Alright, habeebete, this right here is the most difficult riddle of all. Solve it AND tell me how you got it. Ask yes/no questions for hints. I hope it's as difficult to solve as it was to write. Ready, set, solve! NOTE: the riddle is in bold trim.

In My Dream

There is a beautiful girl in my dream. Her great beauty would bend the will of Zeus and win more hearts than King Alexander justly ruled over in his quest for power.

My dream is a marvelous vision and will exist for ever on my mind. Just like a zebra can not lose its stripes, but wears a quarrel of black and albino, so will I keep my dream preserved until old age rudely erases it.

She is well-spoken and dictates the vision like a goddess: quickly she fixes any issues that cause unhappiness, and makes the vision a faultless, blissful fantasy as smooth as jazz.

She has eyes that are quotes of poetry and love, and they gaze at me and soothe me- they’re a fantasy of gentle beauty. Her nose, crowned by a jewel- the very gem of excess beauty- a freckle penned by an angel, courses through my thoughts endlessly.

I could talk of her for a very long time… It could take more than a year to tell how wonderful and beautiful my dream girl can be. And the dream, too, can often be too extraordinary to perfectly retell. For how could pen and paper capture a dream with flowing fluidity like that of quiet jazz?

While dreaming of her, I see her unique charm and experience her wisdom. Knowing she’s mine makes each dream an unbelievable, joyous ride in a zone of enigma.

In a symphony of jazz, this girl calms my soul, working out any bad situation, with loving actions fixing any qualms of living.

I can speak forever, but a broken record doesn’t do her extravagance justice. Her wisdom is beyond compare. Her intricateness requires ages to comprehend. She razzes and teases me with each whisper. She is perfection in a dream.

Adonis

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Ecstasy.

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Beauty. 

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My dearest readers, as you remember, on Thursday, the nineteenth of January, I teased you all by posting a first paragraph of a story I was writing. To those of you who've forgotten, it is represented for your convenience in this post- in the small font, for your inconvenience. Anyways, today I finished the second paragraph. Here it is, for your leisure...

To them who've endeavoured into the depths of love, into the tiniest affairs of it, have I written this, to those that quench their thirst from the fountain of youth that is love and on whose dinner table dines the embodiment of Beauty daily at night, and to them who can barely spend a waking moment, a sleeping moment, a tiny strand of the fabrics of life without their princes and princesses, without their love and indulgence, I pen this. I tell a tale- an historical fiction, if you would- as simple and as mysterious as shadows, as beautiful and brief as dawn. Once, I loved. I retell the story as dishonestly as suits my fancy: altered, modified, and enhanced, as to retell the story of none but imaginary beings thought up in a whim of imagination. This pure imagination I attempt to emblazon with the handiest tools man ever wrought--paper and pen. Remember, though, as you, wondering, journey through my blessèd fabrication, that it has metamorphosed from utter and rustic reality.

At first, I lay the simple question haunting my conscience: What is Love, that we may know the depths of it? And I answer anon. Love is a long-lasting, simple whisper, softly spoken, quiet enough to be heard by two wanderers and loud enough to thunder its echoing sound throughout the Universe. It is the most real of abstracts and the uniquest of feelings. Love is of purity unmatched, of simplicity without peer. And yet, this wonder is most often found to be the opposite of what it is. Here is the true definition of Love: it's the attraction between two that can break all bonds and limits and rules and standards. It is a beautiful virus with no cure, and when two have the disease, it's a blesséd fiction.

There it was, hope you like it. More to come...
Adonis

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This right here is for the good old Red, White, and Green. It's the concentration of pride for the Lebanese faithful. It's beautiful, glorious, and quite symbolic. Kollona lilwatan, habeebete, 3oshtom wa 3asha Lobnan.

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I've been working on my template as of late. And I eventually decided to just use this one. Because it's much cooler than anything I've seen online. Thus, it's worthy enough to host my wordage. Heh, enough stupidity, though... Hope you guys like it :)
In other news, I'm working on some writings... the promised 2 paragraphs are hopefully going to be on paper within a week or two, and soon after on here.
Till then, read and reread.
Adonis

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As I disorderly wake up, I notice the transfiguration. The crispness of my face is washed away into a mask-like dullness, a picture of the rugosity of old age. This morphing was rendered onto my otherwise deceivingly charming face with the newest raid of insomnia. For about three and a half weeks, the most restful of my recent memory, I slept not. I hibernated. Indeed, I embraced my pillow for a constant stint of untroubled sleep, carelessly dreaming about and fantasizing away. But then, as Monday, the Thirtieth of January, humbled us with its presence, an unwelcome shot of restlessness was fired. And it struck me in the heart. So, entangled within a spiderweb created from the chords of consciousness, I escaped into sleep for a moment or two only to find myself clearly awake, lonesome, staring desperately at my sorry alarm clock the next.
Now nothing eases the wandering eye of the insomniac like a diary. He longs for it, reaches for the warm memories indwelling it... many of which he at the moment cannot even conceive.
As, then, I read bits and pieces of a long gone past, assembling the works in my corrupt mind in haphazard, weary fashion, I embarked on a journey through the page marked only by the date... title-less and forgotten... merely March 31.
It mocked me, this piece, written by my pen, forgotten by my drained mind, preserved by the endless pages of my diary. I read- me, the insomniac- these words:

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