The Round Thoughts of a Flat Minded head

    In the first space geometry class teachers are bound to tell their students about the first and most important item one needs to understand space geometry; Imagination.
In the first space geometry lesson, we were taught about definitions one needs to understand in order to understand space geometry.
-    A level is a flat space on which you can draw three different dots on three different spots that are all on the same dimension. Neither higher nor lower. Levels do not oppose difference, but they oppose favoring; discrimination because one dot is better… or worse.
-    A sphere is a round shape that cuts through so many levels that it becomes almost impossible for two dots, or lines, to be on the same level. One is always better than the other, or worse. You see,the issue with spheres is: you know that none is equal, yet you cannot tell what’s better in a definite way. It changes, depending on what direction of space you are floating on.
    If you pick a point on a sphere and you choose a direction to follow, you’ll most definitely end up on the same spot of your beginning. You turn and choose to take a different route, you end up being on the same bloody turn you took. Like a vain hamster in a bloody running wheel; frustration.
      Levels, on the other hand, are unlimited. You can pick a route and and walk on it forever, you have an unlimited number of routes to choose from, unlimited numbers of choices to make, and of course, unlimited chances of retreating and taking a way behind. It’s all your choice, the form of land has no say in what you want.
Spheres are closed and dominant. Repetitive cycles, endless routes of frustration. And sphere is what the world we live in is.
Stars are spheres, planets orbiting stars are spheres, and moons orbiting planets are spheres.
Insomnia is a sphere. Sleepless nights are spheres. Unfair karma is a sphere. Love Triangles are closed, like spheres. Racism is a sphere. And revenge is a sphere.

Our ancestors believed in a world that is flat: A flat earth covered by seven sheets of skies above it and laying on seven layers of burning hell. A flat surface with mountains raising atop of it and water running across it. A green heaven with waterfalls on its edges, pouring themselves down on Hades below, to put it off.
   Every morning, the sun rose from east and sunk into the west to kneel at god’s throne and beg his grace to teleport it back to where it came from, so it can rise upon us one more day, granted with the divine permission of god himself, to provide us with the heat we need.

Just.
Imagine.
The.
Significance.

Imagine karma being as flat as the earth our ancestors believed in. Imagine it being the cover of a merciful book that our world went by. Imagine not being punished for your sins, but baptized. Imagine never being blamed, but forgiven.
Imagine your eyes being flat white areas with round colorful holes on them, not a round shape that sinks its roots deeper onto the round holes on your face.
Imagine moving those flat pupils of yours on an equal surface, favoring none you see more than the other.
Nobody is too fat to be beautiful, nobody too skinny to be healthy, and no one is too beautiful to favor by their looks.
No nose too big and no ears funny to make jokes about, no teeth looking like an animal’s and to eyes too stretched. All being equally flat, equally pleasing to the eye.

Well..
Our lives are cycles of coming out of a dark womb and falling onto wombs dug in the ground. We are believed to be made of clay, and the round way takes us back to clay.
We find joy in kicking round shapes, shooting their bouncing bodies against  the ground, and tossing them at our enemies’ goals makes us win a battle.
Bullets were first made as round small balls. Cannonballs are round. Death takes the shape of a round. Yet a round belly tells of a new life coming to earth.

As spiteful as round seems, its significance lies in how contradicting it is. We despite round, thus, we despite ourselves, for we are round, and we revolve around our rounded selves. 

Dear Rose (Four letters on 4 AM)

One.

4:04 AM,

“Dear Rose,
I woke up today to the sound of my own crashing bones.
I opened my eyes to see how the oxygen I breathed had turned into none but heated black iron particles.
Every breath I inhaled rusted inside my lungs and layered on its insides.
Every breath I exhaled took an absolute naught out of my chest.
My left lung grew heavy with its pressure on the heart below it and squished it.
The fan on the ceiling moved confidentially in circles, striking the floating particles in my direction, having their heat cauterize my chest, not as if it was wounded, but as if my existence was a wound that harmed the harmony and peacefulness of the room.
My eyes filled up with bloody tears that carved its path on the shape of two question marks across the sides of my face.”


Two.

4:04 AM,
“Dear Rose,
I had guests staying over last night.
 All unanswered questions in the world came to ridicule the existence of my naïve head.
I walked up to the mirror to welcome the guest thoughts that knocked on my broken eyelids and rested on the black bags beneath my eyes.
A hand ran across my messy hair straws and found its way to the two weeks old adolescent facial hair but it found no other hand to hold on to and shake.
My eyeballs scanned the mirror looking for the lopsided smile of my guest but there was only the picture of a disappointed man that mouthed:
“Not good enough, never good enough.””

