يا من وجدتّ الطمأنينة في جدران هذا الكون الاحمقْ. ألا تسمعُ الموتَ يطرقُ أبوابكْ؟ ينفخُ أبواقكْ؟ يصرخ أسماؤكَ في عتمة أروقتِكْ؟
يا من تعيشُ و تحيا في منازل من ورقْ. الوقتُ يُقبلُ عليكَ كرمادٍ من السماء. يدفن وجناتكَ بحبٍ و عناقْ. يملأ قلبكَ بدخانٍ و غبارْ.
أراقبُ جسدي من زاوية الفلقْ. لا أبكي، لا أغضب، لا أبالي. شياطينٌ أقبلتْ و مضتْ، و ستعود لتقبّل آمالي. وأنا أنام في بحرٍ من الغيوم.
أسألُ الوجودَ هل من وعودْ؟ هل من كراهيةٍ و ضغينة؟ هل من رُقودْ؟ يصيح الوجودَ في العلانية: لقد خُلقتَ لتزولْ.
Life is a monotonous lie. We are born into a cauldron of raving bodies, constantly colliding, banging heads against noses trying to catch feelings. We strut around fires, making noises, telling legendary stories of conquest so we could be noticed and loved.
Where are we from waltzing around fires and smelling each others’ skins? I want to kiss your goosebumps of excitement and glory as you howl and screech your way out of starless nights, and into sunny days of doom. We can lay down here and throw curses at the sun that showers us with indifference. We can walk hand-in-hand into tragedy and then write an opera about it. We can do it all over again, as long as you laugh until you get tears in your eyes.
The curtains flutter in protest as the play gets worse and worse. These desperate actors can barely fool themselves, but who am I to judge. At least they try to make it through the river of styx, where they will submit themselves for the prudence of the gods of chastisement. That is courage.
I will only occupy this here empty seat, in an empty row, where the spotlight never arrives, and the curiosity of the crowd fails. I belong here, and I’ve called this spot in the world mine. My spots are numerous, and they keep shrinking each morning as the sun lays its claim to my shadows.
Tonight, I have something to look forward to, and that’s why my adrenaline takes possession of my left leg, rattling it vigorously with an intensity that could bring down the theater over an unsuspecting crowd. Unsuspecting and oblivious is the world to its own occupants, and I am not willing to interfere with its logic anymore. Here, I wait for this monotonous drama to conclude, so I can take my final walk through the airs of freedom. I can see the door handle, glowing in strange strobe lights. I can hear the whispers of the underworld, as they promise me peace and long rumination. I can smell the powder cooking in my head, shattering my skull and sending my cognition into freefall.
The strings of life fail to perform. When the puppet roams, detached of its maker, it proudly runs these red shoes of freedom into suicide. What meaning and what ambition drives?
Brood another step. Sleep another day. Stick around. Here comes the night, dressed in new metaphors. With each drum beat, humbleness withdraws and an epic awaits on the roof of the worlds. A tear jerks, distorting realities, and drowning creation in sorrow.
This is the eye of the vehement clock. Whispering ticks and tocks into abhorrence and soundless harbors of humanity. Thou shalt fall and everything else is but a tick of the arm.
I kneel down before thee, vicarious. My temple trembles in the absence of everything else, and my tongue utters a testimony of silencio:
No màs. No màs.
The greenest grass flickers in hindsight. The vision brings a stillborn hope in his exhausted veins. He’s spent years digging this very hole for hisself, and now he aches to get out of this annihilating solitude. Once upon a time, he was a man without worry, but his lust for long lost beasts and nightmares brought his knees to a fumble. So he picked up a shovel, and with all his mighty intent, excavated the soil beneath his feet for the beauty in the dark.
Eventually, he found her. He caught glimpses of her tantalizing allure and she started embroiding him with colorful emotion and catastrophic eventualities. Moonlight emanated from the pores of his skin. Nirvana pounded the back of his head and he collapsed into phantasmagoria…again. Slumber arrived on a high horse.
The first time he opened his eyes, he only wanted to cry. If he pretends, it hurts. If he keeps true to his own image, it obliterates. The pendulum of sharp swords cut him down and took his organs apart, each of them orbiting seprarately from his body. From right and wrong. From reason and irrational deliberation. You see, he can clearly see the righteous path to take. All lit up with unamusing dull colors. But the pain of undertaking it renders him numb. What’s left is an uphill climb through the crater that he built himself.
