So difficult to not make the same mistakes, unceasingly. The needle jumping on the same note, we are like a worn-out gramophone record, a vicious circle, looping in the groove. And the worst part is that, for more that we insist on hiding it under the carpet, the garbage starts to stink at certain point, and the sedimentary calcareous crust prevents the movement from being graceful, as it once was. Idling away the minutes that become hours, that deconstruct the day you were awake with some lucidity, to at the end… again, the same. There is a page to fill in the heavy book of spells and potions, and it is a known fact that it, invariably, that the volume will be burnt at the stake. So at least we would better be eminent charred bodies, making a big violent explosion, a fire work waterfall, fed by the richness of the content. One time show, the biggest on earth. There are vacancies to fill to participate, hollows, almost like bee cells, semi-invisible to the naked eye. I got the light, it is barely a tiny torch, lighting as much as a firefly. I want to walk towards them upright with no need of crutches of walking sticks. It must be and old pride that makes me want to correct every line with a red pen, asking me to repeat, next time better, please. Giving no rest, demanding from body and mind a praiseworthy success. It is a pity that the seasons go by at each breath, and the tasks we invest ourselves in, are just pastimes that we decide to occupy us with. B_Nour
