THE AGE OF THE GIST

What a day, what a day… too short anyway. Like those ones at the funfair when everything seemed to pass by so fast that only the smell on the clothes, bubble gum pink cotton candy, would certify it all happened. Now-a-days the tasks are harsher that the ones of a painted tin spinning top, but no the intentions, rocket propelled frenetic rhythm, eager to do as much as possible between the squashed minutes. My querulous arch has a dual face; being a comedy mask that once cries twice laughs. If I only wouldn’t need to sleep, if only I could keep the illusory daytime’s programming wheel stuck in second one with a toothpick. What a wonderful multiplied history would be written, with no sense of end, elongated subsistence enriched by the eager to persist here and now. I ask myself how I did all these years, where are the garbage bags? Is it that something that I should fear? It is similar to the dependence on the virtual tools, but this time I work like a teenager is obligated to. No parents looking, not need for it to preserve the diligent tone, ant martial step, putting bricks under the bricks, this is the age of the gist. Starting under the impulse of the inner spirit, sleeping beauty, ignored for silent. As it is said, “You will recognize them by their fruits”, and the sweat and mud that comes with it. I am going crazy to make of the harvest instant the best one the events, messy busy, trying to perform to all the requested gigs. 2011 comes crammed of juicy irresistible, though not for free, gifts. B_Nour