I measure myself by questions per dialogue, better yet by awes per sentence or maybe just wonder per word. By contradictions per moment and controversies per breath. The ones that hang from one end to another, like a thread, the kind you hold unto for dear life. Like why I ask, how I answer and who I am in between. Like if I walk and when and if I talk and what about. Like the company I keep and the head I keep losing over which side of the bed I sleep on and which corner I drift to and the reason behind it all: the meaning of carrying a revolution in my backpack and hope drenched sadness on my face. The same face I stuff in poetry and theology, philosophy and literature, theatre plays and movies and how it lights up to the sound of a decent guitar solo; and how it seems to sink in to the harmony of a ناي ( Nay). How vast it all seems and how small it really is but powerful it remains. Like that split second of connection that makes way to something bigger, to Life.
Life which isn’t as vast it is seems or as small as reality portrays it, not as complex as we analyze it or as simple as we wish it to be. Because we’re still grasping who we are and it is what it is so at the end of the day while measurements may disappoint and threads may break, when you’re tired of asking and nauseous from digesting all those answers that have nothing to do with your truth. When you’re at a loss of who you are so you stop walking and talking; and silence weighs its awkwardness leaving no room for any other company, except your head which is stuck on your shoulders facing backwards to a bed of nails that’s impossible to sleep on no matter which side you turn to. And the world really has no corners for you to drift to because it just doesn’t so how’s that for a rebellious round? And my face is crucified against the notion of existence and there’s no books or movies for the luxury of being buried. No guitar or ناي nay to save you or brace you. When all that happens, I bet on night falling, and day following so I put the moon on one shoulder and the sun on the other and let the stars fill my hair as I listen to their whispers amongst themselves: All those stories of fallen stars, shooting stars that took the dive, that made their way to me because they thought I was the most wonderful thing they’ve seen! So I just take another breath, exhale an ode to the One that speaks through them, and renews His belief in the miracle that I am. And I pray; I pray to the fallen ones that the day may come when I fall with all that I have, when I take the dive and leave a trail of passion behind me that keeps on burning even after I wither because the One to whom it calls won’t.
Eddy Abi Younes