Habūb.
He came with the wind,
And you can see it on his face.
Stormy seas, endless deserts, hostile trails over mountains unused to bare feet.
He wants nothing, but for the wind to stop blowing,
for his road to stop winding, constantly,
unforgivingly changing direction every time he hopes to arrive somewhere. Anywhere.
But there is no place for him; he is nobody.
Murmurs of an indignant crowd stirs up a storm that keeps him moving
Running to keep safe, although nothing can protect him now.
And when he finally falls, the murmur grows silent for a moment.
The world is given a chance to rethink,
A chance to right the wrongs, to wake up and smell the death of inaction.
The crowd regroups, changes its chant, repaints its door and stands there,
Ready to rise up and scream.
But they aren’t screaming for the death of the fallen man.
They do not wipe for his demise, searching for peace at the end of inhumanity.
They wipe for themselves,
they demand justice for themselves,
they cry STOP!
But it does not stop, it never stops.
And it is their fault.
Calais migration crisis, 2015-07-29
Crazy hair and a singing heart
Not enough metaphors left to tell this story.
Of dreams and impossible adventures of the heart.
Not the linear kind, but the explosives-and-walking-on-hot-coal type of adventure.
Of unexpected bliss and swarms of butterflies,
Of betrayed trust, second chances and elaborated excuses.
I make them as much for me as I do for you.
- The truth did not discourage you? you ask.
Perhaps you're shocked, perhaps you are still not sure if it did.
What can I tell you that you do not already know?
We act like we're surprised at what we are doing, yet this was the road we chose.
You turned the blinker on and I helped turn the car around.
And the ride is like a cabriolet on a sunny road to the beach.
Crazy hair and a singing heart.
What can I tell you about me?
That my relationship with truth is a very complicated one.
That I am strong, independent and fragile, and so very shaky on the inside.
That I will use your guilt against you before you can turn it on me.
But, also this:
That I will be gone before any of your disaster scenarios could ever come true.
Trust me, I am telling you stories.
Trust me.
Someone else's ceiling
It was true once, that the act of being chosen trumped any will of my own.
days consumed obsessing over someone I cared little or nothing about,
my world would expand and disappear to the rhythm of his whims,
and I would be rendered useless by words or gestures that never took place.
But life happened and I grew up a little.
My heart learnt to stay within its own boundaries,
and though my body sometimes opens itself up- the shutdown is usually firm and fast.
Fast and furious.
...
In a relationship of logistical efficiency, the small moments are lost.
Perhaps life is what happens in between those small moments?
The pause, the wait, the longing?
Matters of the heart are not meant to be scheduled, appropriate, orderly.
- they're not supposed to be safe.
But one day you walk through the floor and find that it is someone else's ceiling.
And you will no longer be able to tell up from down.
