Intentional Love

Come and unstrangle me of this pain

I try hard to tame my passionate heart

Yet love is no easily played game

For it can dissolve the lovers apart.

Rush for my aid I am dying,

Penetrate my heart to its depth

Try to make me stop crying,

Come and help me from a state so wretch.

I am nothing on this earth
But a flying helpless petal,
That tries to create a new birth,

From a seed of love made of metal.

How fruitless the task I was assigned

And so are the futile memorized lines,

That try as hard as they can to combine

Two lovers parted by clueless time.

Circle Circle

A cry echoes in the hollow darkness,

A child is rendered into this world,

To grow amid the embrace of kindness

And pass his life in a little twirl.

Life goes by and the child is a man,

Bending his back, looking at the ground

His skin from the sun possessed a golden tan

His visage with time became a permanent frown.

In his grave he lay after seventy years

The day of his birth seems months ago,

Yet he lay amid relatives’ cries and tears

But they continued the boat to row.

Age after age withered slowly by,

And no one passed by the old man’s grave

For he in ashes no matter how hard they try

And rot is what once was brave.

But that rot into a flower blossomed

Stood alone waiting long lost friends

Yet no one came and winter hovered

At the edge starting to make a bend.

And as the storm hit the base,

The flower shrunk into decaying rot.

A cry came from the dark, deep grave,

Of sorrow, of loneliness, of happiness not!

This old man once was you ‘tis believed

Now lying under stones and rocks

He lived his life till the end of lease

Momentarily sleeping under chains and locks!

Dreams of Delusion

I dreamt of you last night

And saw you in the armor of a knight.

You looked at me in tenderness

And I blushed under your gaze in loveliness.

Petal after petal I slowly flourished,

And with this act innocence perished.

I loved till there was no more

And cherished you like a maiden do a lord.

But the golden picture into fragments crashes,

To a thousand pieces it pettily mashes.

And light slowly withers away,

While I the truth try to convey!

Anemic White

It was a snowstorm… hailstorm, or was it a snowstorm? It was a storm all right. And it was strong and blowing and steadfast. I stood by the window looking out, appreciating the anger of God, or was it the blessing? It was a feeling. A strong, fierce feeling, emotion… sentiment? I looked out of the window and just wished I had enough film to portray such 'beauty' from so many different angles. But I didn't. So, 'stuff' it goes in my brain, squeezing and shoving to find a corner, a place in that entity, to engrave the memory. The memory of God's 'whiteness', God's 'purity'.

Olive trees were sagging beneath the weight of blown snow, and hail. Sagging and going further down, until bent, head down, as if in an act praying. A grudging act of prayer. The ritual between nature and its creator was intense. Blasting wind unto creation, the latter feebly swaying with demented eroticism, for God's satisfaction. But wasn't wind his conception too? Ah, beauty, you are so diverse, so perplexing.

A small boy appeared, walking, heavily, to reach the candy store. With much effort and determinism he reached the goal, yet a waning goal. His footsteps imprinted on the snow waned with time too. Parents came out in the dead of the night calling out for him, holding flickering lanterns, trying to see the way… the footsteps of their posterity. Yet it was a fading shadow they were trailing and a fading light that lit their way.

I still stood at the window, looking out at this scene. Still looking at the whiteness that blinded the eye at first glance. Still looking to find some color to relieve the eye from this monotonous, throbbing agony. I saw an eluding flower, red like wine, barely escaping the grasp of paleness. Red like a drop of blood from a wounded soldier attempting to save his country. Purity falling on purity, but they didn't fuse and individual difference didn't disappear like any two similar things would act. They didn't blend…they simply stood as diverse as night and day. It made you think, 'which is the pure one?' It didn't matter; all that mattered was that one of those two was impure… but I couldn't tell which is which. It didn’t matter because both were issued from the same womb. Both held the same genes… had the same parent.

The question was too profound to probe on for that long. I knew I was probing with the forbidden… with the sacred. Not even the rationalist of reasons would convince those in front of me of the true essence of life that dwelled in the so- called 'bosom of god', hence, I was satisfied with my own conviction. So I moved on, but my footsteps were not waning…they were clear to all that I was not the norm… the norm that prayed regularly and pronounced the sacred names at every venture, that read the Book without belief but rather with logic, that didn't cover her head but rather her privacy. I wasn't the ordinary that sought god when in trouble, rather than always… the one that believed in reality rather than a mirage. And so, I was marked with red wax that I was an infirmity to a so-called society, were the words of god are scrutinized with and probed with to the liking of the so-called 'religious men', not women. I went on living in a society in which man is given the upper hand in life…as if he was god. A created myth by the patriarchs for the liking of fellow brothers, not sisters. A society in which a female sinner is a whore and a male sinner is merely 'manly'. A society in which a woman is bought a bride, as a life time investment for sexual pleasures. And when age conquers here features, she is discarded by some that lack integrity for a younger one, ready to be consumed. I was a person who read the Book with conception rather than ignorance of its essence…I was the kind that reads the Book's morals and practices them rather than read the morals and keep them as theories. I was the one that discarded the rituals to spend my time with the loved ones rather than practice the rituals and forget about the loved ones. I was the unethical one who defied 'the god' when in reality they were referring to 'society' without really knowing it. They missed the point that religion was not really what they measured your ethics with but rather 'the yardstick of society' designed by man not woman. Religion was but another tool they used to measure and define their society with. It was a mere utensil that had 'sacredness' imprinted on, that gave them the right to commit the forbidden. Just like a magician's wand that seemed to create magic but was nothing but a trick of light.

