Artheism: Literary perspective2

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     My dream lay next to me, a manuscript.  I unfurled its yellowed pages with rage, and looked for a sign or a sin.  Endlessly, I undressed those words, looking for a dent or an etching reminiscent of my memories, but I found none.  I can’t blame the ink if I can’t read myself.   

     I strode out of my dizziness and wished to wear clothes that smell of otherness, to build new castles on virgin beaches, to model a new set of dreams. Tonight I will leap from my skin, land far too far from myself and rehearse distance. Tonight I will look for myself behind the curtains and under the kitchen table; I will feed on a different flavor. Tonight, I will repaint the moon ocher and drag it to a corner near my bed.

     Of course, nothing will happen tonight.  I simply dread seeing it and hate missing it, for limitless is fear when I know not what is to come.     

     I must connive with my doubts and confide to the manuscript that I will always fear its pages even when they are blank.

     What could happen, after all? The dawn is dozing still, though the night is tugged by a Herculean darkness. 

     Nothing…  Might the sun not rise tomorrow?

      Might the moon skip a twirl, might the earth drowse and fall?

     Why not?  Somebody could nibble away the column that holds up the skies!

     No, not true. Tomorrow even the fox will find its way back home, the mouse I saw yesterday will reunite with its siblings and the moon will not put any make up. Tomorrow the clock will turn again clockwise and the languishing flowers will drink rain and bloom again.

     Would the world cease if I closed my eyes? I didn’t know, or knew not what was to come. I painfully dreamed of a jinni wearing high heels, a sonata that an orchestra forgot to play and a painting that had lost its luster. Better yet, I could be handed a stretcher to carry a crippled soul stranded between silence and death, or I might be passed a thread long enough to stitch the stars together.

     No, that was a nightmare. I was rescuing a dream that wore a wedding gown just as it was being dragged away by two sturdy featureless forms. I clenched a gun and shot a man who wasn’t there. He bore a name reminiscent of angels. I shot him and then ran between columns under an arch. I wasn’t convinced that I should run away, for saving my dream was a duty. Yet the crowd that spied on me as I escaped did not try to stop me.  I passed through the arch and stopped waiting for a sign or a sin. Somebody should arrest me, unless this nightmare ceases. Or did it cease?  I opened my eyes to find the world still dark. When did the nightmare begin? The manuscript closed itself up, after shaking its wrist for a moment to let a gun fall free, like a charm.

Artheism:LiteracyWithoutPerspective

 © Karim Chaibi 2005
    
               

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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