You are not in an age that allows you to tell mom about your fear. Your mom—who holds your young brother, and collects the rest (of the family) around her, behind the pillar of the room assuming, that it would survive the 500mm bullets shot by tank in all directions—will not notice your timid fear, and your urgent need for a strong hug and intense tears. "You should not be frightened," says your professor at the university. "Your faith is more powerful than tanks and aircrafts. Fear no one but God." On the verge of death, I ponder on my faith: "Am I a believer, mom?" I silently ask her. You answer me. The answer swings like a pendulum: "You are on the verge of things. Know the truth, better now than later." Throughout the last five seconds, you have been doing your best performing an intensive reflection! Think about it: if you take a hot shower…but wait a minute, the water is cut off, and thinking is an illness you should not risk being infected with now. You wonder: "if there were a sea in your city, would it make any difference in toning your thoughts?! Have you had the spiritual luxury to choose thoughts that you like?! Had the news broadcasting not been scripted in advance?! Had your friend you passed by in the morning, without stopping, not been a martyr?! Why should you stop?! You beat yourself harshly and imagine that serious reasons forced you to do that, then, you fall asleep. He will visit you in your dreams. You have no doubt about it. Before closing your eyes, you consider these questions: is it warm enough where you reside? Do you have coffee in the morning? Are you residing in the neighboring void? Have you met the truth or have you just embarked on the way to illusion? If death is a long-sleep, do you see us as ghosts in your dreams? Are you lonely, or our accumulating faces make the place packed? Do you miss us, or is it not an issue at all to depart people? In the morning, you believe that they never came back. You see the moon from the glass of the window while taking the ground. You insist on that, the moon looks different tonight. The extra beam is a God-gift to your night that has a sole candle you take with you, and leave others in darkness, when you go to the bathroom! You ignore your fear when your sister wakes up frightened at 3:00 a.m. You feel that you are extraordinarily powerful when she sleeps on your arm that is powerfully attached to your body.
II. Dancing in His House
The world takes a special shape in his house, indefinite, and in a lasting cycle of crystallizing. The clay of his house does not stick to fingers. The love-seat pretends to engulf my body as an embryo. My eyes climb up the wall and remain hung there. The view is quite different from the top, so far, yet without cracks or wrinkles, beautiful and seductive, however, does not tell the truth. My body, just shortly done with the dance, tried to explain the matter. "The dance starts from a point in the center. The bellybutton may provide a good choice. A strong presence of the staring eyes transmits a feeling of heaviness and cramps to the stomach. It goes down towards the bones of the lavabo and shakes them down. The two thighs draw the missing circles from the place. The face reveals a vague ache between pain and desire. Auras are formed as a result of circular movements of the arms. The features of the dance become clearer and clearer, adding more meanings to the purple wall. The body flows and ebbs onto the sofa. The dried rose, hung from its stem, swings and joins the dance in a pendulum movement. The observing hand ends the melody by a quite, yet sharp, clapping. Once again, eyes are open at an extended, shivering hand in the distance between two bodies. His hand catches hers that is still engrossed in the dance, another dance: hand to hand, body to body…." When she opened her eyes for the second time, hung at the top of her face, she checked her body that is laying on the couch and that was trapped in her mind like a pseudo-pin. The man, who lit it, three minutes ago, opened the door for an increasing pinch. While trying to avoid her mother's voice in the evening, she touched her laying body for the second time that day. It is mass of flesh that grows and shrinks whenever I want. I, the self that is trapped in it, walk with it to work, to the next room, or to the toilet. I use it, I mean the colored holes up-there, to see. Sometimes, I succeed and the transmitted scene turns to be an insight. I use it (my body) in endless ways: It occupies space causing displacement to the air from the area it temporarily resides in; by dancing, it gets broader, and when lonely, lays in bed, it shrinks down. My body is so submissive: It suffers no disability that prevents it from moving forward, backwards, bent: extend your lips, open your eyes, move your arm, touch the sheet, eat your meal. It is capable of transmitting what surrounds it by nature, sound, smell, touch, and thoughts from every single direction towards my mind. According to what I lately came up with, my mind is a mixture of the original makeup before any external effects took place—that is the original moment of creation, and the thoughts, values, habits and stupidities, it has acquired. This has been occurring, so that myself creates a stats of mind that mobilizes my body to serve its needs and whims, etc., etc. in a circle: Something goes inside, some outside, not fulfilling Newton's 1st Law, for neither force nor direction are equivalent. Accumulation plays a crucial role in the matter. However, the shock is, sometimes more effective than years of accumulation that lack excitement. My body is a representation of my mind. If I were fully-figured, for example, then my responses would have been affected by that; and if I were blind, that would have definitely changed my positions and ways of judging matters. The way in which thoughts are transmitted to the intellect, therefore, is the mystery. The criterion of differentiation between beings, as all people have been demonstrating, depends on the means and ways of transmitting the outside to the inside and visa-versa. "It is a great invention," she said. Surrendering to what others have been saying about it, my body bends down to conceal a breast that is not quite coming out. For more than 17 years, my body used to relinquish to the disciplining street and the vicious gazes occupying the road and ordering my body to be cocooned around its own center; to hide away behind a pretended fidelity; and to search for a never-vacant seat. My body that I never explored, discovered, or knew up to this moment, has come to existence through a dance. It's an agile, soft, seducing, and a brilliant stimulator of the hearts of those who are waiting on the other bank of the dance floor. It is simple, intense, powerful, and feels competent. When she put her dress on in the morning, she felt a strange and extraordinary feeling surrounding her. It is like a fragrance, or aroma, yet not materialistic whatsoever. It is occurring inside her, blistering, and searing. It is something she, delightfully, called: freedom.
