The same mistakes,
again.
It's In That Special Way We Kiss
I'm still having vivid mental trips about that kiss.
The mouth waters and the tongue's on guard in an awkward "Go" position.
The body is a nomad in a conceptual no-man's land, its cells in a state of graceful clueless blur.
Sounds courteously come to a halt at the gates of my ears, as if by the savoir-faire of their own gut feeling.
I listen carefully: the atmosphere is heavy and still, silence is a debonair gentleman.
Colors fail to perform.
The mind is a landfill for the five senses.
The world is a minutia ....
I'm hanging by a thread of feeble reality checks: my nails feasting on my palm's skin ... the weight of my keychain at the bottom of my pocket ... my back pressed against the dew-moist grass.
My eyes stall on the distant clock tower, whose hands are inquisitively scanning the face of time.
A time that's now lost on me.
Its motionless moments are transparent like glass.
Countless new ones are piling up within them.
Waiting to be unravelled.
Daring to be ventured.
They wait in vain, they dance in dismay.
They sell their souls to the here and the now.
Thoughts jiggle in my head, long-forgotten in the labyrinth.
One escapes, falls, rattles and settles.
An opportune hand stretches to pick it up, my eyes follow it to a detail-less face.
In the eyes an earnest appeal, one that conforms passionately to the zeal of their pledge.
The mouth's ajar.
Air sneaks in dutifully, it processes it obediently.
My soul unfurls by a brush of suave lips.
Drenched and saturated, a mirror of the heart.
" It's in our lonely crowd, baby.
It's in that special way we kiss. " she spoke in no words.
* Picture taken mid-June 2006 in Jardin De Luxembourg, Paris
Labels: Tales Of The Butterfly
Sunday, December 03, 2006
If Life Had An Achilles' Heel ....
Life is the perfect being.
A self-contained, self-sufficient monster.
It feeds on its own experiences and apprehensions.
It thrives and flourishes in a surreal quarantine of family, friends, lovers, acquintances and the occasional commuter ... while oxygen and disease altogether seep thru its own blemishes and imperfections.
Joy and distress, success and failure, love and hate, loss and gain, safety and peril ... they're all merely different courses on the same menu.
Noone's great full mighty life should make another's seem trivial or insignificant.
The day you start percieving your own life as disposable, learn that you've developed your own judgment.
You'd be judging yourself, you and noone else.
Death is concieved in life's womb, from day one.
A bastard child? God's ? .... who knows, who cares !
Nested and sheltered in life's cradle, it grows to become its only offspring.
Hence its rightful heir.
So the whole perception of death being life's ungrateful child is, in my humble opinion, nothing but a misconception.
A huge misunderstanding really ....
That's why in a contemporary Salvador-Dali'sh fashion, death is nothing but life unmasked.
Life and death may seem like the two blades of a scissor, each going its own separate way.
However, the truth remains, they only meet at the hinge.
And that's really where all the action is happening !
Judgments.
When it came to you, i tried avoiding them like the plague, but always ended up secretly cherishing them in the dark alleys of my mind.
So here i go.
One last judgment on your account.
One last prejudice you gonna have to deal with :
It may seem to the untrained eye this is all way too soon for you.
I say it was just about time .....
I'm not gonna miss you, but i'll always owe you one.
Forever and a day.
So next time you're around, i'll be waiting.
But this time i won't let you down again.
This time we'll talk it through.
Right to the dead most bitter end.
Death followed you home.
And i was hiding in its shadow, and for this i am sorry.
RIP Ranya.
A self-contained, self-sufficient monster.
It feeds on its own experiences and apprehensions.
It thrives and flourishes in a surreal quarantine of family, friends, lovers, acquintances and the occasional commuter ... while oxygen and disease altogether seep thru its own blemishes and imperfections.
Joy and distress, success and failure, love and hate, loss and gain, safety and peril ... they're all merely different courses on the same menu.
Noone's great full mighty life should make another's seem trivial or insignificant.
The day you start percieving your own life as disposable, learn that you've developed your own judgment.
You'd be judging yourself, you and noone else.
Death is concieved in life's womb, from day one.
A bastard child? God's ? .... who knows, who cares !
Nested and sheltered in life's cradle, it grows to become its only offspring.
Hence its rightful heir.
So the whole perception of death being life's ungrateful child is, in my humble opinion, nothing but a misconception.
A huge misunderstanding really ....
That's why in a contemporary Salvador-Dali'sh fashion, death is nothing but life unmasked.
Life and death may seem like the two blades of a scissor, each going its own separate way.
However, the truth remains, they only meet at the hinge.
And that's really where all the action is happening !
Judgments.
When it came to you, i tried avoiding them like the plague, but always ended up secretly cherishing them in the dark alleys of my mind.
So here i go.
One last judgment on your account.
One last prejudice you gonna have to deal with :
It may seem to the untrained eye this is all way too soon for you.
I say it was just about time .....
I'm not gonna miss you, but i'll always owe you one.
Forever and a day.
So next time you're around, i'll be waiting.
But this time i won't let you down again.
This time we'll talk it through.
Right to the dead most bitter end.
Death followed you home.
And i was hiding in its shadow, and for this i am sorry.
RIP Ranya.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
ادفع/اسحب
يتوارى خلفَ الباب الموصد مائة احتمال ....
مائة فكره .
مائة نزوه .
مائة حاله .
مائة موجه .
مائة نجم .
مائة سؤال أو مائة جواب .
مائة أمل أو مائة خيبه .
مائة مخرج أو مائة مدخل . من عالم أو الى عالم .
و صغيرى تلمعُ مقلتيه فتضيئان
و يضحكُ فيدوى
و يحلقُ فلا يحُط
تشتهيه الأنفسُ
و تلاحقه الأعينُ
جزءٌ من منظومه محسوبه
ميزان دقيق حساس
فبأى جناحٍ يخفق ؟
و بأى قلبٍ ينبُض ؟
و لأى نفسٍ يحِن ؟
و أى عالم مثالى تراه يحسب
يقبع داخل الفقاعه ؟
مائة فكره .
مائة نزوه .
مائة حاله .
مائة موجه .
مائة نجم .
مائة سؤال أو مائة جواب .
مائة أمل أو مائة خيبه .
مائة مخرج أو مائة مدخل . من عالم أو الى عالم .
و صغيرى تلمعُ مقلتيه فتضيئان
و يضحكُ فيدوى
و يحلقُ فلا يحُط
تشتهيه الأنفسُ
و تلاحقه الأعينُ
جزءٌ من منظومه محسوبه
ميزان دقيق حساس
فبأى جناحٍ يخفق ؟
و بأى قلبٍ ينبُض ؟
و لأى نفسٍ يحِن ؟
و أى عالم مثالى تراه يحسب
يقبع داخل الفقاعه ؟
Labels: Tales Of The Butterfly