fighting for a place to sleep, noises where dying down gradually as the city lulled itself to sleep.

It was a modern apartment, well finished, but simple in its own way. In the main room a table stood in the middle, neatly prepared with a plate, a glass and a newspaper.

A noise broke the silence, and the door opened slowly, a hand entered and switched on the light with that natural ability of someone who did this everyday. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, taking off my coat and doing the daily ritual i have done for the past years. I put on my andrea bocelli cd, stepped out of my clothes and entered the shower. The microwave started heating my meal, one of those pre-cooked cheap ones you find at any supermarket, ah the beauty of technology, and the invention of the timer.

Drying myself off, and putting on my house clothes I sit at my chair, absently eating, my eyes never leaving the painting infront of me...Sunflowers, Van Gogh. It is finished, or I'm fed up stuffing food in my mouth, I don't know nor I care. I push my chair back, pick up the newspaper, and I sit down in my armchair to have a look.

Terrible accident kills 10, 5 earthquake victims, 2 murdered read some of the main headlines, I skimmed through them and the obituaries, a tear falling slowly down my face...another day, other people, and my name's not there.

The music stops and silence sets in.

I fold the newspaper neatly in its place, go to my bedroom, make the sign of the cross and close my eyes. Darkness, then colours, lights, people, some strange places, faces I loved but forgot......a small noise wakes me up, fucken clock. I go to the kitchen, wash last night's utensils, and then they're back to their usual place on the table. I pick up the newspaper from behind the door and fold it neatly in its place, everyday the same, keeps me sane.

A brief shower, I put on my working clothes, look at the full length mirror at the door, remembering I forgot to put on something....


Putting on my mask I go to meet my so called friends, my clients, anyone connected to my job, and hope that today after we laugh and have a fun day at work, my name will be on the newspaper...

Heart of Stone

People suffer,
calling for help,

wish I could look at them,
but not see them,
wish i could hear them,
but not listen.

Then they can say I'm made of Stone,
the hardest you can find,
never flinching at anything,
nothing hurts me anymore.


Alas I'm not like that,
I see, I listen,
I feel the pain and suffering,
till i wish i could blind myself and see no more,
to eradicate sound and listen to silence...

this was written during some time i had alot of "tahwid" in my life. it's been running around in my wallet for ages...