crazy/strange by ehab youssef (hardest books to read .TXT) 📕

"people are crazy, times are strange"

bob dylan

what why when how. questions. thoughts. ideas. fleeting through your head. neuropulses shaped as images translated by a brain you've never seen. she leans over. her short skirt moves up just a notch. the marble thighs glisten under the see through stockings. the coffee cup rests adequately on the steps. they are laughing again. the soldiers clad in khakis in front of the school gate. another idiot asking me how to get to mickey mouse street. patience. patience is a virtue. the clogged streets. the license plates. the newspapers stacked on the sidewalk. it rained again last night. twice in the same year. what's the world coming to? i lean against a 1978 merc. o lord won't you give me a mercedes benz. my friends all got porsches. i must make amends. o lord won't you give me a mercedes benz. the sparrows chirp above my head. somewhere within the lofty tree. the silent street. the grey city. the half destroyed asphalt the way you'd think of grozny after a healthy russian raid. can't see the birds. but i can hear them. a hoopoe flies by rapidly. i light another cigarette. they make some more noise. i lean my head against the wall. take another sip of water from the heinz tomato ketchup recycled bottle. a turned over lego toy lays jumbled next to me. what's left of what was once a car. i threw myself of the roof coz i had a headache but that only made it worse. the passerby was kind enough to suggest i should burn myself. ah, well. at least they're making practical suggestions now.

i lie on the floor of the wooden cabin. she lies on top of me. the fire hisses through another log. her feet dances against mine. the silence is unbearable.- what happened to your leg?- i got in a fight with a tank- jesus- you should see the tankthe ceiling threatens to disappear as i die within her. the colors. the shapes. the very fabric of the universe collides in one single moment. her softness destroys me. only to born again.

what is this thing we call time? where does it come from? and where does it go when it's done with us?

darkness veils all that i see. i know before this bridge there is a line of river houses, sidelined by a string of trees. the river flows slowly underneath my feet. lots of water under the bridge. there is a mosque there to the left some where. and right before me the river bends to the right before coming to terms with another metal bridge. but i don't see any of these things. it's all been enwrapped in a velvet cloak of completeness. a few stars brave the curfew. another figure approaches. my red banded colleagues tense for a brief moment. flash lights glance through the approacher's ID. they let him through. someone passes a cigarette to me. i hold it between my fingers and move my hand to my head then towards him as a sign of gratitude which goes unnoticed in the dark. my back aches. my legs threaten to mutiny. i lean against the iron railing of the bridge and squat for a glimpse. the lighter passes around lighting the faces for a few seconds. the tobacco packed paper surrenders to the fire with a distinct signature of scent and a much welcomed surge of nicotine. my grasp of the iron pipe i am holding relaxes slightly and i find a new warmth in the metal structure. all we need now is a few painted faces like braveheart and we're ready to roll. i turn to the left and face the silhouettes i no longer see. lots of water under the bridge. it's not even eight o'clock but it feels like three am. time flows alot slower with no cars passing by. the first time i saw this bridge i was six. it wasn't built yet. it was just columns of grey cement which appeared to be of no particular use. i've been crossing that bridge every day to and from school since 1981 and i have never seen it this deserted. not one single vehicle. not even a bike. not a sound. yet somehow, for some reason it's not the eerie scary silence you can't wait to end. it's the silence of contemplation. the silence that comes with age and understanding. it feels like i've been on my feet for three days. and it's not even nine yet. what is this thing we call time? where does it come from? and where does it go when it's done with us?

99.98 percent of us don't know what's going to happen. but the .02 does. you go through life not knowing what the fuck is gonna happen. and then it happens and it hits you. you knew. somewhere down there in this so called existence of yours, you knew it was gonna play like that. you knew and you did it any how.

- but he's alone.

- yes, he is.

- completely alone.

- when one is alone, one is usually completely alone.

the yelling and the noise ensued. there was no need for theatrics of course but i guess that's what people do in the desert, look for excuses to keep busy. the burden of knowing you are surrounded with nothing but oceans of sand gets to you. eventually. so you carry on talking to your imaginary friends who were kind and decent and did not bother lying to you half as much as your real friends. you know, back when you still had friends. you discuss things. you argue. you tell stories. anything to pass the time. imaginary friends get bored too you know.why does the desert represent this much fear in their hearts. i don't get it. maybe it represents death. may be it's the crossing of the original tribes who had to endure hell just to get to a water source. countless days in the trek. youngsters and animals falling through like flies as they pass the great sand oven. may be they don't want to think about what they've been through. we're here, we have water, we'll eat and fuck and there's nothing else to discuss. may be that's how they felt hundreds or thousands of years ago and that's always been there inside them. look for excuses to make noise so we don't have to discuss the truth. the fact of the matter is we're surrounded with desert, death and snakes all around for two thousand miles in every direction. and there's fuck all you can do about it.we look at each other- it's not funny. - then why are you laughing? i look at the sky. i look at the lazy street cats cowering under the rusty vehicles left by whomever to do whatever. the forgotten metal coffins left under the butchered trees beneath the cement grey jungle. i don't look at people any more though. it's just sad. pretending you still believed in something. pretending you're still alive just because you have nothing else to do. the dirty jokes, remnant of a semi glorious past when they were still men. the uniforms of brutality designed to instill fear and the uniforms of poverty designed to instill sympathy. the past decades whispering under seventy tons of concrete. the previous shores of luxury back when people were still people and egypt was a country. the slow decay of everything the europeans left. let's face it, we're too weak to imitate it and too lazy to tear it down. let's just leave it to rot. the raw hatred of anyone who's not you. anyone who's darker than you or brighter than you or taller or leaner. hate everything. hate everyone. if they are not you they are the enemy.

- exactly what is it that you like about the desert?

- it's clean.

hatred is the simplest emotion you can think of. hardly requires any creativity, there's very little need for innovation. competition only makes you stronger. much like love, it doesn't cost anything. except with love you have to be nice and shit to people you don't even know. and then nicer still to people you do know. with haine, everyone gets the same treatment though. there are those who think people are mean because they're, you know, mean. that's not true. it's just easier to destroy. everything and everyone. for no reason whatsoever. easier than helping everyone that ever existed when you don't even know them, that's for damn sure.

- i hate thursdays.

- i was born on a thursday.

they look at each other

- that's probably the reason.

 the shots cut through the silly motherfuckers like it would through a bunch of genuises. to bullets it made very little difference what you are made of. they were going to cut through you or die trying and that was that. the blue useless vehicle burned like most useless vehicles do. with glamour. the green bible laid on my side table. the recycled heinz ketchup bottle now serving as a water cooler. my cleopatras and the trusted swedish tandstickor. i've never been to sweden but i love them just for their matches. when you see someone making this much effort to create a decent box of matches, you know they'd put at least the same effort creating a volvo. the crazy person roamed the street and noised and foamed at the mouth and the people were pleased. the more noise you make the sooner you go to heaven, everyone knew that. there was more shooting. a few more people were hurt. it was painful. but not for the tanks. the fake friends poured in, drank tea and were merry, but the B52s did not care much. i have always liked cactus, said the crazy person as he walked passed his school. but the stassi were not paying attention that day, for an important foreign dignitary from another country was playing billiards with the owners of an old brewery and there was much betting going on. the rich man came through and spoke for several days against those who would have us all be heathens, but the heathens didn't mind when they saw the strength of my medecine. so i sat at home, read