These comics were produced in 2011, based on a blog post written by Razan Ghazzawi three years earlier, on 24 December 2008. (Razan’s text is also attached at the end of this post).
Beirut is fed up with its residents. It has been raining non-stop for 48 hours. I did not forget my umbrella back home.
It’s been a while since I decided to write a post in a cafe, it’s been a while, since I had the urge to try to write how I feel.
Does my reader know, that English is the language I speak to myself when I am alone? Does this reader know, that I write in Arabic, as a statement?
I am so fucked up. This world is/has fucken me up. I am ok with it, I am dealing with it.
I don’t think I will ever be happy, I dont think I will have friends. The same way I had them when I was a teenager. Then I used to fall in love, I used to miss people. Now I plan to lose them, I actually, plan on how to lose someone in my life.
Everything is turning into nothing. Photography, faces, thoughts, and feelings.
I consumed myself so much in this city, this city that gave me a lot, what damascus destroyed.
I hate the person I am becoming. Too loud. Too obvious. Too nothing.
I have stopped dreaming. I had my first nightmare two days ago in years.
I am too Fragile, but I am numb enough to care less about the latest stupid comments on this blog. I hate my blog, I truly hate my blog.
I hate my gmail inbox, I enjoy deleting my spam, I hate my facebook, my room, my life. And I miss my parents. I miss watching cartoons.i love my mom and dad very much. I dont want to live the day where I will lose them. Not allowing it. Can’t.
I miss missing someone. Now I am too liberal, i get into “open” relationships with men every now and then. I am too liberal. I dont fall in love, that’s too traditional you know. To love someone. To expect a futur with someone, is a clishe. But I am too leftist, you know. I am too revolutionary. I am bullshit.
I wish I could write this in arabic, but arabic readers are the worst readers ever. Yes, fuck you, this is my page, my fucken page, and you are not allowed to fuck me here. Not in my house.
This cafe is all about Christmas, I am invited tonight for a christmas dinner. I dont feel like it. Not sure why I am going. I am nothing without people.
I am weak enough to do what I say. What I want.
I want to shut down this blog, my gmail, my facebook, not my flickr though.
I want to boycott the internet. I want to get back to my depressing yet functioning days.
Where I used to be shy, naïve, but a reader, and a writer. I used to had nobody. My parents gave me the balcony in our old house in damascus. They built it for me. I stay there all day, reading, and writing. I used to hate our neighbors. I used to draw naked women. I used to draw pornography.
And I used to hate men. Real men. The real they become the more I hate them. But girls in syria hated me. They love me better when I have a boyfriend.
I used to talk to myself for hours in that balcony. I used to imagine press confrences. Where I speak for hours, I sang to them. I talked Fusha when Ramadan comes. I miss how sick I was. I hate me being fitting in the world now. I had unique sickness. Now its common.
Now I am just another female body, who smokes a lot, drinks a lot, and feel nothing, whilst stressing her sex.
I am thinking of going back to syria. Nothing can be done there anyways. I want to drink tea with my parents on the evenings. I want to talk to myself in my bathroom. Mostly, I want to cry, really hard. I never cry in beirut. I am always sociable on beirut. Everything is fucken ok here.
I wish I can say goodbye 2008, 2007, 2006, all of you, 28 years, you’ll always be fucking me still. Always.
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