Artheism and Dreams
What touch, I wonder, turns reality to a puff of breath? In which language do words negotiate dreams? Further, what whiff of inspiration might transform diurnal atrocities into mere spells? I wonder only because, once I stick out my tongue and try to pronounce an answer, I trip on my own silence.
visible yet always soft, a thin puff wafts between reality and the
Artheist. This puff is essential to understanding the time lag that
defines the Artheist's pace of life. I invest myself in that fraction
of time and space and resiliently see the world through it. Though
confining and quite tortuous, recalibration of the rhythms around
oneself is the Artheist's task, referring always to that magical beat
when the puff overpowers reality. The Artheist starts with a lag and
creates visions from the ashes that trail it.
I will never know that I am lost until I tire of wandering. Even then, I will perceive my misfortune as merely a rest; I will peel up my footsteps and then disperse them around me, as if to find through this display a way back. Of course, there is no returning; the puff is never twice the same and the Artheist knows more than well that back is further ahead, all the way to the edge of the abyss.
Still, sometimes I wish to wake in the morning, hold a brush and paint my dreams over the skies with dabs from a palette of demons and angels, caressing smiles and enchanting eyes. Sometimes I wish to tune the beat in my veins to the melodies of larks and play on a harp with strings of sighs and moans.
It’s strange, yet I can’t give up hoping that my eyes will entwine on their path with my hands and draw what I dream. Obscured only by the dust of my footsteps floats this wish beyond a wish. How I treasure this underworld composed of the puff, and invest my grains of dreams within it… Do I admit how foolish is my world? No, not really, not at all.
I dig deeper every morning into my wishes as if the scroll had never been unfurled. I scrape up those signs of the past that I can recognize and proceed ahead, always with the same forgiving palette. Who cares if my math doesn’t add up and if my colors strip me of my privacy, disrespectful of my age and values? Who cares if my kings and queens traipse out of touch with time and space? And if I dare to apply a patina to reality each day, rubbing out the glare, in order to color a world where dreams hug each other unaware of their imminent collapse before the gaze of “real” eyes that I most certainly do not possess?
Truthfully, I don’t care. I love my palette though it leads me always to places where I cannot “really” be. I love my colors even though they can never get enough of my own privacy. As for my kings and queens, I will stand by their unholy status and staunchly defend their uncanny endings. I don’t care, because I have stitched my skin to my breath and whisked the most salient part of me right into the public eye, and now it is too late for me to be stoned.
The only regret that seems always to hinder my rebirth is my former self whom I used to cherish, for now I can barely stand his macabre look. As a seeker, though still bearing the same name, I have changed both path and steps.
Still, which path is mine when I dream? Is it the one that I still mark with breadcrumbs, or the one that I draw with my foolish palette? I didn’t care that I still do not know, yet I still swish the brush and whisk the pen.
Regardless, I will continue to squeeze breath out of words, to release
colors from suffocation in utter denial of complete disappearance. ©
Karim Chaibi 2005
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