title in gestation

Is it a game well played when all the pieces fit together? I am in a wedding, the one that is without bias. The cement that sticks together the bricks of trust melts down to be reshaped in a wiser structure. Look at my seat, concave rocking chair, it felt for almost four quarters of the day desynchronized to the vibration, almost like a deathbed. What was the click? Sudden changes from the visible to the hidden side may seem as something natural once one has reached there... There are no miracles, magic potions that transform you instantaneously in a modern Dr. Jekyll, it only works one way, the easiest one, the one that is effortless and reduces the divine essence to be underworld waste. Hummingbird suspended, in static movements ride, pecking here and there, with misused abilities who could you possibly be? There is an order and a harmony that preexists all that is perceived by the silly five senses, by the inclination to succumb in the ponds of the contemporary human numbness. I greet sometimes the luck of being awake. I do not allow myself to think as often I should, to that I am brought towards it by some sort of celestial corps compendium. I have the suspicion that it is due to a team work and not uniquely owed to my own merit. A symbiotic work between the Maker and the forehead sweat of his piece of work. B_Nour

LIFE vs KARMA

The vegetables are ready; don’t miss the steaming soup time. I accommodated some spinach in my bedroom as the rain was threatening to wash away my saliva from the soil. Many were talking today about karma, doing unconsciously references to a word that doesn’t define the denouement of the fortune surrounding their existences. The word was inappropriate as the attitude itself. Aaah what a green view form my bed, I don’t have time to pursue changes in the “unchangeable” or to accuse the fundamental from being inaccurate. There was great talk giving material to chew for the next few weeks, thanks you so much the framed light to make it possible, once again. But to close circles and cut off the top of the hills, this is dispensable, it won’t ever make a complete being. What is crucial can engross rich layers of minerals, resting over a mother substratum of undetermined value, there where the bugs dig for no pay. Who questions what labor is better that this? Whatever we decide to deserve or not deserve goes round and round till precipitating to join the fountain’s bottom filth. There where the dragonflies decided not to come back to the air there is no more than one reason for the purpose of their eternal rest, for more than you want to save them they don’t want to be saved. Is there any reason for me to want more than this? I give life a chance from my little caged plot, still able to absorb what is given for the sake of love and not for the purge of faith. B_Nour

ANONIMOUS SERENADE

A river is running deep, moving pieces of owned territories towards left behind faraway lands. I want to know how to unravel the meaning that the entrails of my nap dreams ooze before is too late. From the desperate help call that is done through this screen, cold sister, widowed mirror that is always on call, I have the means to reach to you but I don’t. I glorify the percussive hammer neurons that bring you back to me, only present in my fantasies, but so vivid that makes me to be swollen with joy. It is like if it would be about a Marian apparition that I witnessed and I choose not to talk anybody about. What can I say to a passing by stranger that ignores the floods of life running through my pipes? My veins are not pumping with sense and it saddens me to know that you don’t know. Overflow of sentimentalism for the darkest hour of the day, only because I saw you again in between the foggy mirage of this midday. It is useless to care, so I don’t. For what is left of this serenade my voice is hoarse so is better to recite digitally, in silence, a silence that cannot sit on the chair, which suffers from an untamable adhd, just like me. I keep on trying to touch the sky in solitude, keeping memory cards stuck on the wall as company, with the pictures of faces that will never grow old because they got never close. I am curious to know where is the ride bringing, after all it seems I am not so immune to the car crash as I tend to think I am because my little heart still bumps and has some kind of troubles stemming from uncontrollable crushes. B_Nour

What a difference it makes?

I have a self imposed tyranny, the tyranny of the literary daily blog... I feel kind of incomplete when i am not able to achieve this simple task, and today is one of those days... The world keeps on turning, for the good and for the bad and my tiny omitted contribution seems not to make anything different by just not having been born. It is frustrating to see a blank page blown away, with no remarks, no red circles or arrows, reminders of any kind, just like if this day would have never existed... No testimony, no paranoia dripping in shape of surrealistic vocables. I wonder if my lines would have changed a single fiber of the universe's balance. That is a question with no answer, the unknown factor that maybe would have made the matter's interrelation variate to the point of turning the concept of all what is known upside down... blah blah blah i know, only diatribes and senseless speculation. There is no point on trying to find out what is that lies under the present layer, it is too familiar and obvious to think that there is a bunch of infinity mysterious possibilities that could have been and never were. Let's leave it like that, wrapped up in some casual clothes. B_Nour

ONE OF THESE SUNDAYS...

What is it that has a Sunday morning? That kind of sensation that time has been stopped. Secretly, the planted hope that rests in the cracked pots advances towards the surface telling tales from the underground. For that is needed the sunlight, for that is fertilizer eagerly drunk with a thirst grown for the long period of apparent death… there where there is no light but there are bulbs, like a promise blown away by the frosty times. I bring you the aria at the opera house, where the rotating doors at the entry work like the blade from a fruit juicer ready to receive the audience. I am prepared to receive the ripe as well as the rotten bites, with skillful elegant movements I carry the tray picking up the flesh and the sweat. For that I am here, at the entry of the temple, where my mission is to render the surreal dance and the eccentric hemorrhagic vaudeville twenty-four seven. But today in a nature environment, with an absolute satisfaction that doesn’t beg for reaffirmation, the show makes sense on its own. Who is watching does not matter as far as the expression is plausible in terms of honesty. And there is nothing more honest than the lake in my eyes this morning. You can take it as a danger as well as a cure, for that is mean to be splashed over shallow fellows’ faces. There is a dimmer on my spring balcony, it raises the underlying potential to the clouds level, and today it seem it needs to be turned to the point of causing blinding lightness. B_Nour

Excerpt from I am too alone in the world...

“I want to be with those who are wise
or else alone.
I want always to be a mirror that reflects your whole being,
and never to be too blind or too old
to hold your heavy, swaying image.
I want to unfold,
for where I am folded, there I am a lie.”

Rainer Maria Rilke

OVERWHELMED

It may appear under a rock, or in between the leaves of the lush ivy climbing up the millennial stone walls. It doesn’t matter where, here or there, in the car wash or in the nature shop, there it stands impassable at the other side of the castle moat. I attribute it to serendipity, something that that I shouldn’t believe in. Cause, aren’t we the makers of our own existence bustle? The ingredients may have from time to time some spices sprinkled, but the essence should stand tasty on its own, without additives of any kind. I tend to put my head down, waiting for a miracle in the land of the heartless men. When the sun starts shining they multiply like herbs, or should I say like weeds? They blossom like flowers in a garden; they even look at me insolently. Am I guilty of some previous life unforgivable mistake or am I greater than all of it? The mundane and the vane, the whistling charming prowlers, the fast passion seekers, the pomp, the ostentation, mere ridiculous shows on display; I screamed my lungs out to make clear what they mean to me. I kissed the warm crawling from underneath those heated bricks, it was a heartily given one, although quite well hidden I must admit. I walk from a shaped experience from which squabbles comes the content on the palm of my hand. How can the world keep on turning as don’t find any response for my disease? And as my head and emotions get collapsed by these encounters, without the slightest eye contact, the knights are moving away with not even a wink from the open visor of their armors, what an incomprehensible farewell… B_Nour