Trapped in my mind weighed down by a downpour of thoughts, caught up in my own whirlwind of doubts and crashing insecurities. Hard as I try I can’t seem to see past the fog past the haze past the fear My hands are too bruised to reach out and my voice can’t compare to the […]
The pride, tentatively, walked to the water’s edge to lap up a cool drink on a hot night. Breaking the calm, water thrashed about, reaching forward, pushed by the violence, the spray lashed out in all directions. Each animal near the water’s edge instinctively reacted, as taut muscles sprung each escape. Missing it’s mark, the waters gathered […]
Written by Jacob Ibrag She wanted more than he could give her. He asked her to meet him half way. ‘Never, I refuse to settle.’ Walking past her peripheral, he turned back one last time and tried to remember every single detail of their night. Black dress with red trim. ‘Pink lips that I’ll never kiss again.’ Photographer Unknown
One strange thing about the drunkenness of power is that it leaves no trace of a hangover because it never really intoxicates in the first place, instead it infects like an ailment. What it does is put the mind in a state of make believe stupor. It lies to the person, telling him he is indeed invincible and that he can walk naked on a busy road without being seen by the ever present pretentious crowd. When a mad man walks around naked, it is only because he doesn’t logically know he is naked until he is healed. This is quite unlike the drunk man who is always fully aware of what happens to him, if he is still consciously awake while drunk. Then by all intent of purpose, the powerful man lives in that state sandwiched in the mystical void between insanity and drunkenness, while actually being neither of them. So when this borderless state concludes its hazy mazy course, it still leaves behind a lot to rationally reflect on, unlike madness which leaves nothing of its past or drunkenness which leaves no immediate memories or vivid perspective of the past.
Power’s negativity leaves regrets, shame and disgrace, because it can be remembered as it was. In its selfish ways, power has an impulsive mind which with steady time has the tendency to become unwaveringly firm in its will to pursue a course it had lashed on to by its proud faith in its perceived abilities. It takes up a nature rightly construed to be initially foreign to its natural one and summarily makes it its own. Power denies its perilous positions because it doesn’t see it clearly like it ought to. It is an enigma that inserts a conjecturable attitude in itself.
Power is an attitude with an enticement induced with dubious intentions as the cost of most of its decisions are usually more than less not what it is personally prepared to pay for. The potentials of power are commonly not fully tapped and when applied unwisely, never really realized in its entirety. They almost never get fully achieved. The dubious craft of making power create wealth is thus never fully achieved when it is considered that wealth isn’t the attraction in itself, but what the wealth represents always is the absolute objective. It is predominantly such an overpowering desire.
Power craves wealth for the power it gives.
Fever: The Appetite of Fever (Book III)
The Poet in the Poem
Lovely pictures to go with the beautiful prose
Let’s have a walk together in the streets of the old Cairo Islamic district.
This district is the oldest of this giant city and is the greatest concentrations of historical monuments of Islamic architecture in the world!
First buildings have been built around 800 AD and is now a UNESCO site so much it’s a beautiful district!
This photo has been taken in the oldest hammam of the district, built around 1400 AD if I’m not wrong and was still in use up to the 60’s.
This place can now be visited by everyone and you can have a look on its beautiful architecture! For sure a marvellous place!
The “lights” in the ceiling you can see on this photo are holes to let steam going and to fresh the room. This room was dedicated to…
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Beautiful as ever
sometimes, truth – sometimes, just fancies — always right
The waves continue to crash Insatiable, the passionate seas Their love burns, and in a flash they turn The lilacs and lilies to ash in the breeze.
If there is one thing I’ve come to learn so far, it’s that time is indefinite, unreliable, and precious. We have all lost something to it, whether that be a relationship, an object, or a person. Time is one of the things we can lose but never ever get back. Which brings about the question; […]
As the timid tundra walks Nothing guards against its frigid air. The wind howls Her melancholic doldrums Echo through the bleak of the forest. ©Kenworthy Epistles 2016
The settings might differ from one case to another but generally speaking women are really like birds when hurt. They fall off the so many trees of their painful romantic memories and just any well placed fellow can pick up their flightless form, hold them, toss them, strip and grill them the way he wants before devouring them to his heart’s desire.
It is feminine’s most natural need to be loved always. It is the most vulnerable nature of a woman, one she does not really succeed in doing anything about. On the part of the man, he can only hope that he can belittle the strength of the woman by making it appear less the issue in his pretence that it is. The strength of the woman is always that very visible influence she has, but the man never appreciates and respect but habitually needs. The might of the naturally endowed woman is ironically most telling in the young lady, still growing and inexperienced, than in the much older, already experienced women. As soon as a girl first experiences the subtle gains in the influential might of her unique feminine attributes and realizes that she could literally downsize, cut and render worthless, to near non-existent, any age difference between her and much older lustful men with a little effort, she instantly ages further than them and momentarily own their emotions, repeatedly.
She grows not in age but in the more worldly rewarding craft of simply being a human being, that sole complex entity that personifies both men and women in the naturally naïve, emotionally weak but capably strong nature of humanity.
STRENGTH OF A WOMAN
Where is the bird that hatched this egg?
Flying above the world, up so very high.
And the monkey the farmer wouldn’t beg?
Laughing up a branch, he threatens not near.
Will they ever marry their ideas, so very big?
As always they steal, flock, eat and do share.
Flying above the world, up so very High,
The bird still returns down to hatch its egg.
Laughing away harmless threats if not near,
The monkey’s hunger for the farm will beg.
Their ideas created their world and it is clear,
That strength of the woman gave marriage a leg.
Strength of a Woman
The Poet in the Poem