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The Shape of Weary Eyes

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  Picture this scene with me. The streets are shrouded in darkness. The rain has not stopped for two days. The city’s reflection bleeds softly across the wet pavement, drowned beneath the melancholy glow of neon lights. A mechanical foot steps into a puddle. The mirrored city fractures for a moment. The lights tremble, blur, and fold into one another. Before us appears a metallic robot, walking slowly, with a deliberate and almost weary gait. He lifts his eyes sorrowfully toward the heavy, glowering sky, then lowers them to a neon sign. His steps falter as he studies the glowing plaque before him: Dr. Manal Al-Omari; Psychiatrist, Fellow of the British Psychiatric Association, master’s degree from Germany, and Ph.D. from the United States. His gaze drops to the entrance of the building on which the sign hangs. He steps forward and disappears into the depth of the hallway. Yet because his eyes see in infrared, the shift in lighting means nothing to him. The metallic echo of his foot...
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A Tale of Deferred Passion

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It's been almost two years since I've been away from this blog—my secret personal space that no one knows about, and no one ever will. I was drowning in the pursuit of a new obsession, one that had accompanied me for a long time but which I finally found a path toward. The obsession with Artificial Intelligence. Back in 2000, I was a teenager not yet seventeen, fresh into university. I spent my early days sneaking out of the house to chase a passion that was somewhat forbidden back then: cinema. I would finish my lectures and rush to that vast, dark theater where glimpses of a fictional world shone bright. A world that only existed in the minds of dreamers entirely detached from reality. The screen flashes felt like swords tearing through the ugly cloak of reality, revealing a vast universe of imagination stretching far beyond the horizon. I was just a teenager then. But instead of chasing girls or giving in to peer pressure to join my classmates for a smoke, I was chasing th...
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What Drives Us to Folly?

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 "A Pursuit of Chaos" In our moments of absolute clarity, we often find ourselves standing right on the edge of the truth. We see so clearly what is right and what is wrong. And yet, almost inexplicably, we throw ourselves into the arms of our own mistakes. We see the sharp drop, we know the pain waiting at the bottom, and still, we let ourselves fall. Why is it that we, who pride ourselves on our reason, so willingly walk down paths we know will break us? Philosophy has always tried to make sense of this strange human flaw. The old thinkers, from Socrates to Nietzsche, wrestled with why we act so irrationally. Socrates, in his beautiful, endless search for light, believed that if you simply knew what was good, you would do it. But time and history have broken our hearts by proving that knowledge just isn't enough. Nietzsche looked deeper. He saw that we are driven by something darker, by will, by power, and by the storm of chaos living inside us. To him, we aren't ju...
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Bridging One’s Self

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 "A Round Trip Journey" "What makes us who we are? What is it that truly forms our essence?" This was the question that haunted my younger days, and to be honest, it still quietly troubles my heart today.  Who are we, really?  Who am I? What whispers these thoughts into my mind, and what invisible hand pushes me to do the things I do?  Why did I walk down certain paths and not others? Back then, I hadn't yet met Descartes or heard his famous words: "I think, therefore I am." But even if I had, I doubt it would have quenched my thirst. I wasn't doubting whether I existed; I was agonizing over what that existence meant. Deep down, in a blurry, teenage way, I felt that I was merely the sum of my circumstances. The town where I was born, the faces I woke up to, the heavy events that fell upon my days—I felt they were steering my mind. Even though I felt this so deeply, Jean-Paul Sartre was a puzzle I couldn't solve. When he said, "Hell is oth...
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Daydream Illusion!

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"The Eternal Quest for Meaning" I confess that I live more in my daydreams than in the waking world. Often, I find myself drifting away mid-conversation, slipping into a newly imagined fantasy that feels infinitely richer than the moment at hand. When caught, I pretend to be wrestling with a new story idea or a complex study. In truth, I am just making things up. I have tried to capture these daydreams on paper, but reality always intrudes, casting its heavy shadow over the page and breaking the spell. These waking dreams are built on simple, almost childlike desires: a craving for love, a wish to be admired by those I look up to, or the sudden urge to simply run away. I dream of retreating to quiet corners of the earth, armed only with books, nature, and the silent company of animals. It is a rebellion against the narrow, suffocating walls of reality. Yet, a daydream is not a novel. A novel demands conflict, growth, and philosophical weight. But what if my hero doesn’t want ...
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Boycott as a "Stance of Existence"

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" A Mocking Smile at the face of Titans" Ever since my eyes fell upon that image; a young Palestinian kid standing defiantly in front of an Israeli tank, hurling stones, I have been haunted by profound thoughts of freedom and independence.  Just pause and think about it: a fragile stone against a massive iron tank, a child against a trained soldier. It gives me goosebumps. This image stirs up every ounce of respect and admiration within me. It has become my sanctuary, the vision I turn to in my mind whenever I feel broken or defeated. To feel defeated is a choice, and the desire to resist is equally a choice, even if you are only hurling stones at a tank. But that second choice? That is the choice of a true victor. It is the choice of someone who has reached a deep, unshakeable sense of independence and forced the entire world to acknowledge it. Fast forward to today, and you can see how this generation, which once threw stones at their enemy, has grown up to shake the very f...
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The Illusion Of Progress

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"A tale of time and value" "شبكة روايات التفاعلية- Riwayat Network Forum" Amidst the old belongings I'd shelved for ages, by pure chance, I found them. Buried in these ancient, neglected items, lay a weathered manuscript, stiffened by time. It was the first novel I ever attempted during my university days, when a personal computer was a curious creature, I barely understood. This tale spun a story of a young man who discovers that his family are extraterrestrial beings. Yet, he conceals this secret and grapples with the realization that he, too, might be an alien, but chooses to live as an earthly human, deciding his own destiny. Drafted at the dawn of the millennium on Microsoft Word, it was printed on A4 sheets, then hidden away in a blue folder, surrounded by mountains of books.   Among Forgotten Things I held the manuscript gently, opening it with caution. Memories flooded back of my first time writing it. I didn't own a computer back then. Instead...
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