Diary of an Elderly Young Person (pgs. 1-12) – post #1

Before we start:

This is my first ever official post and I hope this is a good beginning. 🙂 Amr Subhi writes very philosophically and with a hint of poetry beneath his words. I hope you enjoy his strange musings and thoughts just as much as I did when I first read them. Over.



APRIL 2011


This work is basically a light collection of unconnected thoughts that were mostly published on the internet at different times over the years.


To my tainted innocence, to the lines of time engraved in the details of my face, and to my biggest losses in the stock market of life.

–Amr Subhi


Five Years of Isolation

I write now -as I’m sharing myself, my dreams, and my hopes- a justified anxiety and a screaming sadness. I don’t know why I write, and to whom I write. The intentions have differed but the writing is one.

Previously, I used to write to enjoy what temporary bliss writing provided for me, yet now, the idea of sharing with everyone reports of my sadness, happiness, and endless misfortunes doesn’t appeal to me. But I write for my soul to get rid of the smugness of discretion and its cold rituals. I started digging in yesterday’s desert for answers to absent questions.

Five years ago, I entered this place uncaring. My memory now wanders around hundreds of faces and places and tens of exams that tear my heart. My crying so violent that I thought I would die from it several times, the volumes of poetry, and the sighs of love–all of these memories emerge and I close the door in their faces with what little faith I have, a scattering of will, and a little conviction.

Girls here are -all in all- infuriatingly repetitive, typical to the point of boredom, and an example of a girl that passed from high school with a high average to a place that she knows nothing of except for the smell of chloral hydrate and course papers.

She studies and waits for a husband that would accomplish for her the feminine dream…and the opening of a pharmacy!

I own a ruined heart that was always a hotbed to a chaos of emotions, but they were the greatest abettors for me to stay. I practiced the worship of discretion to the extent that it keeps you behind the lines of time, surrounded by thoughts that you wrestle frequently in a fight that -most often- ends in the thoughts winning. And despite the fact that I spent a long time making conditional peace with myself and adapting to my aborted dreams, I decided to reconcile with myself by sharing what is left of my concerns and thoughts.



We Have Our Pains, And You Have Yours

A start

He has no idea how much time it cost for sleep to bless him with its charity. He lies half-drugged, unprovoked by the ticking of the clock or the sun’s rays.

He greets the sun: ‘Sad morning’ and she greets him back with something even better: ‘Morning of pain’.

A repeated and duplicated morning in the honor of sadness.

People sleep and their souls are taken, then they are sent back once again for them to practice pretending to be alive. His soul is sent back in a lackluster way for him to ask himself in sarcastic, artificial excitement, “How much is left of today?”

Worn down to the brink of pain…

He doesn’t feel any desire to leave his coffin; he stares at the wall as if waiting for a miracle from heaven, trying to unburden himself from the heaviness of the memories’ pain on his shoulders.

Nothing hurts more than trying to lessen the pain.

He feels the birth of two tears -furtively- in his sockets before they commit suicide in misery on his cheeks.



What is up with our joy hugging the thorn of sorrows?


She complains to him about her pain, and he assures her that “we are all equal in pain”.

This time he is incapable of counting the generated teardrops; he only feels them make their way through his face that was hardened by sadness and tired from crying, and tastes their salty taste on the edges of his lips.

The memory of things returned, flying around him, and his hands don’t move to get rid of its traces.

She assures him, “It’s enough that it fell away from you, for it might wash from the soul what it desired”

He is worn down from crying.

She retreats, “It might hurt now and then become a philosophy”.

He remains silent for a while, and then he looks at her and she realizes that he has believed in pain and blasphemed the philosophy.



(Ask death about you)…Ask the fake joy

(Ask sorrow about you)…Ask the still tear

(Ask happiness about you)…Ask the scared happiness

–Khalid Saleem

He asks her not to carry burdens over her burdens. He passes his hand over her head and whispers in her ear, “There is someone who sins as much as closing the door, and someone who sins as much as opening it widely!”

He knows that there are souls that are still pure despite the pollution of the present and who haven’t lost their virginity on the hands of experience–except the fact that it is not for them two.

The beginning of the matter is like its end, and its end like its beginning; circles of carefully aged pain that never end.

Together they scour the depths of sorrow and the labyrinths of pain looking for hints of breezes of hope, but they don’t get anything but more…pain.

To continue reading: post #2.