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