I’ve always had a thing for collecting old coins. I’ve collected around 107 coins so far from different regions of the world. In the picture there are coins from the United Kingdom, Lebanon, and Europe.



You see, we’re like fireworks. We stay inside the little capsule of ours with gun powder. We rot away turning less dependable as each second passes. We have the gun powder though, we have the ability to explode but we don’t. We sit inside our thoughts because it’s safer to just think your own mind to the core than jump into other’s. We waste life waiting for someone to light us on fire. After months of inhibiting our thoughts, someone holds a match near us. As happy as we get, little atoms creating our bodies mix up with each other. They cause our explosion of new found adrenaline. Lighting up into the sky, we burn. We demolish the chemicals we’ve spent our entire lives relying on. We twinkle in the sky, sparking small emotions that we never knew we could experience. We obtain an idolise audience. But as we hit the peak of purple fire, we come falling down. We burn into the ground, to the lowest part of ourselves. We sink deeper and deeper into the darkest corners of our minds. We shake and tremble, lose balance. Everything is upside down now. No audience adores us anymore. We’re just a burnt piece of powder hidden in the grass.  

12 seconds

Before a person dies, their life flashes in front of their eyes. But what happens in the 12 seconds between when their body dies and when their brain dies? Been thinking about that a lot lately. 

Random thought #1

If life ever taught me something, it would be to never expect something you can’t exceed. Sometimes even the rain lasts forever but the sun’s not always certain to return.

You, you’re art

Art was made to be understood, or to be explained in a sense where people could sense how they felt and express how it felt when they couldn’t find the words to, that’s just art. Art’s anything, literally anything. Even you, you’re art. It might not be the strokes of the paintbrush, or the words of a piece of writing. You, you’re art. Sometimes you can’t be understood, yet sometimes you can’t explain. And when some people see you, they see colours, they don’t see shades. Maybe that’s why we don’t understand each other, in a world like this.. we tend to see, rather than feel.


What is a perfect world? Is it a life with no insecurities? A life with affordable measures? A life with unlimited health? Unlimited wealth? A life with no suffering.. is that a life worth living? A life with no dirt? No scars? Questions are all we have about a fantasy that has all the answers.. the answers in a mirror without a scratch, a mirror without a crack. A spiral into a dimension without pain. We think imperfections are the art of the devil, we hate them. Oh lord, we hate our imperfections. But what we don’t realise, is that’s who we are. Imperfections make you who you are, and although we tell ourselves that perfection was the work of the angels, we’re left on an imperfect world, with imperfect people that see the world in the mirror and realise it’s the devil staring back. 

Create a free website or blog at

Up ↑