BEFORE I REACH THE GROUND

Flick the ashes off the threshold before I reach the ground. I want to land in the territory of the people with the war paint on their faces. There is something about it, a strange attraction, like inherited from other existence. I can’t explain it in an accurate way, it is so intense, I get vacuumed, swallowed and chewed by it. And there where I am eaten, I am later excreted. After being digested, things seem the same in a quick look, but if you observe in a molecular level, they are not, and not only that, they will never be. I ask for permission from the higher spheres, to resume and continue, although I shouldn’t. What kind of approval will complete any task for you? Does it impersonate the gasoline the moves your engine? Bah! Like if I would need some kind of support! It is not that much fun to be secluded in a bottle of red wine, shrunk to get in, to after set the sails and stay tied up in the dock. The impressions on my retina, faded colors shared in albums, are the some already previously exhibited memories. They were on the recipes’ book of a distant, a so far in the family line relative, that we don’t even share race. Her bottle was of marmalade, probably of cherry’s or red prunes’, definitely denser, with a blurry view from it. I am grateful that my barrier allows a clearer vision. Our containers, so determinant in terms of world confronting, make me wonder if they were they chosen, self-created or just deserved. Struggles to get out of the bottle: one thousand and one tries to roll down the table, with the outcome of breaking the glass shell to release what is contained. Why then so afraid of the fall, and the inevitable traumatic impact? I want to stop praying for an random hand that pours me out. Ignore me if I ever ask you with my most dramatic voice: Please, please! I beg you to take me out before I reach the ground. B_Nour