Grains of sand kissed his face and started shredding away every bit of joy left in him. Atoms and stardust are now conspiring against him. Yesterday, it was all a long sung a capella. But yesterday is gone.
Why do we long for the suffering? What immense beauty drags us back, while we claw at the dirt beneath us, clutching pebbles and ruins to gain grounds. What destructive attraction pulls us back into its towering jaws. Its magnificence antagonizes. Its silent howls defeans the skies and corrodes the oceans. Desist.
I beg of you, wanderer in a desolate desert, stop gazing into its bottomless eyes. Desist. Cease your love letters to its mournful absence.
Wanderer, your sadness could fill the world a thousand-folds over. It could freeze the souls of kings and emperors. It shall live on, forever swindling and dancing on golden pendulums. Never abstaining. Never tiring. Wearing you down and feasting on your worries. And that’s all it is to it. Nothing more, nothing less.
Wanderer, you know as well as I do, if you don’t hold these flames in the dark, you will be gone with the next wind blow. Burn with me, stranger. Let us fill the horizon with our madness before sunrise.
Where do I draw the boundaries for this? How much can I share with you before I start losing my dignity? You might have noticed that I’ve been away for a very long time now. I haven’t written anything in years, and that’s because I was truly ashamed of myself. I tried my best to avoid you. Looking you in the eye and confronting our past is a moment I forever dreaded now that sometimes, for some brief-fast rolling days, I thought I could totally shrug it off.
But it comes. I shake and tremble, as I write this down. Every letter I type makes my knees weaker and my heart sinks further down to the floor. Unfamiliar to me, I want to be decisive this time, so I am going to impale myself on your cross and let your fiery gaze penetrate my very existence.
You are a destroying angel.
And I’ve lived long enough with you, that I myself thrived on the destruction of myself and all others that had a speck of love for me. You taught me how to hate with an overwhelming intensity, and you denied me any kind of leverage to balance my emotional abyss. I had no place to hide, no place to call home, and no where I could retreat to. And when our darkest hour arrived, I wanted to protect every beautiful memory I had left from us. I took it all on myself. I decided to end my life.
You are a conqueror worm.
I took a long trip to nowhere in particular. I left a suicide note that explained nothing and I escaped into foreign rugged mountains and the life of nullifying beauty. Everywhere I looked I saw towering peaks and unending grounds to walk. We held hands on cliffs, we wept under trees, we tore ourselves apart on the ice cold crevasses. But I failed again. See, you feed on my living breath like a leech and getting rid of you was my ultimate desire, but still I couldn’t kill us. It started raining down on me and the sense of belonging to that mountain conquered my intentions. I will never forget my train of thoughts in the silence of that evening. It was a spiraling condemnation of every decision I’ve taken up to the moment I collapsed on wet grass, not of physical weariness, but from emotional torment that took its toll on me and whispered in my ear ”it is time”. It was a blood bath between two beasts fighting over the rights of my body. It was a numbness stretching from my veins into the roots of the earth. It was a play on the theater of life, a joust, a duel between committing to my willpower for once, and cowardly going back and admitting my humiliating defeat to everyone who knew me.
You and I, are too broke to flee the crime scene. Rest your tired fingers inside my ribs and let me sniff the soil in your hair. This world of shit and piss can’t contain us both. We could pray all night for a miracle that would save our love but who can save us from ourselves.
You and I, can take a ride to a place we never knew. We can talk to strangers and feed with wild animals. Let’s pretend we’re the rulers of an erotic empire, where lust and passion is the law. It’s still early till the sunset, you can undress under a tree and I’ll worship your colors one more time. Just one more time.
Everyone becomes a certified doctor with the stamp of ‘life veteran’ on their butt as they try to crack your ‘secret code’. A few minutes after surfing search engines and you’ll annex a rotting body, lumped up with all sorts of symptoms, effects, and diseases that have names consisting of scary syllables; all yours with today’s special deal on human tagging. Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, insomnia, epilepsy, major depressive manic disorders, narcolepsy, schizophrenia, you name it.
I know I am far from perfect. I am flawed like a plastic boat with irreplaceable parts. But at least I acknowledge and admit my shortcomings. There is no secret code. Fuck the grand design. No one really knows anything and nobody understands. In fact, nothing is wrong with me. This is the real me. And even when I’m slapping my face with aspiring nihilistic views, and vomiting forth human hatred on social media, I still like me a lot. I wouldn’t alter a thing in myself. I’ll probably be miserable, sad, and unbearably negative for a very very long time, but that’s why I’m sarcastic and my colors are different than most.