Three.


4:04 AM,

“Dear Rose,

Today, rose, I used a highlighter on a book I was reading. I turned the side of the book behind the page I was reading, and I wrote a note with a pencil on the margins of it.
I haven’t had sleep in two days but I still fought the urge and the headache and I didn’t pour my morning coffee.
I shredded the pages of our scrapbook and I scratched black all the papers on which I sketched your face.
 I put the colorful painting that hung on the insides of my cupboard door on fire and used the very same fire to light a cigarette that went and deoxygenated the very same chest that locked you dear between its rusted rips. I went ahead and filled that chest with black smoke to block any vision to your memories.
You once said that we’re over if I ever smoked. Are we over now?
 I went ahead and cursed like a pirate in the sea and I expressed thoughts that defy every thought you and I shared. I changed my favorite book, favorite color, and wore my least favorite shirt.
I didn’t punctuate my letters for today, and I didn’t end my sentences with periods. I got rid of all habits, all except one, for today, when I checked on myself on the bathroom mirror, making sure it was myself…
 I saw a person I did not recognize.”

Four.
4:04 AM, 

“Dear Rose,

 I was always told to “Stretch my legs to my coffin length”.
Today when the sun of dawn rose from behind the mountain on the horizon, and I haven’t had sleep yet, I realized it was because I didn’t have a coffin to spread my legs to.
I got up today and for once I went further than my balcony, I spread my legs a bit further, and my sight went a bit away from the void your eyes locked me inside.
I flipped through a book of gardens that held pictures of lilacs, tulips, sunflowers, dahlias and every other flower a tree ever blossomed. Every flower except roses.
I didn’t run from the rain and I didn’t seek a shadow when the sun overwhelmed the roads at Twelve PM..
I didn’t stop to admire a rainbow from afar, but I followed its curved path to see if there really was a pot of gold at its end.
I closed my eyes and had seven significant thoughts, and dear, you weren’t one.
Today I grew too big for the bubble you put me in and I broke out and bungee jumped all my way down to heaven. A heaven where you don’t belong.”

Thoughts Of You

I think about you, 

but I also think about a thousand other things, 

for you are but a tune, 

trying to make a sound,

midst a thousand other symphonies.

I think of how you,

Like agony and anger, 

Like thirst and hunger

Like fear, like wars,

Like a bottle of poison

And a loaded pistol in the hand of a child,

Like an insomniac thought on the back of one's mind,

Like a roaring storm on the far horizon,

Are incessant.

You were chaotic,

Thus, You were beautiful,

But only when alone,

Since,

In the orchestra of the brain

And the audience of the night,

You are an absolute wrong, 

that once seemed right.

See, I think about you,

like how I think of the story, 

Of how you ended up here

Of how "there was a kingdom

Colonized by the rain

Raided by fear,

Inhabited by martyrs

and watered with tears. 

And you were its queen:

A fragile monarch,

made of broken old branches

and fallen tree leafs.

Every time the wind whistled,

Breaking a way through the cracks in the glass,

or the gaps between the logs

in a penurious farmer's house

The kingdom trembled with fear

And drowned itself in alarm

For it was always told

that the evil cold wind

will -one day- cause their queen

harm.

But you- the queen never broke

For  you- the queen was a dream. 

A painting of surrealism

Of a cloud that resided

Neighbors to the moon.

And atop of the cloud

I lived

safe

and sound 

Until one day

the wind blew hard enough

To break open the windows

And blow the queen rough,

to cut through her body

with the moon's sharp edge,

Make her bleed her rain,

And storm upon the ground

her tears of agony

and shouts of pain.

Then diminish the Kingdom

into a raindrop,

a single raindrop

that neither fell on the ocean,

Nor on a river to flow,

but on an isolated land, 

That consumed it whole

into down below, 

the very same ground,

That it was rained upon…

See,

I think about you.

I think of many things.

I think of what you were,

I think of what you've done.

Like, 

I think of how you

abandoned your very own masterpiece,

Wrinkled its three messy pages,

And tossed them away

In the lonely basket

...On the lonely corner

 .....of your lonely room.

I remember things,

Like how you wrote beautifully, 

you beautifully you thought, 

I also remember how weak you needed to be

to never write again.