CHRONICLE OF AN INCORRECTNESS FORETOLD

Ragged doll, insignificant tinder ready for the fire, blooming the wild way, with no questions, no permission and definitely not apologetically; just like life, incorrect, do you remember? Who is judging the uneven mottle on the ladybird’s back? Who is banning the beasts’ public fuck? There is a time to praise and a time to mourn, and all the in between celebrations may be doing well staying in the past, the place where we departure from with the end of every exhalation.  You can spread me over the table, reduce me to the meaning of a deck of cards, interpret the lively warmth of my microcosmic organism to your desire but that won’t be it, because I am not an equation in which  solve for x can be calculated, neither are you.  My love, my love, what have you done?  You traveled the oceans of despair and now life is a picture of your cataclysmic cruise. Is this all that there is to a life’s quest?  Such an economic spent! What a frugality!  What is left for Thalia? Liquid gold being spilt in mercury puddles, populating the air with clouds of lethal vapor.  Solidified (in terms of the current state: petrified) .  I know, I know… this is an ideal state, just being,… la la la .  Morning light wearing night gown drinking from a newly full glass, getting intoxicated, blinding myself away, like there is some novelty to it. Because, what else?  The expectancy of some foreign progress?  No, the giant prefers to sleep. Let’s leave him alone, while life’s happening.  Next chance will better, brighter, braver, because everything is perfect in the expectancy of tomorrow. Shit!  I cannot get you a better sit.  First row, orchestra section… Listen, someone on the microphone says: Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to “Annihilation”.  Fast forward, the rest is not an option. I see it, the binoculars don’t lie; terrorist spotted, we are all being blown up, too much sensitivity for the case.  We never were here, there is not even a gravestone onto which kneel and sob.  And the story goes on and on and on…. We learnt it in most of the cases; I’m soooo tired of saying it: tradition is bullshit. Clean cut, monkey business, just one life time’s knowledge, no technology, no philosophy, no religion, just love for the soil, the water and the air. No time for damaged souls, to bare them or to grow them.   Am I am alien species?  It is just you and me, dear earth. Who are all these infiltrators? Where are my fellows?  My solitude is nothing but an ancestral yoke, it was described in some Greek mythical tragedy.  I’m disturbed with the reminder. I’d better keep on walking, fast, before the sand burns me alive.  And at the same time knowing that the option is there to construct or deconstruct at every step of the way. With a heart’s particle will be enough.  I hear the distant rumor of yours shrinking … owww   We are traveling, somehow tripping, who can tell?  Wish or dare, be brave, dare to live, to receive, to be, I do, I woo, no shirk or slight smirk.  We are all looking for something, seeking answers and vomiting chewed personal diatribes, in the name of truth, truth? What truth? Biased speculations meet remorse memoranda. No matter whose heads are rolling, the candy shop was open and some unscrupulous was out, haunting sweets. Now, no guilt is due, tell me another fable, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.  Yes, this is a trifle, stoic martyrs don’t even blink when they face plunder.  But drama queens want a place on stage as prima donnas; that require some guts honey… to go deeper in a dancing alliance with the ancient purpose of your divinity.  It almost sounds like a joke said like that, directing those words to the sad wet paper figure that I’m pushing with my index finger into the bottom of oblivion. Life is not over, it never was, despite of petty buzzing paranoia and its misleading chemical result; these are the deeds, no one is ever ready, there is not best or worst, convenient or not, only the wise have the knowledge to work with what is found and make of it something that is worth. B_Nour

IMPROMPTU

I have to feel as I am due to the significance of the pure expression. Is there in the wall, a non-resilient brick? A way of breaking through the weak spot of the opponent’s potential? Mirror to mirror, a butterfly with damaged wings and the opportunistic recluse, reflecting each other’s dreams, funny faces and all. Because everything is a game in the end, from the mitochondrial level to the dispersed inconsistence in between… stages of the personal story, like screens, slid to maintain busy, creating the illusion of purpose; that is the way of the maker. There is a little army ready to mobilize at any given moment; it works on my side and it is always in alert mode. Such a pity that the convenience seems ungraspable, that hope is a forbidden word and everything that could really help is forgotten. What tinkles recklessly challenging the silence could become salvation, an excuse to ponder somehow. I declare myself responsible of receiving judgments and become their caged bird. The totality of my longing being rests in the idea of honest warmth, keen for correspondence, ideally involved in a happy entanglement. Now tell me that I am incurably crazy, by all means I will defend this blessed state.  I perceived a glimmering insight at dawn, in the cradle where all possibilities mingle, screaming to be sufficient. Then I fused with the thought, as a wriggling body swimming against the current in tropical waters, without expectations in my direction. I find certain pleasure in the wandering, in the day dreaming, in the anticipation. And I paint a brave vendor that sells goods to the reluctant while the world turns, standing in a corner, with eyes in both sides of the angle of my biased arrival. My hat is off to this singular figure, long-limbed quixotic knight-errant. It may be for some outward appearance, as I said, I build castles in my attic’s shadows by some uncertain origin inclination. I come back again to the source, asking questions to the oracle, recalling memories from further beyond, where there is emptiness coexisting with all.  Like an animal biting its own tail, causing storms in some other orbiting hologram, provoking guardian angels to convene general assembly, that is the consequence of your spiraling acts… because you were meant to bring together nations, and instead of that you are affecting the seasons, with the only power of those petty trivialities, moving force of your own private universe. B_Nour

