Imperfection

-->
-->

Marvel. Stand in awe before this imperfection.

Don’t avert your gaze, pretending there exists a treasure of greater value.  Admire the oils of this painting, where the brush was confident and where it fell to its knees in a breathless gasp of surrender. Surrender and let your eyes be free to roam the landscapes of my being. Cherish every detail and remember every secret within the creases of my palms.

Don’t hide your face behind words that swell with meaning; don’t play me symphonies of heavy verses and loaded phrases. Close that book that lies of laws and rules of how to master silence into music. Let it be.

Fold away the maps that guide you through studied alleys and shorter routes. Make it an adventure. Blindfold imagination and let it see what there is for what there is. Tame it; bring it down to earth and let it learn, admire, stand in awe. Let it learn how to create a world of imperfection.

Sit back and watch me. Watch me stumble across perfect surfaces and reincarnate elegance on broken floors. Listen to me laugh at nothing, and watch me lose the essence of a joke. Hear me sing prose of passion, and hear me say it wrong. Watch me dance in perfect step and out of beat. Watch me sway to falling rain.  Listen to me debate your logic, and watch me confused at what to wear. Watch me cry with characters of written words, and then listen to me tell you of their stories. Then, take that imperfection—a waltz of colours, an orchestra of sounds—and put it within your eyes, so that you can marvel. Stand in awe.

First Impressions

Photo by Thana Faroq

I looked at you and thought: "What a beautiful girl." Then you started talking, and I changed my mind. 

My soul tore through and whispered: "Keep looking." And so I did, but I couldn't see past your words. 

My soul tore through again and whispered: "Look closer." And so I did, and past your words I saw your heart. It might have been beautiful, but I couldn't like it.

My soul tore through and said: "Look deeper." And I searched and searched, until I found your will, but I didn't speak to it, and it didn't speak to me. 

My soul fought through and wept: "Look deeper!" And so I did, and deeper I found your past, and in your past I found too many reasons for the present, and I didn't like it. I looked away. I couldn't watch it, chose not to. I looked away and you started to disappear.

Then you held my soul and said: "Stop looking." And I did, and then I saw you. 

Senseless

Photo by Asyah Saif

We read between the lines and failed to see the obvious. We saw the meaning behind the words but forgot to look at them within the context. They screamed, pleaded and begged for our attention, until we couldn’t hear their whispers, erasing them from all existence. They fell, they crumbled; they turned from divine dialect to hollow letters, twisted, crumpled. And so, we read between the lines of nonexistent phrases.

We listened to the music and broke it down to Do, Re, Me and You. We forgot to hear the melody behind the notes, forgot there was a violin crying its story, a harp drifting into sleep, a flute repeating: “I’m sorry.”  We wrote down the notes in ink on paper, not in sound on soul. And so, we listened to the music of instruments that played no more.

We looked at paintings and saw hues and values, warm and cool. We saw colours interact; muted pushing forward that which was too bright.  We didn’t see the brush strokes, afraid but hopeful to create a message, an image of the image in a timid mind. We didn’t see the lines that joined into the shapes that told a tale of souls that never met… two souls that knew each other but never saw beyond the colours of their oils, wet on wet.

We touched, but we didn’t dare to feel. We wore the veil of pride until its fabric became our skin. We didn’t let my skin upon your skin break into our hearts, reveal that both of us were frightened, holding back, holding breath. A handshake stronger than informal, a hug longer than friendly. A smile deeper than happy, a glance slower than curious. We didn’t let ourselves touch each other beyond our skin.

We were afraid to be blinded by beauty, deafened by beauty, brought to our knees by beauty.

We were, were we not?  

Stay Still, In Motion

Photo by Asyah Saif

Sit still, just the way you are, the way you always do.

Sit still and smile, pretending there are no monsters rummaging through your chest of memories, of what has been, what never will.

Don’t move, because we know that if you do, you will break into a million pieces reaching for the past.

Don’t break. Stay still.

Sit still, but breathe, and in your breath, I will hear the symphony of a thousand cries tearing through the walls of pride. I, too, will want to join them, have my say. I, too, will want to break you… but I will hold my breath, I’ll wait.

Sit still and watch as I peal away the layers of your disguise, the heavy armor of strength and valor. Let us discover your bruises, find those wounds. I will not heal them; the sword that cut you through was mine. But you must see them, and so do I.

Stay still… but convince me—I beg you!—that you are in motion. Convince me, not by showing me the smiles of others, not even yours. I don’t want to see the map with routes that you have taken, paths discovered, roads yet to be travelled.

Those forsaken and forgotten—show me those.

