Sunday, 10 September 2017

Chronicles of a 20-ish Moroccan Lady #16

Welcome back,
Chapter 16: Insomniac Visions

01:39 a.m : My eyes are dry, yet wide open. The drugs on the nightstand didn't work. I am trying to capture all the messages running through my brain cells before they disappear into a hole of oblivion. 

02:45 a.m: In this pitch dark room, silence reign on an iron throne. A throne shaken by small revolutions like the sounds of steps on the floor above, noise of opening and closing doors, friendly fights in the neighbouring dorm, my stomach grunts. I am too lazy to close the faucet, drops of water creates a rhythmic torture. The most successful revolution of all is the soothing tribal pan flute melody coming from my roommate's speakers (it helps her sleep at night).

03:37 a.m: My soul is located in my lungs. I feel feathery and dissociated. I am entering a state of trance, an out-of-body experience. All the molecule of my body dissolved and through a tunnel I traveled to an island. Where in the globe? What timeline? God only knows!

 I was a ghost in a beach looking at a gorgeous woman wearing a silky white dress. She was standing bare feet in front of the foam of crashed waves. She is an insomniac like me. The hurling winds creeping in her tiny hut woke her up from a nightmare, so she decided to go out and pray to the sea for peace of mind. 
She placed her wooden handmade pan-flute between her pulpous dark lips, and played long mellow notes praising the glory of the sea and chanting for the daughters of Aphrodites born and dead in front of her feet. 
The fisherman's wife didn't held her head high to implore an invisible man in the sky for the safety of her husband who sailed a long time. No, she looks at the shimmering waves and offered the breath coming between her unkissed lips begging the water deities to give her lover back. 
She knew the power of the ocean,when generous it fills tables with food and when angry it feasts on her loved ones and bid on them with Tanwiha.

With untamed tangled hair and blueish olive skin, the fisherman's wife stood still under the moonlight and in front violent salty wind. 
The bottom of her white dress is now wet from flirtatious waves who cames to tickle her ankles and particle of sands took refuge in the wrinkles of her cloth, but she was unbothered, she poured her soul in the instrument and moved gracefully her skeleton fingers over the holes to change the keys and the notes. 
Suddenly she threw her flute in the waters and sung: 

"Reunite me back with my lover, 
 Is he dead or is he beyond the horizon
sleeping in another mattress loving another woman"

There is no greater pain than eternal hope. There is no soul-crushing virtue. Hope is dark magic, it alters invincible romanticisme to hopeless cherophobia. 
I see this woman going down that madness path, walking to the seashore...
She is the offrande.
I want to run toward her and stop her, tell her to play a little bit more, to cry a little bit less, to wait for a day or a month… but it's too late my body dissolves again. 

4:49 a.m :I am in my pitch dark room. 

With love, 


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Thanks for sharing !
Maybe I'll read it, maybe I don't care