Today, I stand on the periphery of this society, not wanting to commit myself to its darkened alleys. And I still stand at my window from a distance looking at the scene below me, not wanting to mingle with the people and snow below, knowing I would be dragged along looking for a waning goal, footsteps, candy shop, or a imaginary self-created god. I wasn’t ready to lose myself in an aimless search… I had the responsibility of living.

Suspended with a Reply

It feels bad when you wait but no one calls. Waiting for an uncalled phone call can be a nuisance. But no one calls. I sit alone in an empty apartment devoid of furniture – empty except for a phone and a small table on which I prop my books. Every time I enter the apartment, I crouch on the floor and rest my back on a barren wall. Waiting, I observe the ceiling and listen intently to silence. It has become my world. Silence and loneliness seem to make best friends. I feel depressed at this thought. I sit alone on the vacant floor of a vacant apartment, waiting in a void of silence for the persistent rings of a phone to lavish away the dryness of loneliness. I think of ‘Why he doesn’t call? Probably he moved on with life. Probably he has found another one to fill the space in his heart. People tend to forget once they find replacements.’

I lay on my sleeping bag in an attempt to sleep. Dreams pursue me to wakefulness, and then loneliness pursues me back to sleep. And I struggle between these two realms. In wakefulness, reality reminds me of my morbid state. In sleep, dreams portray a more colorful image – an image of him answering my phone call with an optimistic ‘hello’. But when I wake the contrast between dream and reality throws me into the embrace of greater morbidness. Sweating, I lie on my sleeping bag looking at the empty space of darkness above me. I think to myself, ‘Maybe he will answer this time.’

But pride is battling with desire. My pride has been hurt far too many times. He never answers me. I feel my heartbeats beating in my feeble heart. The heart of lovers is always feeble.

Lonely, I get up with strenuous efforts and walk around my apartment, deep in thought. I balance the equation in my head for many times and in many ways. Every time I come to the same dead end. But human nature is human nature and love is love. There is no presence for pride.

I run and glide on my knees on the cold floor. I hold the speaker to my ear and dial his number with shivering fingers. It rings.

One ring.

Two rings . . .

Three rings – and then… “Hello?”

I listen to this voice I have heard many times whispering in my ears words of love. I go silent.

“Hello?” It echoes again in my lonesome ear.

“Hi,” I whisper into the phone, and wait. My hand goes up and down my cold thigh. My fingers pinch me continuously, waiting for him to speak.

“Oh, hi. It is you, huh?”

“Yes.”

“How have you been?”

“Good.”

“Uh…”

Silence goes on playing his symphony for my part.

“Listen, if you’re going to say nothing we’d better hang up. No use talking since you’re doing none of that.”

Indifference knits itself for his part.

“Oh, sorry about that. It’s just that I am shocked to hear your voice after so long. I’ve been trying to reach you for the past month.”

“Uh… we have only been apart for two months. This is not as long as you would like to imagine it. Is everything okay with you?”

“Yeah, sure I am okay. I called for the sake of old times.”

“Okay, good – that is quite nice of you.”

“Would you like to go out for a cup of coffee?”

“Actually, I was on my way out, I am quite busy these days.”

“Sure – don’t let me delay you.”

“Ok then, bye.”

The line disconnects and I am left staring at the speaker in my hand. So much for love. But at least he answered the phone.

I get up and go to the kitchen. The floor is freezing. But who cares. Maybe I’ll freeze up and stop feeling. I put on the kettle and wait for the water to boil. As I do so, I put some coffee in my mug. I ran out of sugar and milk. It doesn’t matter. They say one drinks one’s coffee like one lives one’s life, so taking it black would match my existence pretty much. I go back to my cold corner and lie on my stomach, as I take a sip, pick a book. I read the first couple of lines, only then to stop and take a sip at my coffee. I resume my reading well into night and until the early hours of morning. When I finish the book, I glance at the clock.

I put off the lamp, turn my back to the wall and fall asleep.

Shadows dance on walls with the first rays of sunlight. I open my eyes unto the dancing shadows of sunlight and wonder why they are happy. I want to sleep more, but I have to get up. My boss is not one of the most sympathetic creatures in the world. So, I roll over and get up. I enter the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I look at myself in the mirror and groan at my puffy eyes. I dab some concealer under them – then brush my teeth. Too late already, I tie my hair in an untidy knot and throw on some faded jeans and a shirt. By the time I slam the apartment door I am already ten minutes late.

As I enter the library, the boss says, “Late again.”

“Yes, yes, I know. I am sorry.”

“Sorry won’t help. Go to section C and arrange the books over there. Once you’re done, come into my office.”

“Great!” I grunt under my breath.

Sorting out books gives me a sense of completion. It is one of my preferable duties. Sometimes I crouch on the floor, and at others, I stand on the ladder. Crouching down – then going up. And so on. I wish my life was doing the same, but I seem to be constantly crouching; not going up the ladder. Once I finish, I rush to my boss’ office and knock timidly on the door. She answers. I walk in and she offers me a chair.

“Well, I have been into your file. I have to say it is not very striking - well yes striking, but not for excellence, but rather for negligence.”

I raise my hand and try to offer some stupid excuse, but she cuts me off.

“No, I don’t want to hear any excuses. I am compelled to say that one week from today we are dismissing your services.”

“I don’t get another chance?” I ask.

“No.” The monosyllable word aims at me and cuts me off sharply.

I sit on the chair, unable to move. This woman is destroying my life. Late ten or fifteen minutes won’t kill anyone, especially when one is in a bad mental state… as I.

