All Puff, No Huff

I’ve been around, you know?

That wasn’t always the case, anyways.

Thinking about it gets me all huffed-up with vanity, inflating me with fleeting gratification about how far I’ve come.

There’s nothing wrong with enjoying a ride on a high horse whilst in the company of my thoughts.

It’s addictive, though. Anything related to addiction is bad. Whether it’s narcotic or mental, say, idealism.

With my figurative ascendance finally out of mortal reach, all that poise wilts in my brother’s presence, as if to invalidate itself while he’s around.

Don’t give credence to any of my words, though; it’s not his fault. It’s not that his presence’s intimidating, far from, actually; he’s just got a much bigger horse to boast about.

Unlike myself, Tareq’s actually been around, done things my mother would be terrified of.

He always tells me, brags, more like, about how a move to Europe would be good for me. I never put too much weight to those words; the thing about him is, it’s never completely black or white, every word carries some sort of risk to it, like he’s got a glossary of double-edged swords.
He’s not one to think of the step that precedes the one he’s about to take, or the one that comes after. To him, everything’s unwillingly culpable of being a means to an end.

In that regard, Lebanon was just a stepping stone in his journey, like a gateway drug to this expansive life he’s been marinating in.

He’s a pleasant guy, truthfully. It’s just that, the devil’s in his eyes. And the struggle’s always happening behind drawn curtains.

Sometimes, it’s silent, other times, the frustration’s aggressively wearing down his face.

People who escape hell start appreciating lesser words in their everyday conversations, to the point where their quiet days become synonymous with peace.

It’s punishing, seeing a falcon soar with clipped wings; it decapitates the soul whilst incessantly feeding it.

You see, Tareq’s always idolized experiences, obsessively dependent on the notion of having as many experiences under his belt; ‘life’s too short’, he’d always say, with absolute conviction, as he inhaled whatever keeps him afloat.

I’ll admit, I always appreciated it when people talk about how much we’re alike. Underneath the persistent comical denial is true adoration.

I’ll also admit, I never really appreciated the kind of relationship he was trying to put together. I was too young and stubborn.

Like all the men in my family, I was stupid.

My brother and I didn’t really see eye to eye growing up; we didn’t even live in the same dorm room during college. All we did was constantly bitch, pitting our poor mother in-between our dogfights.

I was obstinately rejecting all the truths he was sermonizing, like a misunderstood prophet unfortunate enough to cross paths with a deafened people.

He had his way of seeing things, and I had mine. With time, we’d both realize I was going through life at my own pace, just like he once did.

I remember when he visited me in Beirut. We were both all grown-up. It was right after I moved out of Hamra.

My mother was done with cradling my shattered ego with over-priced apartments and sweetener words. She tried to wane me off of padding my pain, but she couldn’t consciously hurt her child without doing the same to herself.

It was an unbearable sight for the whole family, more than it was for me. All they could do was hope I stand back up, but I was already comfortable with limping around a life that was so ready for me to accept it.

She decided a big brother was best suited for this task, the short-tempered one, not the one I had lots in common with.

She knew what she was doing.

He’s always been a blunt hammer, when you need him to be, and when you don’t.

With all the vicious crap he spat out that night, he grabbed onto my shoulder, as if to reassure me that everything was going to be alright, and said,  ‘you can’t love the life you’re living if you don’t love yourself; stop fucking around and get your shit together.’

He never knew how to properly chew his words before he kicked them out of his mouth. I’m glad he doesn’t.

As frustrating as it is to look up to someone as difficult and mulish as him, I do.

I’ll always idolize him, even with the devil all settled in.