Wanderings

I opened my eyes and for the very first time, I truly understood the essence of magic. For the very first time, I felt bewildered, swept off to a land far, far away. I felt submerged in rivers of honey. My hair soaked with heavy drops of sweet cocoa and my nostrils widened to the smell of exotic flowers, of raw nature and of weightless air.

Golden shades flickered all around and bright glittering sparkles surrounded me. I swam effortlessly in the thin air and flew between tall flamboyant trees in search of nothing.

I encountered many faces I never knew and few that have forever been encrusted in my memory, since the beginning of time, since the shaping of nothing, since the molding of emptiness, of frugality, of thoughtlessness.

In the light of shimmering, void stars, I instinctively drew my way. I used imaginary silky brushes and satiny wonderful palettes of colors never discovered.

Unripe, beautiful fruits fell off barren trees and gathered around me, pinning me down to rest with their ever so soft stems. Beds of feathery flowers welcomed me in the comfort of their illusion and the sweet breeze whispered lies of no language into my ears.

My eyes thrived to open up, to succumb to the magic, to see the wonders all around, to swallow the sweetness of dreams and the end of what was never there, what was never here, what will never be.

Tremendous was the word that kept occurring to the safety of what was left of my shaky, shady consciousness. Ts and Rs and S's kept rolling on my heavy tongue until the vowels left me and joined the shiny birds chirping over me.

I heard a sound so peculiar, so sincere. I strove to retain it, but the birdlike creatures kept hovering over it, collecting the vowels and stealing the truth.

I closed my eyes again and concentrated on the only glimpse of the already thrifty image I had of you. I concentrated, I focused so hard, but that ferociously friendly wolf that brought me here kept draining you away. It kept digging into my soul, into the roots of my evil, into the very branches of my existence. He dug sweetly, yet fully. He enchanted me with more glitter, with more tall trees, with more honey, until I felt one with the flowing stream, until I took the rising trunks as my shelter and collected sparkles in the hems of my imaginary dress.

My hands surrendered and stopped chasing volatile vowels as Bs and Rs and Ls voluntarily left me while my heavy breath tried to say bring me back, leave me alone.

My unconscious now belongs to a beautiful wolf, living against all odds in the driest of deserts, only drinking honey from the rivers of my imagination. This is how it tastes to succumb to the sweetest yielding, to the magic of the best charlatans and to the will of the way, leading to nothing.

A Letter To My Dear Friend John

A little background first: John is a wonderful friend whom I have recently met online, and not long ago, he surprised me by posting a YouTube video in which he dedicated a reading extracted from one of Amin Maalouf’s books to me. This is my way of thanking him. Although this is nothing compared to what he had given me, it is the best way I can think of for the moment to thank him. So John, please accept the following as my gratitude towards you.

Link to John's reading to me

Dear John,

I am ashamed to say that I have read only one book by my compatriot Maalouf. I should have read two by now, but alas, one of my many oddities and complexes got in the way of reading one of them. Let me elaborate.

When I was young - or should I say when I was young-er, considering that the fact that I am a woman makes me ageless, or at least not prone to admit the fact that I am getting old-er – I didn’t care much for books. I only occasionally read the books assigned by school, and rarely enjoyed any of those at the time. I tell you, they give beautiful books to people who aren’t capable of appreciating them yet. Les Miserables felt like a punishment at the time, and Madame Bovary reeked of boredom. Let alone the fact that sitting still for more than five minutes back then used to be a major obstacle between me and a book.

So, back to Maalouf. Before they had all moved away or gotten married, my uncles and aunts did a cleanup, which meant they sent me all the books they had already read and didn’t have the place to store anymore. Among those books was a French copy of Leo the African.

The cover was not attractive. The font was so small and the pages were so long that it scared me. But the oddity I had mentioned earlier didn’t lie in any of those facts, although those weren’t exactly helpful either. My major book complex has to do with the fact that I simply cannot read a used book. And although this one was in great shape, it was still a book that had been read by half of the family, who didn’t only touch the pages and rummage through the book, they also had the nerve to make notes and translate words all over the place. I think that is when I had started to be more appreciative of books. I felt that the book’s temple had been messed with, violated. I realized then that books are sacred and should be treated as such.