I walk back home, shoulders sagging, feet dragging. No use to go on living. It is futile. I keep on striving and working myself harder, pushing me to the edge, but it always ends with where it starts – morbidness.

Back home, I am cold with shock, wet with tears. I look at my empty, petty apartment and wonder why the fuck I am living like this. I look down at my books and wonder why I spend my time reading their barren pages and conversing with their imaginary characters. I look at my mug and wonder why the fuck I have to drink my coffee black and alone every morning. I look at my single sleeping bag and wonder why it isn’t a King size bed. I glance at the phone and question why it never rings – to cut the monotonousness of silence in this desolate apartment. I stare at the white walls and wonder why they stand so blazingly white in my face, reminding me of my black, morose life. And the stupid bathroom that has one towel, one toothbrush and one bathrobe. Everything beams at me in its singularity and I just fall down on my knees and break a fountain of tears. After exhaustion takes over grief, I take a packet of sleeping pills and think, ‘If only they answered with a ‘yes’…’

Melodrama of a Narcissist

A stage lies beneath the green

Shaded with trees, it semblance’s a dream.

A scene from ancient times, that with us dwells,

No matter how hard we tried, it never fell.

An arrogant actor on the stage appears

Covered with ornamentation he insolently sneers

And swaggers and vexes his frivolous acts,

But all the world’s grace he lacks!

He dances his time away like a fool

And jerks his limbs like a rustic tool.

Aimlessly he turns and swirls around,

Yet he knows not that he is bound

With chains he flounders and he spins

He loses his dearest and nearest kin,

While trying to be an aristocratic hero,

Striving to aggrandize his scanty ego.

Yet, he cries and thrashes in a role

So alien to him in legends it is told!

The poor then dies with this belief

That he a champion…

his soul rests with relief!

Star-Crossed Rapunzel

Turn and turn and turn,

Surroundings colored with blackness

A sounding church bell churns

That grounds the thoughts to madness.

A world, long ago so bright

Depicted in ghostly, ashen color

That one yearns for a stream of light

And find but fog for an offer.

Two long golden braids from a tower

Cascade like a foaming waterfall,

And inch by inch themselves lower
To reach the evergreen lawn.

A prince climbs those two braids

To reach his beloved’s side

But the golden braids do fade

And down the trees they slide.

What moments of happiness came

Sluggishly withered away

And who was there to blame
But the crone who strayed for the day!

Those scissors savagely severed

The girl’s lovely hair,

With all the meanness gathered

In a woman who dared to blur

So ferociously, the happiness of a child,

So brutally, the loveliness of a bird!

31st of June, 2001

Premature Suicide

Little Mary frolicked down the lane

In hope to find a worthwhile aim

Her ponytails flip-flopped up and down

Mimicked silly faces she like a clown.

She passed by the meadow and the pond,
But no one she met Mary was of fond.

Carelessly she passed awkward, young John,

But he was no one to think of long.

Little did she know that he loved her,

That he took his life by a kick of the chair

While Mary hopped down the narrow trail,

Indifferent to petty John whose shade turned pale!

All she cared for was her silly game,

Too fond of herself, too engrossed for pain!

20th May 2001

An Internal Soliloquy

I walk out on the ragged lane that lies like a corpse in front of out likewise ragged house. The sky is blue opposing me at every turn. The sun is shining and life goes on. No one and nothing stops momentarily to ask what is wrong or why I wear such a dreary face.

I walk and kick pebbles as I do out of my way. I kick hard but nothing moves… morbidness is still residing in the first chamber of my heart. Next door is bitterness that fills my blood with its toxins… like an addict. In the third is the artist of depression turning me to the brink of suicide with his portraits of madness. In the fourth chamber dwells memory reminding me of the morbid state of my life… like a landlord that reminds people of overdue rent. Hope is thrown outside to run in my vessels like a beggar in back alleys… lost his brain and turned into a madman they say.

It is too hard to swallow the facts of my state and my intestines are giving me a hard time. Too much luggage they say. So, overloaded, I proceed to my brain hoping I would find quietude. But alas. My brain cannot handle so much agony; it blocks it out. I drag on my extra luggage of pain to my heart… to where it started. Hence, the four elements of my devastation dwell side by side mocking me to thinness and insanity.

The outcome is only the beginning.

God created the world in seven days. Yet he takes excessive care to create my pathetic state; it takes him so long that I lose count in the end. Wave after wave hits me in the face and I slump over the side of the road, exhausted, unable to go on.

*

In our last meeting, I sat in the car trying to relax. The blows are hitting me so hard they blind me. I couldn’t see the words flowing out of his mouth… couldn’t grasp the sound vibrations… couldn’t form them into his words, his meaning, his intentions. So I formed them into words of my own, to misunderstand the facts…they blurred, merged, to create a clutter, a confusion of my life. I accepted his words with mine, lived a dream were truth and reality didn’t repose… not even momentarily.

*

I go out for a drink with friends, but the drink pluralizes into drinks and the outing never finds an inning… it goes into another outing and I spend the night on a pavement. Lost, unconscious and vomiting into my dreams. In the dream, I watch the same story repeat itself over and over again. I tell myself that it has an end… a block at the other side. Yet it keeps on persisting like a boxer, keen on winning. Every time it hits I fall back, then scramble the remnants of my pride to its feet hoping it is just a bad dream… but it isn’t- it hits again and this time a blow on the head. My dream formalizes into a nightmare… it takes place in my waking hours.

