If I collected all the texts I wrote to you but didn’t send,
A novel would come to life.
Sometimes the urge to write when you cross my mind is stronger than the urge to talk to you…
Do you even exist outside of my words and beyond my lines? I might never discover, and these words shall never be said. But here, I am sending you a post card, I hope it arrives in time.
There’s no greater satisfaction than reading hearing one putting your ideas and thoughts and sentiments which you’ve had in your brain and soul unorganised in a beautiful prose.
I should think about death, think about death so that I decide how to feel about it when she arrives to anyone I love. I had forgotten death existed as I had forgotten about life. Vacuum, Time. Time and space of a third world dimension had swallowed us. All we are is a downward journey through the throat.
I cannot write beautiful words. I cannot express myself in English. I am weak. I cannot express myself at all. She left us too soon. With her words. Her prose her Grief. I weeped, silently, as I read her Grief.
This is a confession.
This is my confession.
I did not leave my bed today.
This is a confession.
This is my confession.
I did not leave my room today and I walked down the stairs to the basement to pick up some tools to prepare my bed. The stairs were broken so I decided to fix them on my way.
I picked some nails and a hammer. I wore the glove hanging there. Tak-Tak-Tak-Tak… I made a noise through my mouth imitating the hammer’s. I continued going up and down and up and downer..
My house doesn’t have a basement and I live in an apartment…
This is a confession. I always talk myself out of going to the basement, because climbing the stairs is a challenge for my immobile feet. I always go and I am back for now. They say ‘one step at a time’. What should I call this?
Last time you gave me your hand and drowned me in your pages was with Zahra (The Story of Zahra) and now, after three years, I decide to give my mind to you again, for you to steer it to your direction.
I skimmed through your little game, I read all of your names, Suha, Tamr, Suzanne, Nur… I am not afraid to be your women, I am not afraid to become one with them. I am totally ready to dive into your words, to allow your lines to submerge me deeper and deeper, until I suffocate and forget to breathe.. But guess what, my Library knows me the best, she knows all my identities hidden in her shelves and I know that she will pull me out from you and dip me into another kind of you and I will equally enjoy every bit of it.
And if your women and I make it to the lands, I will allow you to scribble an abstract on how we made it to safe havens having passed through your flames…
It splits her chest open to enter her from the thoracic cage and winds around the lungs to get inside her arteries. It irrigates her entire entity, completely soaking every inch of her cells in it, turning them into blue, navy blue, all the layers of the color blue, until her skin becomes cyan. Her lips though ice blue color, dribbles what is left of her inside liquids out.
Eventually, on her last breath, she solidifies.
She gave it one last look. Walked down the corridor to the door while Brushing the dust on the shelves with her fingers. Although it burned her from inside, she couldn’t stop to look behind her shoulder, because she knew the rule; she would turn into a pillar of salt. The challenge was to step out of the door with a smile on her face and sprinkle of love in her soul.
She didn’t look back, nevertheless she went into the labyrinth of the rooms. She went into one room which led to the garden, the garden led to the kitchen, the kitchen led to the dining room, the dining room led to the balcony, the balcony led to the bedroom… She was running from one door to the other, forward always, but never in progress. She found herself at point A. Where it all began.
These doors trap.
Finally, exhausted, she took the paint, colored the door with bright white, drew a window instead, unlocked the window with her pen and threw herself out.
My corner in my studio is not a mere corner. It is me. I am born every time my brush touches the palette and caresses your body to fuse my inner self in you. You are born every time I am born. Every time I pour my sentiments on you. You become real and you become me. I become you.
I am not the painter, I am my painting.
Pour my glass and get me drunk with every gulp which brings me to you. I will forever die in this corner, forever live, relive, be born, become you.
I paint.
I pain(t) on my whiteness until all fade to black. Until my shadows find a place to elongate. My hands are stiff once holding my brush but my fingers are lenient and are able to flush away all the awe not yet put on my canvas, not yet colorized, not yet pain(t)ed.
We all fade to black, black is a color, I am longing for my own color in black.
A coin has two sides, a moon has two sides, but you have many sides and I am to explore each and every one of your convolutions by caressing your intricacies with warm colors.
Journeys of an anthropology student 