The Mist 

I came out of this darkness, Because I needed to breathe pure air,

Inside, the thought collides, the souls clutter, the dark furniture, the dim lighting and the loud music is the place where people hide their failure and fear

Those who walk staggering to the exit door are ensconced in their desires, this unconscious happiness like words without meaning. The ugliness floats in all corners of this place. A world without a dream and dedication!

I want to run away until I’m tired!

Strange is the definition of people for fun, for joy, to escape from themselves! from nightmare to nightmare!

(She was burning slowly, regularly and frighteningly, and she was well aware of that. She looked up at the ceiling of the room and looked down and to her right and left, searching for a word, a formulation, an expression, She wanted to bury this ugliness in beautiful words that do not forget or wear out, but she is powerless and despite this deficit she has not stopped trying, tempting as is to discard this, which drowns out her voice as she addresses others, she could instead utter it in written words, Writing is a beckoning star, one feels the value of one’s experience; it liberates one’s misery and justifies the conscience. Words are the human instruments which satisfy one’s arrogance and the arrogance of the unbridled mind, in the face of a life that is hard to understand)





I do not think there is a bigger lie than hope. People have invented nice names for this lie so that they can accept life and hold on to it. Some lose it for some reason and decide to end this stupid feeling and this inert idea in their mind. Some of them are still floundering in a hole holding the soluble cord in their hands. And some live clinging to their faith and these are the most fortunate people in life. Faith gives them an environment of satisfaction and reassurance, and these are the ones who I envy. I suffer from my presence, from the idea of my existence, from the idea of hiding in myself; from my excessive seriousness and my crying – just because of an influential phrase in a novel by a writer who made an effort to make a name for himself in history – if only he was  more interested in explaining to me what should have happened and never happened, or what would have made it better in the end!

Why do my thoughts alienate me? I just want to sit down for once and feel that the thoughts and words are stable inside me and do not burst my soul as they do now. This storm generates only diaspora, and this is what I fear. I lose all that I could not write … I did not want to expose you to my fragility and my wretched writing. I feel blindfolded in a dark room. I do not know if it is really dark or if there is someone who convinced me that it was dark and that there was one window from which the light came out. But what matters if the room is dark or not as long as the eyes are blinded? Light, how do I know as long as I restrained my hands too. I know that such lying does not make a difference and is not essential and apparent in the life of any person but the moment does not last, and it occurs as a strong, influential and deep interaction. In short, lies are the balance of contradictions, and can be even worse than I imagine. Perhaps if i talk freely you will not find the writer inside me You won’t find more than a deeply troubled person.


Lamia is from Saudi Arabia and studied literature at university – her passion is books and writing. That’s all

Featured image ©edwardhopper