Days pass by and I feel nothing from the knockout. I lie on the floor and recognize nothing… not my name nor my identity. My body rejects truth once, twice, thrice. Dreams haunt my awareness; like drugs, I cannot survive without them.

It isn’t easy being ditched on a side road in life.

I walk endlessly thinking I’d probably reach the end of the world, find a Utopia? The one created by God for good citizens. With blistered feet and a soar heart, I find nothing. It is a mirage created to have us running, puffing and panting, never having it as a merit for our exhaustion, restlessness… our humanity.

*

It is raining outside and we are tucked inside. I laugh on the outside, cry on the inside. But then there is a puncture somewhere created by a reminding song, a love scene…and a tear falls down. Mum sees me, thinks it is something new…an insult from someone. She doesn’t understand that it is the old pain nurturing inside me…standing as a token in my heart, depicting the history of my sorrow. She worries for a while and later gets distracted by something mundane.

I don’t want to be the usual… I don’t want to stay inside. So I get up and run outside in the rain shouting, crying along with the skies, not knowing why they cry. Why are you so sad god? Thunder replies back… He is angry of my meddling intellect… meddling about his business.

I take a nap after the dance with the tears of the sky. I wake up with a cold. I smoke a cigarette for heat, drink coffee to wash the numbness away. But his words come again…remind me and I turn numb with shock. I squash the cigarette with my palm… get burned.

Sometimes I think of it…the time I lay on the side of the road.

I tell him I cannot forget…I sit with him hours on end and try to explain that memory will not let me go… in my dream I tell him.

*

I sit in the bus, hot and sticky. I look outside into the sun. It blurs my eyes and I can barely see. Then a face looks out at me from the crowd and smiles. I blink harder and he looks at me longer. It is not a dream after all. I try to smile back, but my brain refuses such a venture. I stare back, see a mosquito on the windowpane, smash it with a women’s magazine as the bus jerks forward.

Trapped in a Hush

She stands on the shore watching the waves in action. The confrontation between waves and shoreline is intense to the extent of madness. She shudders as she thinks, “One fights for survival, the other for power.” She watches the angry tormentor… it lashes the shore in all directions, hits and subdues to strike again. Waves curl and stretch, crash with force on mutable earth, flood everything. In her mind they form angry faces, expressions filled with horrifying sentiments.

*

She stands on the shore next to him.

It’s like men and women,” she feels. “For them it is always a case of extremity.” She’s aware that she always gives foggy “maybe” replies. His are sharp, definite “Of course” responses with pauses between syllables to give intended meanings.

She wants more specificity, but does not exhibit any. She turns around to him and says, “We might love one day.”

He doesn’t like her vagueness, answers, “Absolutely!”

She feels fingers of silence close around the flow of answers. Lost in questions, she watches him draw the tie of finality around his neck in a smart knot of pretentiousness.

She knows he’ll come to her in the heated night of memory, in a very late hour when his existence is about to be lost in slumber. A trick of light? She mistakes the shine in his eyes for love. She feels him come to the back door of her memory and she gallops to him on horses of passion. “This man of silence passes my neighborhood of love… a gush of wind. He’ll tickle my senses then float away.”

He says, “Questions bring about lies.” He answers without words… his silence a language, and the pause between words creates different meanings and intentions.

She wonders, “Does he think I am a woman of too many words- a woman who throws words like she takes off clothes in her boredom?” She feels that her words are unclear and confusing that perhaps it is the congestion of words within her that creates miscomprehension… not because she has perfected the amusement of sophistries.

She says, “One expresses emotion with words… for me, words create a sea of passion.”

He retorts that her emotions are a mess and inconsistent just like the sea. “Some people,” he says, “hide emotions with precise short words… form walls of formality to hide impulsiveness -or don’t use them, creating a void of silence, where one is lost in a labyrinth of meanings.”

She replies, “If this is the case, then you are a deserted island far from humanity, one that waves hit but never change its outline.”

*

“I want great love.”

He, being the pessimistic one, says, “The tragedy of great love is that it dies young and premature, leaving only ashes to nourish people.”

On the body of her romantic words, he stubs his last cigarettes. When his cigarettes don’t satisfy him, he smokes all the cigarettes of her dreams, turns her heart into an ashtray and goes.

Whenever they meet, their conversation is a loud muteness and their argument spears from the eyes. Whenever they dance, it is to the vibrations of music and the clutter of silence.

She thinks, “It is a world of our own, or is it a world of his?” After meditation, she concludes, “He is the artist of silence, or rather the abstract of silence… an impressionist, painting an abstract portrait depicting colors separated with whiteness.”

She continues her stream of thought, “He too regards me an artist … but more of an expressionist who keeps changing her mind, using blue then wanting red, and having purple on her portrait instead. Whatever I paint never comes out the way I want it. Precision is not my office, and my paintings are a deformed image of myself. Colors take a diversion with me, giving birth to new colors I don’t know. In reality, I have no office, and despise the entrapment it imposes.”

He senses her feelings and says, “But you needn’t wear a tie or a smart dress to convince others of a non-existent nature.”

*

They meet in a common café, in one of the run down alleys of the city. He is sitting beyond her, writing. She sits in a darkened corner trying to read a newspaper and sip black Turkish coffee. She doesn’t notice him in the beginning. Her attention is diverted to a couple sitting opposite each other, murmuring words of endearment. This frozen image of two close heads, bent down whispering to each other words not audible to others, flushes her cheeks with redness.

She whispers to herself, “I need love… it has been years since I fell in love… I have become a flat tire in need of air to function.” With time, her black coffee turns cold. “I need sugar to sweeten the taste.” When she gets up, she asks the lonely writer to ease his chair away.

