Osamah Sami أسامه سامي

It’s a cold night. The last few nights actually; we’ve been forced to huddle under a succession of these annoying blankets. Curiously, our soul, too, has been feeling like winter of late. But it’s all G. For we have become masters at shovelling away the avalanche of spiritual snowfall from our heart. We just got back from work, drained of our natural colour. Vapid skeletons wearing human skin we’ve become. We flick through the entertainment section of the daily tabloid. We rarely find these sections wildly entertaining, but every addict has a vice. Some of us consume our daily portion on the go, prepared fresh by our electronic spouses. Some of us go diet and react only to headlines. Most of us are clinically obese, but that’s a fact we shall keep on the DL. As a whole, we are certain what we are consuming is no different than the garbage we wheel out every Thursday night. But we can’t be fucked giving a fuck. And even if we can be arsed, there are bills to pay. Kids to feed. School fees to grey hair with. The corona virus to thwart. The mortgage hangs over our head like a guillotine, ready to sever whatever droplets of ambition bold enough to float in our veins. Who cares about the Syrian conflict.