The act of writing

I remember reading Alberto Moravia’s novel “Boredom” in my 8th grade when my friend lent me her copy, telling me that in this book I will find consolation for my loss of interest in life I complained to her about. I was so fascinated by the fact that even boredom can be an inspiring experience to a writer, and how the main character of the novel was simply a bored artist. Later in my teenage years, I grew fond of Sylvia Plath’s poetry, expressing her depression beautifully without having to sugarcoat it.

I believe that I have always had tendency for sad contemplations -though not for sadness-, but I do not know how or when I started to reflect only when I feel melancholic. Melancholy is a beautiful condition and it’s a call for aesthetic considerations, an encounter with one’s own self.

imageBut to face yourself can be a quite tedious task, for that I never read my old diaries. In fact, I only use them to hide things I never want to read or see again. And now I keep buying myself notebooks that I abandon without even using them. Poor unread words and poor empty pages.

I have been thinking that I’m having a writer’s block which explains my very few recent posts here fairly. But now I realize it’s only because whenever I write I expect better thoughts and verses. Expecting too much from yourself as a poet/writer can be destructive to your skills as you start to lose appreciation for the words you utter and thoughts you write down.

Well, Charles Bukowski wouldn’t have become a poet if he expected much from his so-called talent, would he? That was a joke – I mean, I do believe that poetry is a platform for all debatable matters, including both depression and beautiful women’s asses, haha.

The grave

Incomplete sketch May 25, 2016

I’m the grave

Of my paintings

That wither


Of poems

That grow inside me

And I never ink

I watch them die

The way I watch

My nailpolish dry

Amusement of the bored



Dreary Diaries

Once upon a morning

I was stalked by a grey-haired man

Who smelled like cigars

And liked girls around the age of his grandchild

With blue jeans

And hair hidden beneath floral scarfs

I had to walk faster

And keep my eyes on the ground

Because that was the thing to do

Once upon a dreary afternoon

I read the diaries of the little child I was

And I felt pure once again

Reminded by all the afternoon games

My sister and I would always play


I realized how everything has changed

Except my appalling handwriting

And I ran to my bed and took a nap

Because that’s how my afternoons are spent now

Once upon an evening

“Gaze” is an artwork done by the very talented Libyan artist Alla Budabbus.

I painted my nails in silence

Read a novella that filled my head

With blossoming flowers and clouds

And I had to turn off the music

Because my eldest brother claims it’s haram

Once upon a night

You asked me how my day was

And I answered with ‘fine’

And I sang myself to sleep

Because only when I sleep I feel secure


For some reason -which could simply be that it’s nine in the morning and I have not slept yet-, I decided to share on my blog some lines of an email I wrote to a friend to answer the question:

What is my culture to my life?

Folk arts, traditional food that’s very nicely made, fascinating colorful clothes, remnants of the old city that’s now abandoned and only visited during an annual festival, bittersweet stories about the war Libyan Mujahids took against the Italian invasion until Libya’s independence was announced in December 1952, amusing songs little girls used to sing and lovable games played such as Om Al-Bel and Neggeza. Overall, a beautifully imagined past that I’ll never happen to be a part of so I cling on what remained of it, wishing I believed in all the fables I was told.

It’s really nice and humane to be connected to your past, to acknowledge your roots and make sense of your history!

But what is it like to be bonded to and burdened with that?

To be awakened to the fact that the past you once thought was perfect was actually as unbearable as your present is, to know that the little girls who sang beautiful songs back then were trying to kill time as they were not allowed to go to schools and get educated, and you see the fascinatingly colorful clothes hid under black sheets, and when you see death is real and is all around you, you realize that Jihad is a sugarcoated word that means Murder.

Maybe that’s one reason why I love traditional Libyan food so much, it still tastes as good as it has always did since I was a little child! Sometimes I come to think that I am a happy miserable person because my misery inspires me greatly. For example, I’ve made this painting a while ago in which I tried to describe my relationship with my culture, I named it “I levitate above everything and I see myself*”.

or more of my sketches and artworks, please visit my Instagram account@safaspapers

I think I should not publish posts on here without sleeping, but oh well…

*Quoted from The Saudi artist Tagreed Albagshi.

Safaspapers – reflections of a bare soul

As 2015 is coming to an end, I’d like to share with you my dear followers and readers a humble achievement I’ve made.

Last February, I decided to create a blog “thanks to my friends, Farah​ and Roya!” where I can share my arduous thoughts and shitty literature freely, hoping that will get me back to writing frequently.

Artwork by Alexandra Levasseur

Honestly, that did not work as planned, but I was overwhelmed with pleasure by the fact that my presence have exceeded earthly bonds such as borders and cultures by having my words felt and my feelings solaced with understanding by plenty of strangers in this world.

Actually, the mere idea of having my writings to cause inspiration to any human being refines my perspective to the world (which is defiled with the gruesome war my country’s going through).

Thinking of this recalls beautiful lines I’ve once read in The Bell Jar by Silvia Plath: “People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn’t see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick and couldn’t sleep.”

May we always be fascinated by and strengthened with the power of words.


A massege sent

But not delivered.

A word said

Bitterly misunderstood.

I love you, but do I?

For that I’ve never really known you.

You’re somewhere in this world,


You’re somewhere inside me,

Deeply felt.

Glasses worn,

But yet no sight.

Prayers whispered,

Still no difference.

Some thoughts have grown bigger,

To be shared.

Please, be there,

Tonight, I’ll wait for you

My imaginary friend.

For more of my sketches and artworks, please visit my instagram account @safaspapers
For more of my sketches and artworks, please visit my Instagram account @safaspapers

Naive nobility

Artwork by Ali Wakwak
Artwork by Ali Wakwak made with remnants of the Libyan war

Mother, I had a dream last night

Of angels and devils having a fight

Of broken wings and bent scepters

Of confusion in children’s eyes

A woman was wailing

As her son was failing

To protect the land

The pride

And who died young and naive

Enthusiastically but in lack of faith

The mother prayed every night ever since

Perhaps the God will forgive his sins

Homes were covered in dust

Schools’ doors were shut

The youth was wasted

And the noble purpose of the fight was lost

satisfaction in misery

Artwork by Mattheiu Bourel
Artwork by Mattheiu Bourel

As the sunlight of my life goes through my soul

It refracts

Shows me the path

Teaches me how to gain and when to lose

As I look into the mirror

It reflects

I see the spoils of my mad fights

How miserable I happened to be

Yet how so satisfied

As I close my eyes and listen

I hear music that’s always been playing

Music of sorrow and happiness

Of love and despite

Of you my love and I.

Written in 22.May.2015

Seeking one’s self

For more of my sketches and artworks, please visit my Instagram account @safaspapers

She’s been despairingly looking for answers in books

For love in the eyes of the boy who sits next to her at class

For flowers near walls

And for god behind the clouds

But the moment she closed her eyes

Everything was seen

Everything missed inside of her was found