Its Not Scripted

  We often think of language as a tool, a way to speak, to write, to get by. But for some, language becomes something much more. It becomes a mirror reflecting the cultures, histories, and beliefs that shape who we are. This is the story of a young man whose life was quietly transformed not just by the languages he learned, but by the worlds he entered through them, and how, in learning to speak like others, he learned to see himself more clearly. He was born into the richness of Arabic, the Egyptian dialect flowing naturally through his home, his streets, his childhood laughter. But it was the eloquence of Modern Standard Arabic that shaped his schooling, the language of textbooks, poetry, and formality. From a young age, he lived with two voices: one for comfort, the other for clarity. And yet, neither felt incomplete. Together, they formed his first understanding of how language isn’t just sound, it’s identity. Later in life, English found him. Not just in the classroom, where g...

  When you’re young, life feels simple. But admiration? That’s a complicated feeling for a quiet kid,  the introverted, to of the class type, who speaks more with his thoughts than his voice. And in the middle of that silence… came Grace. What happened next? Let’s find out,  through a conversation that might be true... or might not. Grace: “Hey, Tommy. It’s been a while.” Tommy: “Yeah… it has.” Grace: “You look different.” Tommy: “So do you… but somehow, you don’t. Not to me.” Grace: “You still remember me?” Tommy: soft laugh “How could I forget? You were the first girl I ever liked.” Grace: “When?” Tommy: “Primary school. You probably didn’t even notice me back then — I was the quiet kid. Always alone. Always studying.” Grace: “I remember someone like that…” Tommy: “You were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. Your hair… your eyes… your cheeks that always blushed in winter. Even your nose would turn red in the cold. I remember everything. Like a painting I saw once an...

    The room is silent except for the haunting strains of Lacrimosa playing softly in the background. A faint glow from the moon seeps through the curtains, barely illuminating the figure sitting on the edge of a tidy bed. Shadows dance on the walls as the music crescendos. He leans forward, head in his hands, his voice breaking the oppressive silence. "The relations... They're the most complicated thing I've ever faced." His voice is low, almost a whisper, yet heavy with frustration. He sits up, staring at nothing in particular, his eyes reflecting a storm of emotions. "I’ve always used my brain to judge things, to find a way through any situation. But this..." He gestures vaguely, his hand trembling slightly. "This kind of thing—relationships—it’s different. Harder. It’s like... I can’t see the way out." He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "They leave. Without goodbyes. They just... leave. No feelings. No caring. No mercy." He...

When I was around ten years old, my dad introduced me to a game played on a small board with two sets of pieces—one black, one white. These pieces formed two opposing armies, standing face-to-face on a checkered board of alternating colors. He explained the rules: each piece had its own unique way of moving, and the goal was to corner the opponent’s king, leaving it with no escape. It sounded simple enough, but I was completely puzzled. What was I supposed to do? My dad started playing anyway. We took turns moving our pieces, but I kept losing. I had no clue what I was doing or how to approach the game. Then, he promised me a reward—a decent amount of money if I managed to beat him. Suddenly, I had all the motivation I needed. So, I kept trying. I lost again and again, but with every loss, I learned something new. Soon, I was the one asking to play another round. I had to win. Over time, I started to enjoy the game, not just for the challenge, but for the process. I began to understand...

  I used to love drawing. It was my thing, my escape from the world. I just loved art. I remember my one and only scratch vividly. It was a rainy winter, yet the air was warm and comforting. I spent countless hours by the window, completely absorbed in it. The scene depicted an ancient temple on a hill, an angelic warrior standing over a fallen one, born from my admiration of art. Those days were magical. Each line I drew felt like a connection to a deeper part of myself. Since then, I just don't know what happened to me. Life grew complicated, and my passion for drawing faded. Responsibilities took over, and my sketchbook gathered dust. Yet, the memory of that rainy winter, the warmth, and the satisfaction of creating something beautiful stayed with me. As I look at my old scratches, I feel a flicker of that old passion. I was running from my depression into things I loved, which one day was art—all kinds of art. I was hiding in it from people and depression. It was my one and onl...

the balance between heart and mind          In the tapestry of our existence, woven by the habits we cultivate, lies a profound narrative of stories that shape our thoughts and contribute to the intricate mosaic of our minds. From the earliest moments of childhood, the habits we form become vessels carrying fascinating stories within them. These stories, deeply ingrained in our consciousness, play a pivotal role in the development of our thoughts and the intricate makeup of our minds. Countless memories, stored within the recesses of our mental landscape, exert their influence, shaping and motivating us in various ways. As we traverse the diverse paths of life over the years, these memories and stories weave together, collectively crafting the rich fabric of what we come to recognize as maturity. Join me on a reflective journey as we explore the profound interplay between habits, memories, and the evolution of our minds, paving the way for an explorati...

Two friends were engaged in their own conversation while sitting in a room with windows down, and music up. The first one asked, "Why is the music so loud tonight?" Her voice barely audible over the pulsating beats. The main character turned to her with a wry smile. "Well, you know what they say: the louder, the better. It helps keep my mind from overthinking." The friend chuckled softly. "Overthinking, huh? What's been bothering you?" The main character walked closer to the window, gazing up at the star-studded sky, his thoughts a whirlwind amidst the urban cacophony. "Life, I guess. The choices we make, the paths we take. Sometimes, it feels like my mind's trapped in an endless loop, replaying every decision, leading to untold stories." The friend nodded in understanding. "I get that. It's as if we're on a constant quest for answers, even though the questions keep changing." The music throbbed louder, momentarily drown...