Now I have been ranting for so long about this you would think I treat my books like shiny silverware, I don’t though. My yellow marker covers every single sentence that I have ever liked. The thing is, I just don’t like reading a used book, and I am awfully strict about lending my books to anyone too. Once I have marked all those stuff, and occasionally written some notes, the book becomes mine rather than the author’s. All these little scrapings make it so personal.  

Dear John,

By now I have been writing this piece of nothing for weeks! And another Dear John entry in the middle of it might turn this into a diary! We wouldn’t want that, no one would want to read my shameless rambling if it goes on for over a page, so this is to commit to write faster!

And now that we have established that, where was I? Oh yes, I was rambling about myself, now it is time to ramble about you!  

You used to be a lawyer, so I gather that is where the wit comes from! And you are an avid reader, which accounts for the wild imagination.

John, this is mostly to tell you how much I truly enjoy our conversations, how much I look forward to them, and exactly how surprised I am each and every time we get to catch up; you always manage to cheer me up, even if it was with the most simple ways. I will also never forget the extremely nice gesture of having sent me the beautiful Hockney book along with the postcards; it was an utter delight receiving mail from you.

In the past few months, I have come to be online for a great deal of my time, due to personal reasons, and during these months, I have had the honor and the blessing of meeting several unique and talented individuals from across the globe, and you, by all means, and considering every aspect, climbed to the top of that chart very quickly. I can’t think of a nicest person. I can’t think of a more respectful person. And I can’t think of a more imaginative and inspiring one.

John, I believe you are one of the few, rare people on this planet who would indulge me on my mad virtual escapades, who will go with me to the end of the line when I am muttering absolute nonsense concerning a new world war that would be ignited by the Europeans bickering over the origins of the almost word yoo-hoo!

My dear, it has come to my attention yesterday that you are currently facing a rough familial situation, and I already know you aren’t doing exactly well yourself at the moment. So I will wrap it up by sending you my best wishes for recovery and happiness once again. If there is someone I know who deserves all the blessings that can be bestowed upon them, it is you. Now I will not pretend I will go to church and light candles, but I do promise to keep you in my thoughts and to mention you to the Almighty while I bombard him with my endless list of demands every night before I go to sleep. May He one day forgive my negligence and selfishness.

I Am A Sinner I Am A Saint

What is the difference really? It all boils down to what exactly? Everything is relative. What you may find wrong I may find right and vice versa. 

Don’t get me wrong, I am not defending sinners or sins; I am just trying to figure it out. 

But wouldn’t you agree if I said that almost every pleasure on this planet is in one way or the other sinful? Not necessarily sinful in regards to one’s own, but perhaps to someone else. 

What are the rules? How far can one push the limits? 

I remember a civism lesson in which we learned that “your freedom stops when the freedom of others begins”. This is a literal translation. I am not sure why I associated it in my mind with the sinners’ subject. The important thing is that I did and now I should find the connection. 

Should I stop in my tracks and refrain what I am thinking of doing because it might be hurtful to others – though not so at all to me? Should others’ rights be respected by me? Are they really entitled for those rights? Why are those rights theirs and not mine?

I have tried to put myself in other people’s shoes. I couldn’t. I am not the others and the others are not me. I may never know the harm I am causing them unless I get to be in their position someday.

Till that day arrives – if it ever does – should I be blamed? Should I really care?

I am not a monster. I do have some feelings. I do feel sympathy for example. But I am also selfish. 

I am selfish and I am not afraid to admit it. Everyone knows it. It is not something I try to shadow. 

But how far can I take this selfishness before it gets me into real trouble?

Should I fear the trouble? Should I dread the consequences? Should I step back?

Should I this, should I that.

I wish the series of questions would stop at could I this, could I that. 

Because I could. Because I can. 

Because I want to.

Because in my twisted world, I want to, and in my compulsive mind, I have to.

Sorry for all the abstractness, but although I want to, although I have to, although I could, although I can, although I shouldn’t, I am not proud.