Homage To An Angel

A strange euphoria engulfed me as I lifted the box’s seemingly heavy lid. And as I tried not to choke on the rupturing dust particles I started familiarizing myself with the foreign pattern this time capsule has kept secret and safe for a reasonably long time. Dark at first, the inner walls started getting brighter as light snuck in between the once air tight sealed edges, and soon vigorous red velvet prevailed, with more dust particles sparking like gold powder under the warm influent ray surging through the attic’s round window. It would’ve been a typical horror movie scene were it not for a September’s shy sun inspiring this worn out place to rise and bloom. A place we always kept hidden, forgotten, and related it to daunting tales as kids. But this time I was no kid sneaking into the unknown to brag about it in front of other siblings; I was here to forcefully claim what was always mine. It was in this box that all the reasons for me to live were kept sacred and out of harm's way. I still remember her face when she helped me up the ladder and whispered into my ears: “don’t tell anyone about it, you will need it when I am gone.” And for a six years old troubled child, being gone usually meant a few weeks’ vacation I would spend agitated awaiting for her return. But little did I know back then, it was the last trip my grandmother would ever take.

And like the child back then, my hands started rushing between the different objects we hid inside that day, I didn’t know what to look for and where to start from for that matter. I started shuffling the different scraps and pictures as my hands start roaming inside, often recoiling under the peck of a pin or the now blunt blades of my grandfather’s pipe tamper. I grew tense as sweat drops cooled off on my forehead while looking for answers. But the question inside me grew bigger and more baffling. Was it a picture? Or did she keep me a letter? Or perhaps she placed some object when I wasn’t looking? “Don’t underestimate this box or throw it away in vain!” she added in a serious tone as she stroked my hair, “you will need it one day.” What was so important that she wanted me to find? And most important of all is now the perfect time? I decided to award myself with an early break even though I wasn’t doing that much of a job anyways. But I needed to relax and find peace of mind before resuming my quest for the anonymous again.

I cleared the corner behind me and brought myself to nestle in it while I rocked back and forth reciting an old lullaby I couldn’t quite remember the words to, but the rhythm was familiar nevertheless. It was no special song, but she always made sure I heard it every night before she kissed me good night and pulled the blanket over my face away from all the demons and fears. With her I was forever invulnerable, safe from harm and suffering. Resting on top of the pile inside the monolith was an old Polaroid picture. The figures had accented edges and time toned it somewhat greenish. For a woman her age, she stood amazingly strong and stiff, but that wasn’t a unique characteristic she enjoyed. Most women in the country side prove their survival techniques somewhere between their first born and the daily trips to the roof to scare the birds away from the left to dry wheat. And my grandmother was no exception; she was a determined housekeeper, a loving mother and a perfect wife, and for an army man who spent more days with his rifle than his family, she was the best person my grandfather can count on. With both her hands on my shoulders I was smiling as someone took that photograph, it was my special moment with her, something she never failed to favor me with. In the background was grandpa’s German shepherd sniffing some bowl. She never liked that animal, “Najis” she would say, “taints my kitchen ware.” But she would smile because she knew it was the only way she managed to tease her husband.

The next object that caught my attention was a small ivory figurine, looked like a miniature totem. Brilliant white at one point, it has now succumbed to the sands of time as it wrapped itself in a pale yellow coat. But the significantly precise art work never ceased to boast. Carved and arranged perfectly, the tiny corners remind one of recurrence and eternity. Sleek impressions emphasize a rich tribal heritage, inspired by music and the need to create. It was a gift father brought home after a long trip to Abidjan. As if he sensed my interest in simplicity and meanings of things back then, he chose to give me this instead of a huge RC car or a robot like my other siblings. I wanted something African, not a Chinese chip with wires and LEDs. I never understood why she took it away from me that night, I was furious for I never expected the person I loved the most to deprive me from such a special gift. Without reasoning with me, her favorite grandson, she took it away before I even managed to understand what I was given. And despite the fact I wasn’t going to give up my figurine without a fight, she wasn’t affected with all the kicking, punching and howling I was letting out in frenzy. She just disappeared into her room while I mourned my lost treasure. She knew I would forget about it in the morning when I approached her like every other days with barely opened eyes to get my daily potion of kisses and cuddles. And it happened to be the way she predicted, for in the next morning I forgot I had a small treasure, almost a small fortune for a kid my age and I just dragged myself outside looking for her like a pilgrim scouting his Mecca. As I tried to rub the yellow tracks of time off my statue, I wrapped the old leather strap around my fingers and became one again with my long lost companion.

