Somewhere it's been written.
Somewhere it's been decided.
I was born in war.
War is my fate.
I have never known Beirut without war.
I have never known Beirut without injustice.
I have never known Beirut without fear.
I have never known...
Will I die in my country?
Will I die in war?
Will I ever know?
I look at Beirut. She looks back. Envious.
Envious of freedom. Of opportunities. Of what if.
Envious of unspeakable possibilities.
And all I want is to go back.
To her chaos and ugliness.
To her carelessness.
To realize an unrealistic dream.
To give back the love she deserves.
Is love most romantic when it's unfulfilled?
Do I love you because you don't truly exist?