Faris through the shop window

Nice guys
Nice guys


yellow hair

Her Hands
written by Faria – 28 August 2015

Her hands resemble the most picture perfect image of what a women hands should be, to me personally. call me biased call me selective.

Her hands are always cold, and i wish i could always warm them.
They’re fragile and petite, delicate..soft, and pale, but pale on the scale of skin tones where pale is the fairest shade, with nails perfectly trimmed, and nail varnish called marshmallow coated to perfection with no bumps, and a smooth touch.
I’ve watched her hands carry sorrow till it dropped, for there’s only so much one can carry till gravity takes its toll. I’ve watched her hands create music from misery, using nothing but her petite fingers and an imaginary tapestry. those same hands fed me, bred me, carried me when i was tired, held me tight when i was scared, put sunblock on my nose, and brushed and combed my curly hair, without hurting me. for only her hands know how to handle me.
Those hands fed me fruits and cheese, and held my hand when i crossed the street…they waved goodbye when i got dropped off at school, and they wrote down words that i one day will pass on to my own daughter.
These hands are the hands of my own mother.
Her hands have endured far more than what they should. I tell you all, these hands are a miracle.
They keep clean and nicely trimmed, even when they’ve been dealing with dirt and unfair men, for my mother an agriculture, worked day and night in the fields…yet never did I ever, see her nails lose they’re shine, and never did she ever forget to intertwine her hands in mine, before i went to bed.
Even when she drove and I was sitting beside her, she made it a point to grasp my hand tighter, before she dropped me off and parted in her own direction. She’d stroke my back to help me fall asleep, and run her fingers through my hair till she fell asleep.
Her hands…her hands, they smell like the perfume one I can forever consume, because as soon as I inhale, I am safe and content.
It’s wondrous how much I can say about her hands
Her hands, her hands, have been through too much, yet she holds herself high and with them brushes it off. Her hands have wiped her tears as soon as she heard my footsteps approach her doorstep, never allowing me to see her breakdown, she’d use her tears to wash her face, replace the sadness with a smile, to make me feel like everything’s okay.
Her hands, as soft as the skin on her cheek.
They have endured struggles no man will speak.
With those same hands, she said ‘I do’ and 15 years down the line, it was just me and you, in our flat, that with her hands, she got on her own, and with those hands, she built us a home.
With those hands, she ignored the stares, the glares from men, when she showed up on her own to wherever she had to be, living in an Arab country, men look abruptly…especially at a women with her beauty, I always use to worry.
Her hands have shaken hands of dreamers, and made them believers for she has the ability to touch others simply with her hands. Her hands don’t only create life in soil, but paint and write and heal others. Her hands never stop moving, or learning. She is now in her 50’s and she’s still growing up to be, everything she wished to be.
A single mother was not planned, but she created a default plan, and look at her now, after this journey she’s been through, her hands are still looking brand new.
My hands…my hands will never look like hers. My skin color differs, and my nails are coarse, un-lady like, with scars and scabs…My mothers hands could never look that bad.
One day my mother, and by one day I mean now, I will attempt to give to you what you gave to me, and altogether us three, your children.
I want my hands to hold your head close to my heart, as you listen to my heartbeat, because as long as its beating I will be right by your side, to serve you and hold you high…and when your hands get weaker, mine will support them, and when your hands get tired…mine will hold them.
I have bigger problems, bigger secrets, bigger cover ups than I accept I do.

I have less motivation, less ambition, definitely less confidence than you think I do. 

I am going through a tough time, but I’d rather talk about what you’re going through…

The less I talk about my issues, the less they are true….or so I’ve taught myself to believe.

I’ve become an isolation, and I don’t like the person that lives within it’s borders.

I find peace when involved in no interaction, and my loudest conversation is my own thought communication 

I used to prefer distractions, but now I despise them, as they constantly remind me of why I’m still in the same position…

Lack of motivation..

Lack of ambition..

Lack of discipline…in this mad convention that I’ve created for myself, no one is allowed in, because I dread the thought of someone else knowing that this…this is how I’ve been.

I patch up my feelings. I put a hault to my tears.  I modify my appearance, and I step outside engulfing my fears…with smiles. 

I am optimistic, but it seems my optimism has just left me behind, left me for another, left me to learn and unwind..and accept reality as it hits me in the most awkward of times…

Realisation strikes when your worries are put aside, and even though in the back of my mind I know the truth’s caving in, forgetting momentarily is the best binge. 

I’ve become an isolation, only entertained by the thoughts of my minds creation, loneliness no longer is a social deprivation, but rather a sanctuary for my own rehabilitation. 

Surrounded by faces, as I roam different places, but I chose a route of extended navigation to the areas of no entities, what has become of me?

It is completely unpredictable. It is not tangible. It is merely an emotion.. I’m speaking of demotivation.

I’d like to believe it stems from my imagination, and that with a change of thought or change of pace I can brush it off into thin space…temporary eradication. 

I mean that’s usually how it works, (or worked before), when I had smaller problems, smaller  secrets, barely a reason for cover ups…than I thought I did. But recently this force has been visiting me, taking over me, constantly, that even if I brushed it off harder….it won’t change the fact that it weighs more than the thin space that surrounds me can endure. 

So I patch up my feelings, I put a hault to my tears, I modify my appearance, and I step outside once again, engulfing my fear. 

I know its not forever, that’s the beauty of it all, 

I know it’s just for now, for this week, even for a few months, but there’s always the possibility it’ll be gone by tomorrow.

I know, I know…sigh

I know, that I’m strong enough to conquer it…

But for once, I just want to allow myself to get sick of it, I want to allow myself to immerse within it’s captivation and flow within it’s streams,

want to allow myself to be human…and accept that happiness isn’t an everyday scheme.


by Faria


Please do not look for happiness underneath the layers I wear, Underneath the skin I was born into, Or underneath my Thick Curly hair. Not because I will not strive to make you happy, but because I cannot fathom what you will do when I am not there.

I want you to be happy first…without me, then, when I am by your side. I want you to be able to see the light in day, not through my eyes…but through your own, because you have the ability to… but you rely on me, before you rely on you.

I want to know, that when I have to go… you will not hide away, that you will not allow your beautiful soul to decay, Due to the lack of motivation, and the lack of reason, because life makes no sense when you have nothing to believe in…. I understand your pain. I feel it too. But the truth is, soon I will have to leave and I will no longer physically be with you.

I will not be there when you come home after a long cruel day, I will not be there when you just want to wrap yourself around me, because the warmth of my hugs and the tenderness of my kisses, remind you that no matter how tough it is out there, you can still find peace…within my presence.

But I will be there mentally, I will be there on the other end of the phone, I will be there behind a screen, Staring straight at you, Promising I will try my best, to once again be with you.

But you need to promise me this…That I will not be your only source of happiness. As uplifting and flattering as that is, I cannot bare the thought of it. I want you to be happy first, without me, then happy with me. I want you to see the light of day past me, and not through me.

By Faria, 29th November 2015

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