At first I frowned, pulled my hand out fast and rubbed it. As I was searching through the box blindly my finger tips once again stumbled across something that I wasn’t expecting to find. It took me a moment to build my courage to take it out and check it. Purple polka dots were fading away; I wonder which dress she made this out of. On the top was a long thread that she once tied to her neck. An awkward coldness sneaked inside me as I felt the soft fabric of her money pouch. I thought they got rid of all of her clothes because the older and wiser ones said it brings bad luck; to keep the departed’s clothes at home. I was now sure that she made more than one trip to this box because I don’t remember seeing her placing all these stuff inside. And to think she cared enough to remember what I suggested as a game to pass time and make a time capsule made my frantic heart settle down. I never expected her to consider my ideas of any significant importance, after all what would a promise of a six years old to guard and treasure mean? But somehow she knew I would come back one day looking for answers. After all she was the only one who understood me. Missing the weight of coins and notes inside it, the pouch felt like a feather. I always tracked the pouch in and out of her dress as she paid for my caramel coated apples and chocolate bars in golden foil wrappers. And no matter how long and loud my mother complained, saying she has spoiled me; she couldn’t resist my eyes every time I asked her to buy me candy. I hesitated for a few minutes before trying to smell the old fabric, it felt holy but I also needed to do it. I wasn’t expecting a lot though, because it just smelled like old stored clothes. That familiar smell that you can find in every house, not horrible but rather mind invigorating as it makes u remember all that was. I remembered all the time I would see it hanging from her neck. And leaning over the thin convex Saj oven metal sheet, she would always smile when I approached her as she baked our morning bread. She only took it off when she went to bed. What aches my heart is not knowing when did she put it in the box, but I am hoping she was the one who did, probably that night before she left this world.

Bound by another leather strap were two flawless wedding rings, and to my surprise they managed to maintain the sparkling reflection gold has upon purchase. My grandfather was assassinated long before she passed away, but she always kept the rings strapped. They represented everything to her, regardless of their seemingly normal street value. In their circular continuity she saw love, faith, life and death. And again she managed to save them for me for some other occasion where I might find them practical.

A revelation was already poking me gently; I finally realized or at least managed to understand what she wanted from me on that cold day when we sealed our secret treasure box. Too many objects were placed there and regardless of what I would have chosen, results would have been the same. She managed to tell me and teach me about all the things my young age prevented me from comprehending. She knew I would return here one day seeking answers, she knew no one would take care of me like she did. But knowing she won’t last that long to witness me growing up she had to be sure I received proper knowledge. She relied on the box to deliver it to me and on her faith in god to guide me. She never trusted anyone else to do what she did best; watching over me. She smiled when others frowned, embraced when others pushed away but never failed to raise and restrain. And whenever I was around, she made sure I never go wanting.

Promising myself an even warmer evening, I picked up the box and took the stairs down. I couldn’t think of a proper way to praise, thank and cherish such a wonderful person. The child inside me made me look up to the sky, convinced that she is up there watching down on me. And before her face disappeared amongst the clouds, I smiled before locking the main gate and driving away.

Ego Death, Achieved...