Why erase them? I can see your pencil marks, feeble dents on fragile skin. Take a pen, choose the brightest colours—mine are gold and sliver—and put them in. Put them in, in words and lines and shapes and shades of colours. Put them in, and show me that you are in motion.

Convince me, that you have moved on.

 

A Morning Dream

Dream-catcher. Photo by Asyah Saif.

Today, I will decide not to wake you, not to pull the blinds apart.

I will lie down, listening to a slow breath, trying to catch up, catch the rhythm, be in sync. And when I succeed, I will smile, then break it, separating from you; my breath my own, yours only yours.

I will watch your body move, up and down, slow and calm. The young rays of sun, still fresh and eager, could have played with your skin, forming shapes, changing colour, playing games. But not today. Today, they shall live another life, find another special someone; this morning, you are mine.  

I will put my hand close to yours, barely touching, almost. Your skin—a shade darker; the sun has played its part, left its mark. It’s smooth. But I will not touch you, will not feel your warmth; this morning, I will let you sleep.

I will close my eyes to see your breath rise to life and die into eternity. Warm and heavy. I will listen to your dreams and, slowly, quietly, sneak in, join your world. I will walk beside you, looking through your eyes, letting you see through mine.

I will open my eyes, afraid to find that you are just a dream, that I am nothing but yours. Then I’ll see that you are still a dream and I—still yours; and I, serene, will close my eyes again, knowing that, no matter if I stay or leave, we will be a dream.

I will admit—a bit proud, a bit ashamed—that morning is my domain, and lying in bed, even if asleep, prickles me, tickles. Not much, but just enough to turn me evil; and like a little devil, I will fold my wings, hold my breath, prepare to play. I will wave my hand and watch the shadow make its journey up and down the hills and valleys of your face. I will wave it faster, to see if it forms a hurricane of day and night within your dreams. But that won’t wake you. I will blow a little air on your forehead and watch your hair sway helplessly under my spell. I will try harder, to see if it creates a fog of autumn leaves swirling within your dreams. But that won’t wake you. I will raise my finger and, with a hidden smile, barely seen, I will want to poke you. But that will wake the saint in me, and I will stop just before intruding, forgetting my vicious schemes, my selfish wish. I will lie back and let it tickle, because, if I concentrate hard enough, I can hear us laugh.

Today, I will not wake you. I will watch you sleep.

Poison

Photo by Asyah Saif

With scrolls of history and experience in one hand and a suitcase of remedies in the other, she walked down the hidden path, through an explosion of life and green and yellow and purple. This forest has not been explored before; this path never walked on, although it was laid in preparation for such a voyage, in anticipation, as a precaution. The trees rose high and the branches bowed low. The leaves whispered of passion and the breeze stole their words, teasing, laughing. Insects knew each other's names but kept forgetting they were different. 

Amidst the festival of colours and sounds, there stood a house. Stood, in the past. Now, there were just ruins, broken walls, the remains of chairs and tables, the memory of playful curtains and beautiful carpets. A storm came, and her little girl didn't have the time to prepare, to hide. It came from above, and she was too busy watching the sun blinding her senses. It came and never stayed. It left, forgetting that it was leaving behind a soul young and free to build its dreams. 

She stood in front of what her daughter now lived in. Considering her understanding of beauty--and this entitled peace, harmony and a pinch of conservatism--it looked hideous. There was no clear structure, no premeditated foundation, no logical plan. It seemed as though, if a hand pressed against one of its walls, it would fall and crumble into dust; yet, it was strong, strong and powerful, pushing back at the hand pressing against it. It looked nothing like a normal, traditional house. It seemed as though a four-year-old was handed building blocks and failed at stacking them up. It rose high, with many floors, all of different heights and different widths, with a spiral staircase running up and down, making her dizzy by simply looking at it. And the colour! That horrid, bright orange colour! She could almost hear it laugh, and she didn't like that. It had to be humble--a smile, at most. She also couldn't understand the need for so many windows. There was no privacy in it, no secret. Everyone could see the crazy hurricane of a decor inside, and all the paintings seemed to peer outside, living life from a distance, yet living it fully. 

Two little feet ran down the spiral--almost flew, even--and, in a blink of an eye, there stood her daughter, arms open, inviting for a hug. 

"What are you doing with this place?" the mother asked.

"I'm still not done!" her daughter replied. "There's still so much work! So many things I could do!"

"Why not just build a normal house?" the mother asked.

"This is a normal home," her daughter replied. "It's a different house."

The mother knew there was no use arguing, no use telling of what a normal house should look like. Her daughter invited her inside, but she preferred to keep her distance; after all, the feeble-looking structure did not inspire any trust. Instead, she sat by a picnic table--painted the same orange--and started unpacking her suitcase. 