He answers, “Definitely”.

Her head snaps down at him instinctively. His precise word takes her by surprise. There he sits, opposite the two lovers in a lonely spot. There he sits opposite to love… an animate reflection, sipping stinging tea, writing his precise words on white, crisp paper.

There she stands, swallowing her confusion, writing her fumbled romance on lost paper cuts.

“It is all like a scene from a black and white movie…” she thinks. After a short reflection, she deviates her thoughts, “but the excited artist of this scene doesn’t regard my feelings- goes on splattering all kinds of colors to present a canvas gushing with emotion.” Her face is contorted with baffled perplexity. “Who is love in this case? He or the two lovers opposite him?” She ponders.

She retreats back to her seat, forgetting her aim, hiding her head between clouds of black and white newspaper, wanting to hide from the eloquent brush of that artist. Her heart is beating powerfully. This heart that has been lost and homeless on streets of romance in the city of passion. In that city, her address is wandering and her number, impotency. She sits on her chair, her yearning for sugar coming back to her with intensity.

Then suddenly, this man gets up and presents her with a plate of sugar cubes. She looks at him with surprise and sputters out a ‘thank you, you shouldn’t have’.

He smiles and says, “Certainly, I should’ve!”

Her indecisive words stand, shaking and feeble, facing his resolute words, spoken with preconceived determination.

He sits back in his seat opposite to love and continues writing whatever he is writing. Probably the fall of a preposterous woman in love. His hand doesn’t stop or pause to reflect on the fate he labels on the spur of the moment.

She has become one of the characters under the mercy of the mind and capricious mood of a writer. After waiting for long on that fated seat, she gets up to leave. Her heart squirms on broken knees of hope and manages out of the café.

Once on the street, she runs with strength to the nearest corner of forgetfulness. She stops there, bent down, trying to stand on shaky feet and gulp in patched breaths of prudence to regain the beat of her heart. She thinks, “He is a lonely writer who says a couple of words. How could this create such mess in me? I am an experienced woman- I always practice love from different angles and in so many ways, Yet, here I am, ready to flutter and fall in front of this man, bleeding for mercy.”

As she raises her head again towards light, a shadow obscures the sunrays from her. In a moment of fright she realizes that it is he, the lonely writer, who is about to enter her heart with squadrons of lust.

He eyes her as he stretches his steady hand toward her shaky exterior and says, “Let’s go down for a walk by the sea.”

It is as simple and straightforward as this. No introductions or premieres... just a body.

She stretches her quivering hand toward him and answers, “Ah... yes sir, it would be a pleasure.”

He looks at her intently. Yet, he disregards this and they walk side by side down the crowded street without words. They wrap themselves with the cover of silence on the bed of privacy, and make love of thoughts. Two strangers united in silence aloof from the people and noise around them. They reach the sea and gaze at its waves for a long time. The waves hit and subdue and they remain standing still.

It takes her a while before she asks her first question. “What is your name?”

He looks at her and smiles. “My name, my lady, stresses no real significance on my true identity. It is just a label that will wither with time. Isn’t this sensible for an answer?”

She replies with silence, realizing that this man is not an easy target to get answers from but rather questions. “Then your identity sir, what is it?”

He looks at her with sarcasm, “But madam, surely an identity cannot be imprisoned in the periphery of words?”

She turns her gaze at the sea and in her mind questions the depth of this man. The sea replies back with waves telling her that it questions its own depth, and is still at a loss! With this man, silence seems to be the key to answers.

Suddenly, his voice comes to her saying, “Questions bring about nothing but lies, so meander from using them.”

She laughs as a question appears in her mind. She tries to meander from posing it but asks him anyway, “And what do I do if a question appears in my mind?”

“Remember always and ever my lady, meander, just meander.”

She looks at him quizzically and says, “Even if my questions mock me to thinness and present me with many sleepless, insane nights?”

“Even if… never use the conditional clause… with a woman there is never one condition. Besides, you should know yourself, and frankly, I don’t think you will come to this knowledge by asking endless and meaningless questions.”

“It seems you do not favor the diverse conditions of a woman.”

“No, my lady, I do not favor the moodiness of a woman.”

“Well, of all the bigoted things I have ever heard! How can you tag a universal trait of humanity to one gender only? Don’t you think that men, too, are temperamental at times?”

He looks at her for a long time, taking in the details of her flushed face. He smiles as he says, “You are asking questions again.”

She throws her head back as she laughs incredulously and replies, “You cannot truly say it is my fault that I am asking questions. They arose from within due to your absurd, general statements. I do believe strongly that for every cause there is a reason.”

He laughs. “Well, there may be certain moodiness in men due to particular external pressures, but not by nature.”

She takes in a deep breath, satisfied that he finally answers one of her questions. First round won. Yet his answer is far from satisfaction to her baffled brain.

“Then since our moodiness is acquired via nature, as you declare, you cannot blame us. Whereas you, should be blamed because it is not part of your so-called ‘innate nature’ and yet you fall for it.”

“We all fall for many things, my lady, perhaps, like… love?” he answers, uttering the last words ever so lightly.

She stutters for a while and after regaining her composure, answers, “yes… like love, or whatever that is.”

“Whatever that is…” he echoes.

She is lost in thought for a while. “Love,” she thinks, “is so extreme, so cruel. It comes rather suddenly and takes away all sense of proportion. It enters your heart stealthily and deceptively and yet with so much power. And what is the victim to do but lie down on the bed of the sick… the lovesick, waiting for the expert of love to pass by for an inspection and then move on to the next patient. Yes, love… this unforgiving, selfish autocrat. It is time for change.”