Prove me wrong once again and allow me one final glimpse, prove me wrong once again and show me the paper boats we used to make. Aren’t they too resting deep down this aging lake? And the promises we made and never fulfilled, entwined around a rope that keeps choking our faith. And like a soothing lullaby your voice comes sweeping across the wheat fields, stroking the golden stems, before it turns into an accusing shriek. And as a moon sneaks up behind cluttered clouds, the sky gets invaded by shades of sapphire. I curl up around myself, guarding it, and then comes a spasm and I violently implode wanting to part like a blaze of fire. What’s so common between such two seemingly separated elements? They are the opposite of each other, for when the body seeks rest and tranquility, the soul feeds off endurance and suffering. And in the middle of this everlasting clash, your conscious is held captive.
I hear a voice coming from the deep attics of my mind; it starts as a cackle, and then obtains a more hideous form. Telling me to disappear, to sink into the background and merge with it, but every where I looked, I was always confronted with mirrors. What sick force has mastered this art? Frantic and obsessed I dive into them feeling the glass slash through my skin burning memories on the edges of each scar. Soon a drop of blood finds its way across my cheeks and into my mouth, it tastes so sweet, so bitter, it tastes like metal. I don’t think anyone has ever experienced loss of will to live and returned intact. It’s in that exact place that you gain better understanding of life and lies. You no longer find a reason to live but can’t justify one to leave either. A thin line between utter madness and an unforgiving fate, it’s not white, it’s not grey, it’s just black and no matter how many times you turn the Rubik’s cube the blocks are always black yet they won’t join or fit in place.
I wake up on a mattress in what seems a bigger room, the mattress looks like it has seen better times and the walls could use a paint job. Scribbles and engravings on the wall soon turn vague and become figures eye balling me. Charging at the mysterious cell mates I pound myself into the walls expecting to feel the severe pain of the sound of a bone cracking beneath the pressure. Something has muffled the impact, it feels like fabric but it’s too dark to have a better view. Locked to my chest my arms struggle against the straight jacket and the new leather smell prevails over my senses. The floor absorbs my fall as I swayed harder to release the ever tightening mechanism. I let out a cry for help, then a shriek of angst. Tears stream down like showers as I cry and laugh simultaneously. The concurrent sonata is a master piece in its own way. Final awareness has been achieved as unseen audience applauses, and confetti of colors falls down in an imperial way. The small scraps turn into nails pinning me on stage as I witness the so far called flashback. What a cliché! What a lie!
Why won't you help me? Release me and let me put this mind to sleep to the sound of a bullet, the dagger slashing through my neck or the gargle of arsenic.

A Not So Pacific Moment.

