You wake up to the sound of the ordinary, the feel of the usual, and you remember the routine and the right. After all, this is what you are, what you are supposed to be. And yet you are walking on that fine line, that remarkable and yet regrettable balance between the ancient and the unexpected, the extreme and the extraordinary, the gorgeous and the grotesque. And you wonder why living should be so painful, suffering so sacred, sacred so superstitious, superstitious so sadistic, and sadism so alive.

Does everybody suffer so much, for every hour, every minute of loneliness? Is everybody so ruthlessly bombarded by endless feelings, endless thoughts, and this unbearable guilt that accompanies them? And of course you know the right thing to do; the most horrendous and unimaginable cruelty of being righteous.

Oh yes! The dull moments of past midnight; where the thoughts go where the body can’t; when your memories start to blend with your dreams, and your imagination takes a break from your logic.

-Do you remember where you were last time?
-Why would I? This is the realm of forgotten dreams …

-It all started when I wondered if I should believe in God.
-So do you?
-It doesn’t matter if I don’t, and that’s why I do.

You would think you would go crazy after a while, thinking all these thoughts, dreaming all these dreams. You would be surprised.
That’s when, little by little, you start to grasp that it is not man’s privilege to write, it is his pleasure; you wonder what man’s biggest pleasure may be.

How different can our goals be? How different are our dreams? Why do I care more about finishing this page, than about democratizing my country? Should we engage in constructive dialog rather than pointless delirium? Is God an idealist and you an underachiever … or is it vice versa?