At the school threshold—
there are your friends.
You let go of my hand. You dash off. You dissolve into them, completely.
memory fades a little.
You feel a bit better.
You smile.
Then, seconds later, the anxiety returns.
A secret garden.
You built a house out of cardboard and scraps of wood.
You gathered your few belongings inside.
Did you feel a sense of joy? What was it like?
“Waaaaarm.”
And in a minute, it vanished…
No one came.
Don’t be sad, my self… you are enough on your own.
Now, you will rise to tear down your fragile little house.
What are you doing?
Why not collect stamps?
Or write songs?
Don’t you like Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan?
“a child in a back alley,
petting cats instead of killing them
with a knife.
a teenager in the town square,
stabbing stray dogs,
because I never cared to kill cats
when I was a child.
a mine worker—worn out,
my temper grown sharp.
I kill a man on a bus, because I never once
killed a cat.
And in the end,
I hang from a noose,
all because I never chose
to kill cats.”
You can get started, in any case...
You could do it—remember.
The riverbank.
You stand there… unsure of how to stand.
What now?
You think, endlessly.
A fishing boat passes by, sending wave after wave toward you.
You wave at one of them, in secret.
You dream of sailing away with it… dissolving into its foam.
What now?
The wave draws near. Your ankle retreats.
You have time to dream of another wave—one you might escape.
Return to your hesitant stance on the riverbank.
What now?
At the school threshold—
there are your friends.You let go of my hand. You dash off. You dissolve into them, completely.
memory fades a little.
You feel a bit better.
You smile.
Then, seconds later, the anxiety returns.
A secret garden.
You built a house out of cardboard and scraps of wood.You gathered your few belongings inside.
“Waaaaarm.”
And in a minute, it vanished…
No one came.
Don’t be sad, my self… you are enough on your own.
Now, you will rise to tear down your fragile little house.
What are you doing?
Why not collect stamps?Don’t you like Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan?
“a child in a back alley,
petting cats instead of killing them
with a knife.
a teenager in the town square,
stabbing stray dogs,
because I never cared to kill cats
when I was a child.
a mine worker—worn out,
my temper grown sharp.
I kill a man on a bus, because I never once
killed a cat.
And in the end,
I hang from a noose,
all because I never chose
to kill cats.”
You could do it—remember.
The riverbank.
You stand there… unsure of how to stand.You think, endlessly.
You wave at one of them, in secret.
You dream of sailing away with it… dissolving into its foam.
Boredom.
You sit on the doorstep.
You look around… no children.
You look around… no children.
Who will you play with?
Speak to me, child…
“Shall I tell you a secret?”
“A secret I don’t already know? What kind of joke is this?”
“Grandmother has died… I am sad, yet I cannot cry.
Is sadness a ritual we perform, or simply our nature?
Loss—oh, ‘me’—loss… do you remember?”
Is sadness a ritual we perform, or simply our nature?
Loss—oh, ‘me’—loss… do you remember?”
“Yes… loss, and the mystery of silence…
and the enigmas of this complex world.”
“Enough, enough, enough… ah, my head!
I only wanted to play, and now you’ve ruined my mood.”
You head inside, leaving me behind…
Go on, then—continue your rituals of emptiness.
Streetlamps flicker to life.
The trains of dreamers whistle.
Angels do not dwell in artificial light;
they hide within the veil of the air.
Very well—I shall remain here in the street,
watching your hand reach out through the window
to greet an angel riding upon a passing breeze.
Cairo, June 2009
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