I must have missed the warm breeze that used to engulf my face every time I pushed the cracked heavy gate before taking the two stairs down to what used to be our small garden. Lined in pots along the path to the terrace, withering flowers didn’t bother to raise and salute my hand as it brushed through them. They just sat there, looking down in shame at the state which they have arrived to. This is no shape to meet ancient sun rays or embrace a breeze of air. In the shadow of each other they await there to fall and bond with their roots. It was there that we dashed up and down the pathway playing different, always inane games. Whether we were chasing each other or mainly throwing ripe raspberries, our giggles would always echo in a rather nostalgic manner. But it’s only the laughter that I hear, for no matter how precise my eyes examined the landscape, I failed to find the children running while their parents sipped tea from golden ornamented glass cups. Occasionally a few would gather around a hookah while we stood there in utter astonishment gazing at the smoke as it looped before it became one with the clouds above. Relentless, we would try to steal a swift eye contact with one of the smokers, hoping they would notice us and offer a quick puff away from our parents’ ever watching eyes.
But today, the air didn’t smell of flavored molasses. It was way too deceitful to be that sweet and soothing. Mutiny was evident, and the only memory I hung so hard to, started to fade in a hierarchy. The only thing that stood there was the swing tied to the old fig tree; ironically it was waiting for the algae growing on its chair to become heavier and eventually fall. You can’t help but recognize the sarcastic tone when you mention the ground. No matter how far we get and how high we reach, gravity proves victorious in every single aspect. The potential and inevitable end of all things is usually related to that element we were all made from. It’s like an equilibrium nature always manages to maintain, for once you are no longer needed you become a burden; and slowly you join with the soil you used to step on so recklessly. Despite the boring length of such a gradual process, in the end you become one with what you once considered tainted or dirty. Foreign to this immortal element, we soon decay and become its molecules.
The effect of such an unexpected shock rammed me with drowsiness. My hand couldn’t find the old green light pole to lean on so I found myself coming to a rest on the old bench that was always beneath it. I wondered about those violent whirlpools I started to feel deep inside my head. The ripples were colliding in an epiphany. All the falling pieces were snuggling up in place next to each other, and what seemed a riddling puzzle never looked so vivid. At the receiving end of this scathing dagger was a note; in bold red characters it said: “You are no longer welcomed here!” I realized the only reason I felt so distant was because I no longer belonged to this place. What was once a beautiful daily moment is now a memory. And that’s how it will always be; a recall of a time where laughter and joy seemed to exist. I had no right to step into the past to harvest what I never truly sowed; the past should never be tampered in an impotent attempt to alter the present. I was gullible to think I can retain lost parts of happiness here for it belonged to the child in me but the grown man has to fight his own demons.
I wondered who was insensitive enough to take the green pole out of its place to add it to their own collection. I remembered all the summer nights and the small moths dancing around it under its flickering light. The unreadable scribbles we managed to etch before they would scorn us. Strangely my hand stretched out to an unseen pole, my finger started to feel the edges of a carefully carved heart. The letters were not important; it belonged to every love story that boomed through the orange trees every evening when a couple would find their way away from sneaking, curious but welcoming family members. No one seemed to be bothered by the innocence of such entwined fairy tales, we were young and we only sought love to feel safe and belong to someone. It gave us the reason to do and make, it made the daily walk around the garden’s fence seem so divine. We did everything we thought about to prove the righteousness of our fragile love stories; to us it was about walking with each other every evening, laughing at silly jokes, and drawing imaginary hearts as our fingers ran across the fence. We had no idea love would be that complicated, that deceiving and mutinous. We never experience such a pain until we truly comprehend the real meaning of love, as if such a thing existed in the first place.
The bench kept reminding me of my disturbing stay; it never felt so dry and rigid. But I couldn’t blame the wooden structure. The logs were already trying to part from each other since the holes around the nails grew bigger and spacious now. I felt one of the rusty now green nails, a strange chill traveled down my spine. It was a dreary moment when my eyes met with the pond. Some rain must have gathered in it last night but it never looked so dead. A few dry leaves danced to a swift breeze as the ripples reflected the overcast sky. The walls on the inside were aging and in the middle stood a rusty pipe of a fountain that never really worked. On the outside were engraved some primitive fish and floral figures, fed into the stone by some exhausted amateur during the last hours of some cold night.
More ripples started to form inside the hexagonal pond and before my eyes met with the clouds a rain drop tapped my nose. Avoiding disturbing the rest of my bleak host, I made my way between the old metal chairs to the main gate. Water drops from a tap on the wall nearby splattered on dry leaves and broken twigs. I hesitated before getting in the car, but I took one final look. As I turned my back and looked, the monolithic house stood solid but the windows howled something I couldn’t comprehend. I looked at my dad, he could tell all what raged inside me during my stay. And as he started the car I heard him murmur: “let’s take you to that airport."

An Unusual Shriek At The Unknown

It must have been a Monday, or another dark Tuesday I really can’t remember, the foul beast has managed to systematize yet another ostentatious charade. Barely surviving on a few hours of turbulent sleep every few days, I ceased to understand the method of time. I became oblivious of its anatomy and the patterns it wove. And as the hours pass the burden grows heavier, and deep inside the darkest of all secrets, Azrael impatiently waits. An unseen edge slashes through my finger as I move my hand across the broken window. Utterly black blood splatters out in a steady flow, I don’t know whether it’s the nicotine or my darker thoughts tainting these veins. I can’t remember the last time I had a dream, I can’t remember the last time I tried to dream.
Ironically I couldn’t help but notice the other day, that my short term memory was forever flawed. Basically I can’t remember what I ate two days ago or even what I said two minutes earlier. And if I were to try and remember, all is blurry but a few snap shots of ambiguous shadows. Another sneak peak at the mind’s eye and you feel the gears of some mysterious clockwork jammed and about to explode so you give the thought a rest. A tap joins the parade in the kitchen, water drops were always my fancied lullaby but for some reason the echoes grow bigger and form a flamboyant feast. I press my hands hard against my ears trying to remain calm, not to snap and eventually sleep. But the muffled monotonous howl of void proves devastating.
I grow restless, the cut on my finger has turned dull burgundy. And I can feel its burn as I smudge the iodine soaked swab around it, as if to remind myself how this evil subjugator is swapping my fragile thoughts. I spread the wound flat and a spark splits my vision like an admonition. Soon it will run dry and attempt to clot; skin has a funny way of emphasizing irony. The shell remains intact while flaws are chained within feeding off all that is bright. I sigh and take a deeper pant as I inhale. I wish this cigarette had a stronger effect.
By the time I stretch out my legs on the ground, I feel numbness spreading into their different angles. This very moment, when you feel every joint in your body crying under agonizing pain renders the entire experience rather addictive and mind intoxicating. In fact it’s one of the reasons encouraging me to last longer, to succumb to this fiend for the result is rewarding. You can almost feel every inch of your body shutting down as it fades away promising of another almost immediate visit.
I look at the clock resting on the coffee table next to my head, it reads 2:30 PM, I had a class to attend.