III. To Him
My Dearest, the Absent Before conveying my regards and kisses which shiver on my lips, I want to give myself the liberty to listen to what is going on in your mind at the moment: That girl has not given up papers. She is still getting naked there to discover herself and the faces that have not been exposed to her bellybutton—the center of universe. She is still monopolizing, analyzing, and passionately living the ideals about this dull universe…She sees what cannot really be seen; hears what cannot possibly be heard, and feels what defies being felt. She is still wandering on earth, via her sight, not her feet, wrapping her body with jasmines to aromatize grim-reaper and to avenge truth. She rashes to a book, or picks up a melody that resembles her, to believe that she cannot believe. She seeks refuge between the two covers—timeless lie that is so professional in believing its own lies. She has not given up being a female desiring to be a Goddess, enduring the agonies of ascending from heavens to the seventh earth, and stripping the freshness of one year or two of carnations! She is still chanting for the absentees, stating that: with every life, there is an absentee, and with every absentee, there is a story that has not been told as it should have been. I am the story and I am the one you have not written as you should have. Do not believe all what you write, for I am not your story, nor what you write is what truly happened or merely its shade. You remember your absentee whenever your papers provoke you to install him as yet another mode of narration in your new novel. You recall him as a representation of a nation that is made up of absence and smiles for the ill-fated whiteness that will never come back. My Dearest, Just now I could kiss you the number of stories that I do not recall about you;the number of sayings you said, and my ill memory has lost throughout the times of saying;the number of sparks that glow in my eyes whenever your name is mentioned;the number of times in which I forget you in order to write you down, yet again;the number of lost events that were meant to be ours. You have the right to believe in truth, or in what has been said about it, for I have not written to you now, but to publish it in a book which comprises pieces that reflect the impact of the Intifada on women’s lives. Yes, I belong to the category of women and you are the impact of the Intifada on me. Like it or loath it! This is the crux of the issue. I will narrate to you the lie I wish: She loved him in order to explain the scattered universe on his forehead, kiss by kiss. He loved her with no justifications. They disagreed in explaining her chase after children in the streets, and in fathoming women who got trapped in his blue smile. They reconciled with no ceremonies or abomination. The matter was not as it was circulated and gossiped that Saturday four years ago. A bullet in the head has not reduced him to an act of writing. The soldier of the green uniform has not assassinated the wedding suit and the hymn trapped in his mother's throat. These are rumors that ignorant women of the neighborhood have circulated about the complicated relations between lovers during the third millennium. On that Saturday, he came to her and was so beautiful. Then, it was the first time she knew what lust and desiring to be between a man arms, meant. He brought her a tulip and a ring that has their initials and the date on which be their anniversary will be inscribed, herein, and thereafter. With him, he brought all kinds of birds that covered the horizon, so that she could exercise the joy of flying. Within his chest, he carried an ocean of waves, sands, and mystery, so that she could discover the pleasure of drowning. He pulled the distance with his own hands, so that she witnesses the difference in comparison with the near. He got close to her marble cheek, and whispered: "Write me down as the protagonist of your new Iliad. From me, breed oceans, green trees, and meanings. From me, give birth to the jinnee of maps, and to my nine children. Fill your holes with the fragments of my last love." They claim that she turned him down, and they justified that by forging psychological reasons from her miserable childhood. The lover gathered his fragrance from the wind, clothes, and places, and left with no bags, identifications, or anger, and left no address. They said that heavens embrace him every Thursday and sing to his purple heart. They said that jealousy has taken its toll on his girl when he put a sway over the entire whiteness. The earth has cursed her through writing. For four years, she has been trapped in the Barzakh, intermediate realm, yet he vanished in the portico of light. They say that the lie has been cloning whenever a palm tree met a cactus throughout a homeland in a form of songs and melodies.