Wanderlust by Aalaa & Maha

Posted on March 10, 2013 by


I wander purposelessly in roads I never meant to take and get stuck in that situation between left and right in which I get stumped for words and miserably fail to tag it a definition other than “the limbo”

O’ the limbo!  The place where inspired authoress goes utterly dissolved? Between what is right, where is left, forlornly ask the self, how to write, stumbled; and, then, caught in indescribable empty lines, alone, lonesome, and lonely inside the mind.

I have itchy feet to offload my wanderlust in cities full of words, words that linger in books and fill up the air, words that are whispered in secrecy and shouted from rooftops, words with serrated edges that haunt the minds, words that are jotted on notes in a tearing hurry, and taboo words that give people a shrill of rebellion. I want to be thrilled in a place of lifelong harrowing captivation and inspiration to unravel things I catch in a net that happens to be my wild imagination.

I have this magical carpet of pages that keeps flipping before my eyes, under my sight, giving my nose orgasmic dependence to convert a new book to a dose of dusty hooky lands. I enjoy the bounce of my eyes every time I turn over a page, and vulnerably switchblade the mind with written-able scenes, assembling a memory of non-visited spaces. A city of a melodious accent, a language different form mine, typographically discloses stories about love, others yield, revolt, and interest, a lot of bloody scripts, ornamented handwritten, immortality to prehistoric lettering, hold me so high; to a horizon of vast earthly edges, waving seas, dropping me off; and happiest is me, I can respire cold degrees, and cough sunlit sands. Pages, more pages, I can hit upon this lust, and wander soulfully, whilst I drag limbs throughout the black chains of ink.

I yearn to wax lyrical on streets where cars beeps musically harmonize with the sound of feet tapping against pavements in a rainy night. I want to fall in love with beams of light bouncing off the wet pavement like a mirror.

I desire to play the violin from droppable rainfall, I want to chase the black keynotes after the tuneful climax, at dawn, by myself, I need to middle the streets with a bag full of maps, gasping gasoline before air; compelling my fate to ask for a chance, I need a taxi, I squeal then: “Landmarks!”

I want to describe the feeling that gets my eyes water and my shaky knees give way every time I pass a group of seemingly untrustworthy strangers.

I would die to get myself into of this wave and hide.

I want to assign emotions to the cacophonous background noise of all intensities, and I want the beauteous neon signs and the mesmerizing rhythm of Bossa nova to split my soul open to allow poems that have always stacked wall to wall in my heart to snake their way up on paper.  I want to live recklessly like that teenager girl who wonders every morning what on earth happened the night before after waking up from a bender.

I want to dance ballet in museum of culturist arts, and Tango as I recite poems with sculptures, about nature, about love, about war, about food, and starvation, about slavery, and discrimination, and everything in all. And mark the map, with a pin-tag. I was there, there, also there; a being, a footstep, a shadow of a ghost, says: “I had been already there, and gone”

I have an irrational impulse to roam a web that happens to be my own mind and scout around for positive thoughts that can quickly wither away all of the self-doubt that has been forever gnawing away at my confidence. I want to let my words beautifully tumble out, and spit out the ones that seem to have a will of their own.

I want that an avalanche of stories that has been hidden in me for ages to erupt and I want to have a knack for breathing life into the characters, and enjoy that sense of power and humility that I get every time I watch them living their lives on pages.

And, I have spider-roaming nets over my head, on the top of my straight silk, black as night, my birds in nests; are non-exposed ideas, in unborn wings, and some eggs to crack; novelty, poetry, assumptions, history, some of me, or mine. 


I want that negative image of creativity that illuminates for mere seconds permanent and I want to be able to aesthetically describe colors to the blind.  I want to get back in time and be born different in a place where literature is all around me and a part of me, a place where there is room for everyone at the literary table.

I want to converse the time, I want to elongate my feet, and arms, I want to fly, to ride, to kayak and to die, and re-born myself alive. I want to endure what its like being blind, in one city, and another, I want to behold the flags, and feel the color from the sound.

I want to get rid of those shivers that make their way up and down my spine every time I am reminded that my only desire was my biggest regret. I just want to see the bottom and know some pain to be able to make it to the top.

I cannot agree more, and not more.  Anymore!

For now, all I know is what I am, but not who yet.

To last, at last, my wanderlust comes out; a passion, a twinge, bliss, goodbyes.


(Parts in regular font are by Maha

Parts in italics are by Aalaa.)

Posted in: Wanderlust