Analysis Of An Internal Error

This is not a confession, nor a weakness. This is just my way to express feelings I failed to state using other mediums.

---Notes Before Reading : This Is A Very Dark Piece And By Dark I Mean Horrible So Please If You Can't Handle Such A Thing I Suggest You Don't Read It ---

Of all pains and aches, the emotional ones still remain triumphal despite our most sincere attempts to conquer them. And up to this date the psychological damage seems to be the most dexterous and cunning hit man. Like a silent assassin it crawls between the rows and formations of this dark army, recruiting more hands and feeding on our fragile endurance. There in the dark it awaits for the perfect moment to take its first and final leap towards us, a beginning of what may seem a baffling end. Feeding on the very essence of the soul and injecting its poison inside each and every particle of our bodies, this foreign and uninvited guest starts deconstructing the texture that binds us, and caught in the cross fire, our bodies hopelessly tremble to such inflicted tyranny. Once the air becomes so thick you can literally feel its mutinous chunks suffocating you; you know you’ve succumbed to loss and destruction. It is always late, by the moment you find out you fell victim to this slayer, the damage would already be permanent. Forget what you read about it and dismiss all the theories, all what we know about our brains are some colorful MRI prints and endless heaps of heaps of paper each trying a different approach and offering a ridiculous remedy to a rather enormous foe.
If I ever managed to express my feeling in the middle of this clash I would do that in such a way; it feels like you’re Malevitch’s Black Square. You’re entire existence reaches a pitch dark corner, surrounded by a white void that threatens to consume you if you ever dared to trespass, and in the middle your own fears and thoughts tie you down so firmly. Alas, Russian Suprematism was never an icon of such a devastating mental state, but I took the liberty to use one of its greatest icons as reference because that’s how I always felt. The square itself is rigid and unforgiving and in every sharp corner awaits a new threat. The white borderline remains mysterious and treacherous, very much representing a purgatory, except this one was created for all the wrong causes. During the almost sudden mood transitions and stampedes of thoughts and ideas, a new killer is at large. Silence has finally managed to force itself upon us, and this new oppressor shall be heard. How shouldn’t he be when the only thing that you hear while descending down this abyss is him. The shocking throb upon recognizing is sufficient enough to throw us between the blood thirsty wraiths of denial.
And so does this demon starts to hack and slash its way through your thoughts, hovering over your existence in an attempt to eradicate it, and no matter how hard you try to defy its own existence, it remains intact. It would usually start as a sudden change of mood that you fail to link or relate to any other incident of such nature, a swift transition between sunshine and none, or on some rare occasions, vice versa. And you can’t really predict it or for that matter defy it. The more you fight back the fiercer it gets and the deeper you fall into the snake pit. You can only succumb and conform to an element that never really acknowledged the ethics of morality and would never give you a chance to fight back to grasp your own claimed freedom. The only impotent shot you would have left is hoping that this sudden switch passes away soon and its severity arrives to a trough. But the truth remains that no matter how hard you strive to inflict a change, you are forced to show gratitude to this awful guest and look forward to suffer, for a few minutes, a couple of hours and sometimes longer depending on how comfortable it finds the stay.
And just when you think the wizard has no more tricks up his sleeves, his wand is quick to charge at you with another much more incurable blow. And to be as precise as possible I would like to put it this way, it usually starts as numbness on the lower back of your neck; right where the spine parts to dive into the shoulders. You can almost feel its coldness sending chills to all different ends of your body, and before you could realize it, thousands of miniature unseen needles start making their way through the skin pores and under the flesh. And then follows the infamous pulse. So powerful you might have to twitch to accustom to the newly, smaller regained head space. The grandeur of such an arrival makes this new weapon unmistakably malevolent. Another brute has come out of the wood work to help finish what his younger but much more aggressive sibling has started. It’s brain storming on a brand new super sized level. It’s the part most people fail to recognize as a threat and tend to soothe its sting by dubbing it as distraction. But I digress. No matter how hard your casual psychiatrist cajoles and cajoles; this is not normal. Not even remotely related to anything of an earthly nature.