She turns her head towards the sea and tells him, “Well, sir, I think I have to leave now. I have a lot of things to do. Besides, I do not like to waste my time searching for the answers of very factual and basic questions like your name and identity.”

He is taken by surprise by her sudden resoluteness. He opens his mouth to speak, but after reconsideration, he closes it.

“Not very decisive,” she meditates. “It seems, my sir that you stress much importance on who you are by not revealing your identity, and frankly, I think that you are simply nobody trying to be somebody. So long.”

He steps forward, and while touching her shoulder asks, “At least you enjoyed this rendezvous. Will we meet again?”

She eyes him sarcastically, “Where did I hear of this philosophy that questions bring about nothing but lies? Well, sir, it has been certainly an enjoyable experience meeting you and I think that we should absolutely meet one day in the office of identification to create for you an identification card. You definitely cannot live like this unknown to humanity, don’t you think so? Of course when we meet next time, we undoubtedly will discuss the importance of questions.” With this, she departs, leaving behind her a faint trail of footsteps.

*

He looks towards the sea and is lost in questions. “Who is she? What does she want from me? Why did I talk to her? What is the reason for her sudden change?”

The sea simply thrashes the shores, disfiguring the outline and drowning his questions in the roar of waves. From a distance he hears the hushing sound of the wind, telling him not to ask but rather experience to acquire truth…

*

She sits in another café in one of the rundown alleys of the city. She sits in a darkened corner drinking stinging tea opposite two lovers… a reflection of love… a disfigured reflection of love…

The Grey Door

The door of my room is a big, grey piece of wood. Some carpenter decided to color it grey rather than retain the natural color as a way of beautifying it. It has a rustic metal knob that creaks whenever turned. It releases a sound of age and of ancient history. It is one of those big doors that reach high up… almost to the ceiling, but not really touching it. Its narrowness gives it even greater length as I look up waiting for it to end. The paint on it is pealing in some areas and rock solid in others. Previous owners have tried to restore it by splashing tarnish here and there yet the outcome is a horrendous portrait of ugliness. The edges crumble with age unto the ground every time it opens or closes. Its rectangular shape is carved with smaller rectangles… it was someone’s idea of a design. It adds nothing to the door but unneeded complexity, especially for those who are obsessed with cleaning the dust. From those carved designs are veining cracks. Cracks that resulted every time the door was banged in anger, shut with excitement, and even gently cleaned with acid. I realize that no matter how this door was treated, it still managed to age… and I won’t say gracefully. One thing though that didn’t age in this door is its shadow. Its fleeting shadow, that appears at times and disappears at others managed to keep its shape. But unlike the door, this shadow is not constant, for at times it shrunk and at others lengthened furthermore. As I think of the shadow, I realize that this was a side of the door many of us ignored. This constant change in shape and length might be its way of telling us to leave it alone and stop the abuse.

I sit in my room looking at the door. The door that has shielded my privacy, hid my secrets and obscured my ugliness… pray, I mean my inner ugliness. For every time I shut the door, I let out an excessive amount of vileness and anger. I don’t know what made me this way… life, tribulations, hopelessness. As time made its heavy steps into my world, I rationalized in my tilted head that it was best that I didn’t leave the room. In my tilted, extremely slanting head, it made sense to save the world from myself. And so, I closed the blackout curtains in my room, shut the grey door, and huddled in the darkest corner of my room.

It was as if I was hiding from myself.

As I huddle in my corner, loneliness started bighting at me. It chipped my brain and pierced at my heart. With this silence…this loneliness, I started conversing with myself. I start contemplating the idea of dragging myself across the floor to the door and peak out from the keyhole… but the distance is an expanse of sea to me. The idea of crawling across this expanse was mentally straining for my exploding head. Wicked thoughts ran through my head as if in a marathon, each racing the other for my approval. Each panting and gasping air to get there first so that I pick it. Yet my head, my slanting, titling head is in no position to take a stand…to make a decision. And so, they fight and bicker until they drive me to the brink of lunacy. “Stop it!” I shout. My roommate rushes to my room and opens the heavy door. It creaks under its weight…the hinges scream with torture… it’s been long since they have been last used. They screech and bawl and yelp with all they’ve got. But my roommate proceeds. The door is wide open, I am on my knees, my head in the palm of my hands and light streams in like daggers of fire, jabbing me at every angle. My roommate stands there looking at me as if I have turned into a monster. Eyes wide open, yet wide shut. Eyes wide open to see my vileness yet wide shut unable to understand it. I hide my eyes from the light and squiggle further into my corner. He says nothing, and leaves, understanding that I needed to be left alone. And so he closes the door slowly and I wait intensely until I am yet again in the embrace of darkness…in the embrace of security.

Back to my dark shelter, I start to contemplate the sea between me and the door. This cold, hard sea of slab and cruelty. How, I wondered, how will I ever cross it and get to the other end? Do I really want to get to the other end? The other side shielded behind the door? After all, I took refuge in this room to hide from that bright and wicked side. Yes, the world. My world, our world… their world.

