Musings from a plane again.

You can't smoke on airplanes, and my flights back and forth between Riyadh and New York are usually 12 hours. Nicotine withdrawal makes me a very angry person. I sometimes laugh at my anger, and write down mean things, especially on planes.

It's because I have all the time in the world to sit there and converse with myself. Observe:

My keen spirit is chafed by involuntary inaction.

There's a kid walking down the fucking plane corridors wearing shoes that light up while he walks, while people are trying to sleep. He's lucky air pressure prevents these doors to open, or I would brighten up the Atlantic ocean sky for a quick few seconds.

How fucking retarded do you have to be - not only to buy your kids this horrible fucking bastard child of disco club and shoe, but also let the little fucker run around on a plane in them?? Seriously, parents. Pay more attention to your kids, before they prove Darwin's theory of natural selection... actually, never mind...

Maybe I'll extend my foot down this dark lane the next time the little jackrabbit Christmas tree decides to come running down. Redefine 'flying colors.'

More ramblings of a mad man.

In my nightmares, I'm mostly in Riyadh. The backdrop and lighting is almost always dark red or maroon. I wake up depressed, and as if I've witnessed or experienced something deeply disturbing. I feel sick to the stomach, and very sad.

The nightmares come and go, though. Every now and then, sometimes multiple ones in a night. Sometimes they're just dreams and not that overwhelming even - but it surprises me each time when that happens and I wake up feeling just as depressed as I would if it weren't just a simple dream.

I'll wake up humming an old tune, something I heard when I was growing up. So I'll put my headphones on and revisit it for a few minutes. Sometimes I wake up humming to something I've already revisited a day or two ago. Sometimes I wake up and hum something I haven't thought about in a while, and then I revisit it. It's very weird. I'm kinda confused.

Every book I read gives me an analogy, or reference that I can't get over for a few days. That's why I like good works of art and the sort - they leave imprints on your brain for a while. At least for me they always have. I find it hard to let go of grasping subjects and details from any story. Even if it's fictitious, but not only if.

I read Farenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury a few days ago. I can compare myself to Guy Montag in this situation then - just because of the confusion.

I might just be homesick. Not so much that I'm sick of not being home, but that the thoughts of going back home are making me sick. I don't know.

I'm anxious and nervous to going back to my previous lifestyle for various reasons. Mostly alienation.

I remember the last couple of times I went back home, and things were completely different for some reason.

I hate the fact that I can't just write whatever I want here. I also hate not being able to say what I want, when I want to. This has got me into trouble in the past, and I'm afraid of it getting me in trouble again, especially when I go back home.

A question that sometimes drives me hazy,
Am I, or are the others crazy?