Writer Feels

January 12, 2017

I need some sort of expression, a hiding place, a consolation, that the world is not ending.That it's not as ugly. I'll tell you my childhood memories, and my stupidest mistakes, does this count? Or would it be enough to make me believe, that this hate is not bigger ?

I see you beautiful people, those smiles, the friendly warmth around a fire, we chat and relate. You are hope! You make me feel alive again, Believe in something.These little things, they make me happy. But also can be the most irritating. It seems that, I have neglected somehow that I am sensitive. I always felt some sort of pressure to be strong, to stand my ground. Show resilience. But I am learning to embrace vulnerability more, to be gentle, to simply ask for what I need, even if it means exposing all the tender skin beneath the walls I've built , NOT to swallow back the ache in my throat and hold back the tears in my eyes. To own it. It's OK, NOT to be mysterious and charming. It's OK to be real.To show radical honesty.

It's OK sometimes NOT to abide by the pressure to leave some profound mark in this world. It's OK to be you now.  In fact, it's perfect. Everything is where it should be. You are now where you need to be. To soften and soothe. To slow down and notice.

I feel empty now, ethereal kind of empty, like the desert or the universe, a starry sky. Sometimes I forget to embrace my layers. I forget that I am complex. To surrender to my creative impulses, to let them burst, allow them to take the time and lonesomeness they need to develop, and fully unfold. That when I hold them in, I cannot be me. Just a fragment. Is what you see. There will always be something itching in me. Ready to explode gently, and beautifully.

THE CONSONANT OF SOUND

 

Words on the tip of her tongue, string breaks in Arvo Part’s Fur Alina, blank.

It was almost 3 am. She just couldn't think in words, sentences or even utterances. There were only images, scents and impressions of a so long abandoned memory. It was a strange and liberating sentiment. She wanted a break from words... things... and concepts...Oh those big fat concepts! They are everyday on TV, in the news, at university, at work, even in Plato's ancient book. Oh Concepts, - the word-shaped illusion of morality - have you ever imagined life without them?

Concept-less... Life included.
 
Only drops. Eyes closed. No center

Do you speak the language of drops? Resonant silver liquid drops. It's the only language that could be practiced by listening, and cannot be perceived by the sarcastic. After all, things are different when you're the beholder. You allow yourself to be consumed by something greater than yourself; your worries and perspective. You connect with the kaleidoscopic side of things; like in love or literature, and any kind of art. It's a beautiful human affinity.

Resonant silver liquid drops…She loved the way they made her feel; surreal and lingering, as in the first days of spring, when rays strike her pale skin. Trees wake up in blooms and buds, turning grays into pastel. She slowly rubs her eyes, maybe waking up to Vivaldi (Concerto for Strings and B.C. in D minor), or Beethoven's Spring Sonata.

Eyes still closed. Only drops. No center.

She looked at the clock. It was a little past 3 am. She hated this state between sleep and waking, when time slows down, almost stops. Life seems to work in slow motion and events move so fast. As if there are certain things that need to be lived, until life starts going back to normal again.

The stopping of time...Very cliché, right? But things are no longer cliché, only when they are real. They become the exact opposite; rare and personal. Have you ever been next to a person in coma and wondered what would be on their mind while they sleep. Or have ever wondered what would be in the mind of a few month-old baby. How things are represented in their pretty little head; the simple things he knows best, things that are completely foreign to us. She has always wondered what would be like to spend some minutes, hours in somebody else’s life. It is something that strikes her fancy.  

Soft and sonorous drops, they were silent, comforting. They absorbed all the words frivolously, the noise too. Alina could see the dull offices and pallid rooms, in a new light. A different brightness, coupled with a pale hue of blue. The track went lower and lower as she sank into oblivious sleep. 

WINTER INK 

Winter is such a graceful season,
Nature in its most vulnerable form.
Trees are bare to the bone,
Prolific branches,
Grey veins,
Beating roots,
Patient sleep.
How can something which seems so lifeless,
Bare so much life?

No, I don't like winter,
Spring and fall are my friends.
Spring excites me, too much
Fall is all.
But I'd like to write about winter,
Winter is mysterious to me.
Silent and sometimes fierce,
Like the dreams of a beginner,
An amator of the Art of life.

February still,
The tree is still there.
The tree is still bare,
But February is not still.

Dreary wind,
Foolish drops.
I will dream of Aleppo,
I will sing with the poet from home.

No I won't.
Poets are sad
Poets are bitter.
No I can't be bitter,
When I can play.
Frosty Splendors,
Here I'll stay.
I'll be good, I swear!
Can you please take me there?

Artwork: Breaking by Marinella Boicu.

I have always felt powerless about the humanitarian crisis going on in Syria and with children refugees. Ashamed, even. For now, this is what I could do to raise some awareness about the topic. You can follow the #NOLOSTGeneration tag platform if you'd like to share your story. The online campaign is initiated by UNICEF and aims to draw again the world's attention to the existent crisis.

Much Love,

Oumayma