TEA TIME

Today I listen to the rumor of the world; it is not more than the creaking of a rope swinging in a just used gallows. On the nonstop rotation of my inner screen I get the projection, without any intention, they are just passing by images, black and white with some red highlights, to accentuate crucial details, you know. And the marabou feathers that some cabaret dancer lost during a performance get through my nostrils tickling my self-preservation instinct. Not having a taste for the balls of fluff I still serve as a vacuum cleaner recovering battles remains. It was not a personal choice; it is because I am lying down on the floor where I was dropped off. So I taste the dust, and I count the seconds to take off. It is tea time somewhere on the planet, all the time, the chimes tinkling could be linked in an endless chain, brass, copper, silver, rusty iron or stainless steel used indifferently. Fine and fancy materials, constructed to resist, to just everyday’s expiring objects crap. The bells are making the clock round, beginning and end have a meeting point, at the same time with same stock: a paper note pinned on the lapel, just a reminder denouncing that the tradition is running low, that the cause it loosing followers. I found the signals clear and loud, from here to eternity, a question of finding and letting go, analyzing with no trace of judgmental drive. I know, I just know when to embrace and when to say no, with capital letters or just with my tone. Murmuring waters, rustling leaves overlapped, partly by chance, with headache giving contemporary chaps mumbling, win back your priority. I burn with desire to deliver my personal belongings onto the tray on your counter and be finally free. Because I know that the fulfillment comes for a faraway place where there is no need for it. B_Nour