A Question mark is an Exclamation mark that stops to inspect itself.
And while I sat there in the plane, gazing out at the sky all around us
-above, below, everywhere-lost in cloud-covered contemplation,
a doubt came creeping.
Is it possible that I spent the past years tormented by fictitious douleur exquise,
simply because it did not occur to me to ask the right questions?
That I have been misleading myself, quoting all the wrong authors,
Assuming I was always right, my interpretation more correct than the truth.
When- really- I was stubbornly holding on, refusing to let go,
ignoring the get-out-of-jail-freecard sitting there in my pocket all this time.
- What do you want?
And it slowly dawns on me.
That I lived with the Arabic translation of this question, taped to my door for years,
yet I never thought to apply the words to my own life, to me.
Or to him.
ماذا تريد ؟
Is it possible that I am merely fooling myself, proclaiming my preference for stories over reality.
So I can keep hiding my emotional cowardice, passing it off as emotional algebra.
A story can be whatever I choose it to be.
It is comfortable in its infinite possibilities and void of actual consequences.
Mistakes become heroic defeats, breakups the tragic milestones that shape the protagonist,
desire the meaning of life and Weltschmerz the most powerful Leitmotif.
- What do you want?
And maybe- quite possibly-
I will find that there is usually little need for weapons when my questions are answered.
Sometimes the answer is cheese cake.
Kommentarer
Postat av: nenze
just do it! love the cheesecake. dont get it but love it=)
Trackback
