A few crayons embellishing the naked page of doubt, making little flower borders. And with one of those fluorescent markers, highlighting the “here I am”, striving to know for the certain of what reasons I am this position. Just doing and doing and being pulled by chance, the child, playing with me, the kite. In this parallel reality there is a xylophone melody for children played live, it turns to be a didactic lullaby danced by the music box ballerina. The hanging crystals mobiles filter the light and compound a fairy tale’s soundtrack. In the air the perfume of rose scented talcum powder, while I fly through it aerodynamically. I am a pendulum with a massive gravity center point in this galaxy; there is even a torsion field named after me, just like the guiding star that barely you see twinkling. The significance of the apparent trifle is greater than what we are allowed to conceive. White cotton texturized clouds, traveling as a stormy weather stowaway infiltrator, positioned on the canvas by the power of a firm brushstroke. I acquired the power to align planets to my convenience, with a blow of a gentle breeze, moving them as if there were soap bubbles. What can replace this sensation? What sort of mundane pleasure? No wonder why I can’t avoid the compelling, but you first must clean the sheets and be able to reach peace as you go to sleep. This is a different environment; to walk in here is needed to wash out your lungs with purity of mind. As I look backwards, and see the valley I went through, I just can tell stories but not making it any easier for you. B_Nour
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