image

That night of February I was coming back home, walking with my hands in my pockets, face half tucked in the collar of my jacket. My eyes repeatedly going left and right, between thoughts, on the lookout for anything suspicious. Passing by a quiet alleyway, a gentle shimmering light caught the corner of my eye as I felt small pieces of glass under my feet. I immediately found myself deviating towards it, in some sort of illogical haste, following the bits of glass, as if bread crumbs, to a shattered mirror. It all seemed fishy, no lights were around for the mirror to reflect and so I reached out to it and as soon as I touched it, whatever it was that remained of it fell. Once the mirror was gone I saw something that I didn’t recognize by sight but to which my insides called fiercely. It didn’t feel like anything I’ve ever known but it imposed itself with a strange sense of familiarity; it was now, it was here and it was me: Home. Home had this weird sense of estrangement to it. Home was weird, and even more than that, weirdness was home and I’ve been chasing it all along.
That sweet smell of horizon, never conquered. Lands, forever new, forever virgin. Known in theory but ignored in form. Admired by many, engaged by few. Where losing was necessary, where I had to put up with not finding. Where I inhale thin and exhale thick. Where paintings are but a gaze in which a man lies comfortably in a hammock that keeps swaying, singing him a lullaby. Everybody loves lullabies, sleepers hate bells and doorknockers. Disturbing insistence, always pressing for answers, looking for a way in and I’ll meet it halfway when I get out. No more hammocks, no more lullabies, no more mirrors, just a simple encounter and a dance.

Eddy Abi Younes
15.2.2016

Advertisements