WORDS FOR A COLOR

I cannot find words to define the color of those little round doors through which I would jump to leave this dimension. I have serial killer tendencies, to kill the pain, to kill boredom, this time to kill in order to overcome a static condition of insect trapped in amber, because yes, sometimes love also must be killed, strangled, in order to keep sanity. I dreamed of you last week, not sure how you sneaked in and pulled me out from my safety box. The way things are, the tide, the miraculous sand and a symbolic moon crowning the scene, made almost credible the story of the two crabs that, one walking forward while the other rolling backwards following natural impulses, would meet. This is a spit with an attached silencer, it could be dangerous, poisonous, even lethal if it would be shouted unmasked, careless uttered. I am holding a kind of anesthetic dart with which I self-inflict a relentless stabbing in my gazelle heart, so I remember to forget.  I don’t need affection to be showed, tact will take form only by taking prudential distance. A knot is shaping my throat, waiting for the closing door to dissolve, as it never happened, as if personal realms were interlaced but never coincidental. I am full of grace, I renounce without the need of wearing my old martyr dress, I am full of light, the one that shines while the world sleeps and nobody knows. Aaaah.. a full ballroom and I only could look at myself reflected in the crystalline impossibility (because out challenges and dares is what the walls of my lucidity are made of). In a perfect world this braided bunch, this fringe positioning would not have had a reason to begin, so if that is it... what is the reason behind me giving up and then being rescued to be re-trapped? I don’t believe that the bridges that I burnt are bringing me back home because that is what is meant to be, to walk on a mined field because that is the needed lesson to be learnt. The fury is not an option neither am I, from the clearest to the loudest my eyes would never lie; it is resignation what I painted as eye-liner wings calling out for exclusivity. That I can sew my lips is not unknown torture for the angels watching over me to see, and if so, can i make an intricate embroidered muzzle out of desperate stitches? That transformed frustration will be pictured and framed, because this is something worthy of being immortalized for the generations to come, as a example, or simply as a mirror in which get drown when the self pity won't be enough.  May my sorrows turn into joys by the certainty of what re-evaluation will make me apprehend: that there is a reason for that graceful letting go of the things that appalling are not here as a goal but merely as a mean. So be it. B_Nour

THE ESSENCES JAR

Silver shining edging clouds, I come to surrender to the power of connecting. I saw an insurmountable fortress; the leap deserved an olimpic medal, where in a thousand dreams of consecutive lives and deaths would have this been thinkable? This a is a ballet perpetrated for the sake of shaking souls, the brilliance of unreachable celestial bodies competing with the one of the key on the open lock. It is looking back at you barefaced, like saying: “It was about time you fool” And I smile, closing my eyes feeling the warmth coming back through windows that I am opening, windows to another worlds. I am sending invitations to sign against the cutting of a rose, to preserve the embracing nature of the tight bud, and the letting go nature of a living miracle. There will be a time, the right one, no other, in which the scattered petals will pay off.  For thorns I got twigs, bandages blindfolding the stem of this reincarnation. I am drawing a spiral counter direction, so fascinated on the infinite, in the minuscule that I got distracted from the song of the snake charmer. There are stories within stories, the quill is no repentant, the quill is just a mean. There was a time where terms were mistaken, when gleaming was better considered than illuminating.  There is an unfolding thread, a line of liquid particles completing a flowing cascade, a static piece of lace floating in the air to purposely filter our breaths. For this is what I came for, for this is why I got dropped out of the rocking cradle.  That is why I got captivated by the dawning at this stage after being captive for what it seemed to be a life sentence. Look at my hands, on my right palm rests a lid, on the left palm a jar liberating essences of forest morning breeze… and it feels like a growing treasure, the evanescent nature of my inclinations, no time is wasted, no contact is fortuitous. I am the only responsible for whatever the consequences, although what is important has no relevance from a future point of view. Now, what sort of impulse, madness on state of re-composition fuels the daily move? A joyous celebration of singularity needs no explanation, even if nobody sees, I found the purpose and it is poking its tongue out to recognition. You are not more or less, you are. Does the representation loose the meaning behind the curtain? The spectacle began in what appeared to be an empty theater, giving not too much credit to critic. The movement taught the steps in solitude to become an exploding heart in every circle, releasing myself from my body in every waving expression of the arms.  Just like those lips that let a little bit of life escape to be blown over me, I am escaping to cover a broader area than the one delimiting the “I” that you have known. B_Nour

