Is life all about timing?

... or do we really have a say in what's happening? Are encounters the result of destiny's wicked games? Are aborted relationships already written in destiny's notebook? Are they here to teach us something? or are we complete responsible for their outcome? If you could go back in time, would you change something? anything?

Getting through...

Listen to U2

Turn The Page - Metallica

The New York Architect

He wakes up in the morning in a charming boutique hotel in the Village. Puts on his delicious, yet barely known, perfume and reads his newspaper in a fancy modern chair. He walks on the streets of New York, observing the crowd and constantly challenging his impressions. He meets with his team, works with them, encourages them to give their best. He is building a fancy city, where colors are bright, people are creative, and good mood hangs out on the streets like a group of teenage dreamers. He is the New York architect. He deconstructs the past and imagines the future.

Post Election Depression

I am no tarot reader and astrology is like Chinese to me. But I do predict a wave of post election depression spreading across the Lebanese population, after June 7Th. People are so hyped up with these elections, that, in some way, they have transcended all their day-to-day worries into these elections. They have built high hopes if their party wins. They have forgotten about the responsibility they have for their own happiness. Citizens have channeled their energy into political discussions and have filled their lives with political talk shows, in overwhelming ways. People beware, Election Blues is on the way.

Partir c’est mourir un peu

Quitter une relation, c’est tuer une part de soi même. Quand tu as existé pendant des années dans la vie de quelqu’un, quand tu as habité ses pensées, quand tu as ponctué ses journées, tu as existé a travers lui. Tu as existé parce que il pensait a toi, parce que il te parlait, parce que tu faisais partie de son imaginaire. Et puis un jour vient ou tu réalises qu’il ne demande plus de tes nouvelles, qu’il ne vient plus jeter un coup d’œil a ton quotidien « webien », qu’il a effacé ton nom de son registre, que tu es au plus une mémoire lointaine, qui jaillit occasionnellement, ou pas. Que tu es devenue pour lui une image floue, aux traits de moins en moins précis. Que ta voix, ton parfum, il ne se les rappelle plus. Que tu es morte pour lui. Que tu n’existes plus. Et avec ca, c’est une partie de toi qui est morte. C’est une ère ou tu as été toi, avec tes gouts, tes humeurs, c’est cette ère la qui est morte aussi. Oui, tu n’existes qu’à travers le regard d’un autre, et ce soir, c’est de noir, que tu vas t’habiller.