As for me, I am quite optimistic regarding the escalations that have crippled the country. Although I highly disapprove of the loss of innocent life, wars are wars. So, for me, I see much good in this conflict, and hopefully these blind extremists will get what they have deserved for twenty, thirty years.
As for home, it has been naught but an idea ever since we left. You can't touch ideas, much less damage them. To me Lebanon is perfect and always will be. It's a beautiful thing. And no bullets or missiles are going to change that idea.

Other than that, I've been quite concerned with the idea of beauty as of late. Not physical, but artistic and poetic. I haven't written much through this period as I'm not sure what or how to write. I found a key ingredient for the next recipe, though... simplicity. I think one of the most beautiful tools the writer can use is simplicity. Take this by Edgar Allen Poe into consideration:

TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD

Thou wouldst be loved - then let thy heart
From its present pathway part not!
Being everything which now thou art,
Be nothing which thou art not.
So with the world thy gentle ways,
Thy grace, Thy more than beauty,
Shall be an endless theme of praise,
And love - a simple duty.

This is one of the simplest, most beautiful things I've ever read. I want to write something that simply beautiful. Or, beautifully simple.

It all depends on how you look at it. You could see this war as the end of home; I don't. And you could complicate matters and write complexly. I won't.

.sinodA-

| Permanent Link

Here's a new writing, enjoy. Or don't.

What a cure is this! Sitting in starlight, seemingly nothing around; an opera of crickets. How majestic is this cure for melancholic men! And, yet, today its effects are greatly diminished by more than one factor... my depression is paramount, and the crickets... ay, ay, ay, the crickets are an invitation for tears.
My, what stars all around! And, yet, what sad a night is this with no moon! And how lonseome. I struggle to find a companion, yet but for this pen I have none.
Where have all the good friends gone? And, where, oh where, the lover?
Send me letters wishing me a brighter tommorow, moon... For you I'll wait the night. But certainly, when the night is gone, the sun'll replace you!
Ah, my soul, 'tis you and me, tonight. You, me, and the crickets. And this cure for melancholy is the origination of the damned disease.

-Adonescence

| Permanent Link