TRUTH CRITICAL UPDATE

Is it gone? Is it gone forever? It is almost like it would be forbidden to think of such a possibility, even bringing up the idea does not fit into the four corners of our limited knowledge. And what about the focus?  Whenever the feathers swing down the biggest of the voids, they dye with poetry the foreign view, that from which we become witness, observant fearing turning again into participant. There are ropes turning into strings weakened by not pulling, that is a crime. This kind of behavior is inflicting a derogatory treatment on Atlas. Who did you became long ago, by choosing to step out of the center, out of the privileged west? There where the wind rose is just a flower tattooed on some sailor’s forearm. There is a place without latitude and longitude where the beings alike are starting a pilgrimage to. Like everything that is seen with the eyes or, in some way, perceived in different percentage with a mix of senses fools us, this caravan is not following any shining star on the sky. The carpet is full with wholes, the light filters through minuscule orifices projecting a shadow of hope. It resembles a dream board, with an ambivalent application: 1a.Starry shower head, drinking water for the lost. 1b.Filtering liquid to get drowned, filling up lakes to satiate the trusting. We weren’t seen coming into human shape; we don’t know how that happened oh… we don’t know that we don’t know. I step up one stair; I see the population swirling in spirals of technological advance falling down the cliffs of self-discovery. If only for a second I could make clear for you to see that it is as easy to step in as to step out. I keep on dealing with it almost on a daily basis, as the thunder splits my head to possess my hands, as the smile is erased from my face due to the dependence on the conventional state, as I feed the hunger of the antithetical profit. There are days in which the point is gone, bouncing from the concrete bundle that I can bite to a multiversal holodeck. I feel you, if that is even possible. There is so much more to squeeze from the apparently dry fruit that seeing you sitting numb by the gates of heaven is giving me the exhilarating answer, even in the abandonment beginnings will blossom from crumbles. B_Nour

                                                

SYMBIOLOGY

In the interaction of two dormant bodies rests the secret of the melody of the oceans, the vibrational power of the clouds moving over our heads, the frequency in which the ice crystallizes. There are two forces that allow life; it is almost like there is a constant battle in nature to give shape to what we put in our mouth. The words that come secreting the nectar of from one corner of the fantasy to the rounded energetic field that we inhabit can adopt different names but yet be the same; maybe that is the reason why my name is Light. These are  speculating verbs trying to find out the reason why, these are stormy ideas tracing the parabolic arches that our bodies can emulate, progressions of perfection, ratios and proportional twists. I subsist thanks to the symbiosis of this art creating organism that fuels on master spell. I am a repetitive exchange machine pending on the valuable mistakes that are the bricks building the tower to succeed.  These are moments to be cherished, moments that will make us consider if we can accept the image that we see on the silver polished tray. It is not me anymore, is me turning around to see another turning around every single time, every single time. The doubts are getting lighter with an impalpable smoky consistence, porous columns that dispel. Walk the walk away, not at the same speed just following backwards the same trail that the other followed some time ago for the sake of your care. The bed sheets smell like baby birds, a scent that fills up with the sensation of safety, making of laying down a matter of knowing that it cannot get any better, that there is not another home or sheltering place that can equal the embrace of the eagle’s wing. There is majesty in the reliability of being a connected vase to a connected-to-you vase. These are the laws that rule the shine of my chants, my shield against foreign diatribes, making of every moment a praiseworthy historical point, turning potentiality into flowing matter.  Here comes the point where happy and thankful coexist in indestructible alloy, where ringing notes are the same as tonalities of light. B_Nour

DARK SUNSHINE

The world is ours, start conquering the random orbit described for the willingness to change. As if constellations couldn’t speak, as if the stars wouldn’t have anything to do with you, as if that could be even possible.  I am swallowing the guilt of eclipsing myself, rolling over periodic depressions on the land where the grave shifts into a garden and back into a grave.  Where is the way out?, that breathing life blowing palpitating gusts of diligence against smoking papers, provoking the unbearable tingling that will set you free.  We can go and have a swim tonight to try to get to the other side of the golden mesh, or maybe in the sunrise, wrapped up in wax that will melt and will leave us as seeming sweaty fledglings. I have a new story to talk about the same, a new purpose, new celebration prayer and a new bobbing lace. And it looks oh! so pretty in the distance,  not even once that wonder was ever made. But I put more effort on building up the surrounding fence,  painting it on white, making it appealing to protect not so worthy things. I claim my right to own the land where to drag the ball and chain, and it is making me out of my mind, why not combing it with my nails? I am getting sores due to the invisible grip as a consequence.  Looking for it so hard made you no favor, now you are putting more effort in protecting the bleak place of despair where you sit than in planting seeds.  I want to take a rest, allow that to happen is not as simple as I thought.  It is almost like a battle that makes me freeze and stare at the cycles of nature like an immovable observer and scream with rage from the depths of a nightmare where I can reach no one.  The dead star around which pulsating rhythms keep on orbiting with indolence makes the space in between the speckles of dust to shake. Go and take a shower under the rain, take part on waterfall watercolor, distinctive mark on the notebook, where the naked will be happy of their opulence.  Remember feeling no shame for being dressed up in the essence,  assuming that everything is in a constant tidal move and will be washed away you want it or not .  Alteration is not a choice it is just looking at the open sky and go again in circles drawing changing patterns which have a message to teach you if you let them. What a beautiful picture you are missing for the eagerness to rush! B_Nour
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