They talked and laughed, and soon, the insanity of colours blended into the background, leaving nothing but a trace of laughter in the air. They sipped herbal tea and the mother put some remedies on her daughter's cuts, her blisters, her bruises and her scars. The scars wouldn't go away, neither did they hurt. But they had to be treated as well, for it wasn't fair to leave them out, to forget about them. 

Suddenly, something bright shot through the air. Taken aback, the mother looked around, only after several moments realizing that the shimmer came from her daughter, or more precisely, something her daughter was wearing. 

Under her shirt and close to her heart, there lay a pendant, soothing cold against warm skin. The mother pulled the string, the pendant slowly leaving its sacred nest and appearing in her hand. To her own horror, she was holding a tiny, dark blue bottle. Half-empty. 

"This is poison!" she shouted.

"I know," her daughter said, taking the bottle back. She put it under her shirt, close to her heart, where it belonged.

"What are you doing? Child, you know it's poison!"

"Yes, poison," the daughter repeated. "This poison is the only thing keeping me alive."

"I'll bring more remedies! I'll make stronger potions! I'll come more often, and we'll--"

The daughter didn't answer. She just shook her head, a smile on her face--not happy, not sad. Alive.

They sat in silence for a while, just their feelings conversing. 

"Your eyes?"

"They see more than they could ever dream. They don't tire, they don't overwhelm. They see shapes as shapes and colours for only colours. They see places as places that are, and things for the things they are. They stopped glancing behind, watching the past dancing on its stage of memories. They stopped peering ahead, searching for what they have never seen, something that has not yet become the now."

"Your ears?"

"They hear! They hear it all! They hear the sound of a smile, that of a frown. They hear the words for what they mean and what they hide. They hear the words when they are too shy. But, most fascinatingly, they hear nothing when nothing is there.They make no more stories, tell no more tales. They just listen; they hear."

"Smell? And taste?"

"They, too, can only do what they are meant to. They smell and taste nothing but what is. They don't add from the past and keep for the future. They enjoy the moment, live it, and then move on, letting me own the memories, not them."

"Your heart?"

"It beats; it's steady, calm, yet crazy, wild, and sometimes races and forgets it can only go so fast."

"It will tire."

"It will; it should. If it doesn't tire, it means it never ran, it never tried and never knew what it is to tire."

"It will hurt."

"It will; it did already. It stopped, looked around, frantic, scared. That's when it hurt--not because it was in pain, but because it was alone. Then it found the beat, it heard it and ran again."

"It will hurt."

"It will. But not because it was abandoned, not because it was left alone. It will hurt because the beat will now be far, the melody fainter."

"It will hurt."

"It will, and I will cherish the song it wrote, the melody it shall never forget. I might not be able to dance to it, but I will sway. Then there will be another composer, another beat, a different song."

Putting one hand to her chest and the other on the table, the daughter tapped her fingers. Tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. The mother, soon, put her hand to her chest as well. She could hear it too. The beat. Not her daughter's. Not hers. Just the beat. The faint melodies she, herself, held in her heart, but almost forgot about. 

A Whisper

On a gloomy day, Pamplona, Spain. Dec, 2011.

Shhh… Your whisper is too loud.

Don’t disrupt this peace.

Don’t speak.

Your words are young; they’re weak. They fall from your lips— fledglings, ambitious and too sure; they haven’t learned to fly. They could’ve soared the sky and reached higher than any other of their kind.

Don’t speak.

I cannot understand your meaning, cannot see the sense in all those sounds. Somehow, something tells me it is beautiful—that which you are saying. But instead of smiling, enjoying this piece of art, it makes me angry. I think I heard it all before. Somewhere… in party or a fancy concert hall.

Don’t speak.

Your voice is like autumn wind—confused, whether to say goodbye to Summer or greet the Winter that’s ahead. When I feel it, it shakes me, ever so slightly, but just enough to break my leaves… and then I’ll find myself standing on a golden carpet, afraid to take a step, afraid to crush those dreams.

Shhh… Don’t speak.

They are just words—so helpless. The past has gone; it’s naïve to think that you can change it. The future is not ours; it’s arrogant to think that you can have it. And the present… that’s just what is now, this very moment.

No, don’t speak.

Don’t disrupt this peace.

Just listen… can you hear it?

Can you hear that little giggle? Sounds like a child, playing in the field. She runs around in circles, her arms spread wide from side to side, to help her leave the ground and reach the worlds she built. 

Can you hear it?

There’s no one else. No one to hold her down, to force her into some other world, one that she didn’t build herself.

So tell me, can you hear it?

No, don’t answer.

Shhh… Don’t speak.

Don’t whisper.

Don’t disrupt my peace.