What has happened here, in my life, to make me the way I am? This very weird composition that evolved through time? What fiend have I created of myself? Is it loss, sadness or rather hopelessness that molded me into what I am? Have I lost my capacity to feel? Or the capacity to express those raging feelings within? Have I come to think it’s shameful to cry? Yes, every time I feel sadness I would swallow the lump in my throat and put on some brave yet pathetic mask. I am unable to take it off anymore now. And the lump is still there, suspended in my throat. Every time I swallow, I feel the pain of all those incidents that hurt me… all the painful things that slashed at me. But who is to sympathize? And so I retreat into my refuge behind this grey, aging door. But I know that loneliness can kill. And it is killing me right now… through the beams of light that escape from the edges of the door...slowly… agonizingly… pricking me from all directions. I stand in the middle of the dark waiting for it to pierce. I put my arms around myself and wait for lashes of loneliness. I never fight because it becomes more intense with struggle. I just give in and wait. With time, it envelops me and I feel nothing. It hits and subdues and hits again and again and again. Loneliness can be such a hard victimizer but I stand in its face and yet on its side. I am still on the dark side of the door. The light beams that drizzle from under the door slash at my bent knees. The window of my room sneaks in wind of indifference that hits at my thin dress. It blows my dress up and I am exposed to cold, harsh blasts of wind. I wrap my sweater around me trying to preserve some of my integrity and humanity… but it reaches through the knitted sweater of humanity and hits cruelly at my heart. I look up at the cracked ceiling in an attempt of a prayer. But the cracks hound me with anger and scream thunder back at me. The cracks crumble dirt on my face and down my bare legs. Trickling cold sweat leaves nothing in me warm. All has frozen… all has gone cold. In the middle of this entire mental storm, I stand, unable to cry, unable to express, unable to shout my pain. The grey door stands there laughing at me, pointing at my weakness and my loneliness. The wind hits and my light dress blows in all directions, laughing at my petty attempts to keep some warmth in me. My sweater winks at me through its knit gaps, as if pretending to keep me warm. My shoes sag with the heaviness of my heart, unable to carry me somewhere warmer... to the other side of the door.

As I stand amid this entire storm, my little sister opens the door of my room, letting a bit of light in. She peaks into the room and waves at me. I stand still. She opens the door a bit more and I can see through it the blasting flames in the fireplace of the living room. Soft music is playing in the background. But the mental storm is far more intense… pinning me down. What can I do to take away all this indifference towards life… my love has gone and left me standing in the face of a blasting sea… no ship of love will cross this sea and bring my love to the empty harbour of my heart because every time love attempts to reach me, strong waves drown it. But my sister is still standing there, with a blanket in one hand and cup of hot chocolate in another... waiting for me to take the first step across the sea of cold slab. I look at the opened door, this grey door that imprisoned me for so long. I take a step and another. But the door is still there, patronizing me with its aura. I look away wanting to move forward. I concentrate at my little sister’s innocent face and make progress. After much effort and luring looks from my sister I manage to make it to the door. I hold onto it but my sister reaches out for me and guides me out, knowing the door will let me down.

The couch is comfortable, the chocolate is hot and blanket is faithful. No attempts to laugh at me or mimic my vulnerability. The light embraces me in its warmth and the voice of my sister protects me from the howling wind outside and for the first time in a long time... my harbour is full of ships of love.

Monologue in the toilet

It starts with a swirl in the head and a quickening of footsteps on dirty tiles. I bend my knees down to start an obnoxious act of prayer. My heavy head dips downwards… darkness rising upwards above my limping figure… a cascade of grotesque music follows from my mouth and then a sounding clapper of water is heard on the sides… for my pathetic performance… for encouragement, not excellence. Then my backbone straightens up again while light rises along with me to receive the applause of a banging door… but I ignore. The smell of my vomit is sickening… I wipe the traces after that deep French kiss with the toilet seat with the back of my hand then rest my head on the ceramic lip of the toilet seat. What's the use of excessive hygiene?

Exhaustion.

It is really weird how one loses touch with time when intoxicated but never loses touch with his brain. I crouch on the floor, oblivious to so many things. The air above me is intoxicated by the smell of booze, sweat, burnt cigarettes. But to me, it doesn't matter… there is a more intricate kind of intoxication… that of the soul…

A small window at the very top of the wall flickers at me a flimsy shaft of light and something dark, a monster at first glimpse, stretches itself on the space before me. I, at first glimpse, panic and curl up behind that ceramic lip.

Tears are in my eyes but I am ashamed to cry. The dark smudge on the floor appears… gradually. I try to concentrate and after a couple of minutes, realize it is my shadow… relief. A featureless version of me… an abstract painting by some artist. It flickers slightly, and then says,

"I will stand by you…you're angry, and it is normal, really. Express your anger… you shouldn’t bolt it inside you."

It remains silent for some time, waiting for me to absorb its words. Then, it says,

"Even I get angry sometimes… don't you notice how I disappear at times, change shape at others? You see, anger is the peculiarity of humanity."

We talk for long, my shadow and I. I speak of my grief. I tell it it isn’t easy to face death… the death of my sentiments… my feelings. It shakes its head in disdain and says,

"Those were fetuses of tears in your eyes I saw a while ago…"

But I shake my head, unable to explain that those tears were about to be issued because I was acting with humanity.

"Life is tough, I can't afford kindness."

I turn my head yet again to the messed up wall by dunks. See a phrase or two… feel that they escaped from a gap or two in my mind.

A sounding song comes from a distance… a song about the vigor of life, about love. "Aren't those people ever going to learn?" I mutter.

"Learn what?"

"Learn that there is no such thing as life and love."

My shadow shakes his head in disapproval and says,

"Don't ruin the beauty in you."

I stare at it in disgust… feel I am reading a book from the 18th century.

"There is no beauty, can't you see that?" I shout. "And can you do me a favor? Stop being so clichéd!"

The sun is going down and my shadow huddles further into a corner. It feels hurt. But I turn my head to the other side… don’t realize it is me I am hurting.

We rest for a while, my shadow tired from being dragged along with me, and I tired from being dragged along with life… both dragged unwillingly. Silence throws itself between us like a sharp blade, separating us. I am not willing to have that dark smudge for a shadow, it not willing to have a sardonic, apathetic human for a self.

Dusk is nearing, and my shadow is thinning. In the last minutes of the sun's flaunt, it says,

"If you are such a beast, as you declare, then you wouldn't have been capable of exhibiting so much sadness… think well before you spit out those biting words of yours."

I simply shrug my shoulders and watch while it melts away with darkness.

"What an idiot!" I spit out and take a drag at my cigarette.

"I am sorry my shadow, but you disappear with the disappearance of light… the disappearance of hope. And you, my shadow, are nothing but an 'it', inanimate, isn't this the proper use of such a pronoun? Why should I ever listen to your lame guidance?"

But darkness didn't comletely invade that pitiable territory I occupy and the last rays of light give my shadow the energy to whisper,

"You never converse with inanimate things, do you?"

It is then that darkness mutilates the shape of that 'dark smudge' and I search aimlessly. Guilt is filling me to the core and I can’t stop thinking of the coming day to ask forgiveness. With a sense of recognition, I realize that my shadow has taken me to my insides and introduced me to myself.

Later that day, I go to the graveyard and search meaninglessly for a grave. I search and rummage and as I am nearing the edge of Hades, I find my grave… the grave of my sentiments. I look down and then start digging with bare fingers. It is immoral to dig the grave of the dead, but this is my grave… my feelings. I have the right. No one protested when I buried them alive.

Next day, I enter a library. I look at the stuffed shelves and take out a Stephen King novel, but then I glimpse a book by Emily Bronte called "Wuthering Heights". I weigh each in a hand, head up to the cashier and pay for both.

Longing for Latte

It was like any ordinary coffee table we sat on, in any ordinary café, like any ordinary two people, but not any ordinary conversation... it was ordinary but not 'any'... it only engrossed the two of us... individualized. I ordered a latte. He ordered an espresso. He was eyeing everything except my eyes. He swept a nonchalant glance at me, then looked at the crowded tables around us, and said, "I like your necklace, is it new?" I nod my head.

I wore that necklace four times before.

I take a puff at my cigarette and it fills my mouth with a stinging taste. I take a sip at my latte hoping the bad taste will wash away.

I look at him and ask cheerfully, "So what made you wake me up in the middle of night for a cup of coffee?"
"Ah, I don't know...I thought I'd talk with you for a while." I laugh,
"Well that makes me feel important." I smile, misunderstanding the essence of his words. He looks at me with his beautiful eyes and I see a fidgety shimmer. His fingertips do a jittery dance on the red tablecloth. I move closer, worry muffling me. I wrap my steady fingers on his sweaty hands and ask,
"What is the matter?" He looks at me and avoids my searching gaze.
His head falls in his palms and cries out, "I don't know, really, I... ah..." I draw back, and say,
"Well it can't be that bad can it? We can work it out, we always did." But he looks at me and I know it is beyond 'working it out'. He takes a long sip at his espresso, and miraculously, as if it granted him the courage, he says,
"I think we should take a break."
"Break, you mean like a vacation?" I ask understanding, but not wanting to understand. But he crushes away that bleak moment of self-miscomprehension and says,
"Well, actually no, I was referring to us... I need a break from us." I draw further back, back into myself. I sit there not wanting to react. I reach out for my Marlboro and take out a cigarette. I light it and it burns...burns to ashes. I want to hit him on the head, instead I say,
"So you really think we should take a break?" He nods his head and says,
"It would be good for us." You mean good for you. There is no 'us' in this self-arranged decision.
"You don't feel good with this relationship?"
"Nah, I just feel crowded with the commitment and all." I look at him questioningly.
"What commitment?" I ask.
"You know, being together, loyal and faithful and all. I owe it to you when I am with you."

I look around me at the other tables. It is my turn to avoid his eyes.
"Ok." I say this small word to the red tablecloth with so much difficulty and he nods his head. He tries to make conversation with me, but I am unable to reply back. He is drinking too much condensed espresso, condensed, unintended cruelty...I need more of my latte. I hold the cup to my quivering lips and take a gulp of the diluted coffee...it might dilute the slap of insult he aimed at my heart.

This arrangement called 'us'...I was never used to it but I tuned myself for his sake...to earn his love. I used to work so hard, adjusting, monitoring myself to this new cast I wanted so much yet despised its unpleasantness. I was never born in a couple... only one body per womb, per coffin. But I made space for him, squeezed to the edge for his sake.

"You're a strong person. I envy you for your poise." His words come aiming at me. So it is person now...gender disappears. I look at him and draw a smile on my pale face. I reach out for my mug and it slips from my hands...blunder caused by confusion.

“I am so clumsy." I utter these words and kneel down to gather the broken pieces...I see my latte on the floor and moan. I needed that diluted coffee...milk...whiteness. He kneels down with me, but I say,
"No need, I can pick up the pieces." With privacy. "Just go call someone to wipe the coffee away." He goes, and I squat there on the floor sweeping the pieces trying to adjust them into place...to retrieve my heart. The waiter comes and wipes the latte with a mop.
Just a quick 'swish' with his trained hands and the mess is gone. Along with hope.

Two months later.

I enter the café for a drink of coffee...it is cold outside and I need something to warm me up. The waiter comes up and asks, "Usual order?" I look at him and say, "Nopes, I will take espresso, please."