If the ability to control the thoughts came with the package, we would have been living on other planets by now and probably found a cure for most terminal diseases. But good things are never complimentary. The colossal pull of such a monstrous current opens the door for a brand new generation of psychosis. You get stormed by so many ideas that you lay half traumatized trying to bring yourself to harbor. Everything you might have done during your life will get back at you at a quadrupled speed and ten times the size. That’s when all the demons orchestrating this anarchy weave their initial plan. Death seems to be the only option, at least that of a brain. The irony of such a situation inflicts more self loathsomeness, never in your entire life and under any situation would you feel so weak and impaired. You have just realized or felt like your brain is working against your brain. You feel your heart trembling in fear in response to such a massive failure and in a final attempt to save what’s left. But what could a fragile organ do against the armies of hell itself. This combined with a severe depression would bring your soul to its knees imploring salvation. You pry upon such a bedazzling riddle but you never hit the bottom, only your spirit does.
The unfailing urge to reprieve becomes a vital need by time, the monotonous and sometimes increasing rhythm of this tragedy, inspires the wildest thoughts and devices. Soon the ominous silence ensues and before the curtains fall to declare the end of this chapter another one starts. This time, its insomnia; a shadow congealed by stress, creativity and insanity. Part self inflicted and part deviously crafted; this black raven mourns what’s left of your decaying state. Sleep seems to be the only way out of this raging whirlpool but this is one foe you can never run away from. He will make sure the last round ends in splendor. The black comedy is not quite black yet. That’s when he summons his last card and watches and laughs while you choke on your own nightmares. Only then do dreams of death sound so soothing and relieving. The idea of taking life by the hand never seemed so vivid and just. Your soul becomes worthless after it has been violated, tainted is your faith and the lump soon becomes a chain saw shredding your own throat. But this is not your default option; the rules of the game defy such an act. Weakness is a part of the deal and so is cowardice. This historic fear of the inevitable prohibits you from getting near the outskirts of this territory.
Other than the internal mutiny, you sometimes are faced with an external one if you ever choose to beseech others for help. Not to dub everyone as a partner in crime but there are some individuals who would just drive the last nail harder inside the coffin to spare themselves the guilt or just the bitterness of such a happening. God knows there are some persons out there though who would do whatever it takes to help alleviate the pain. I myself have been blessed with a few. But others deliver more damage than redemption. Oblivious to their own acts; some would drive an even bigger knife by choosing not to regard this defect as a serious disease. “It’s all in your head” would be the next thing you hear if you ever tried to open up and vent to someone who is not so tolerant.
Truth remains that bipolar personality disorder is a very serious illness and can lead to unforgiving aspects and results. But you can never really expect someone who doesn’t have the slightest idea of what’s raging inside you to understand the horribleness of such an unfair conflict. And to imagine fighting with this on a daily basis makes Sisyphus’s attempts seem merely insignificant and rather ridiculous. And as I earlier mentioned this is not a confession, this is just a chronicle of what a bipolar person’s every day might look like.

A Sisyphean Requiem

Like any other morning trying to prove its existence in this god forgotten part of the universe, the legions of grey shade were soon replacing their darker siblings. And like a shy maiden a pale ray of sunlight struck through the horizon barely emitting any significant heat. A crow cries for the unknown as it dashes across the city line in an attempt to complete the recurrence of such a melancholy and glum moment. An attempt that was loud enough to wake Frank up. At 42 Frank Leigh never tried to hide the marks time left on his ancient face, even as his hand reached out to turn off the squealing alarm, erosion was evident. Struggling to fit in his slippers, he finally manages to reach the kitchen, scratching his eyes as if hoping he’d wake up to a different day. Everything looked the same, even the factory smoke across the horizon. It just reminded him of yesterday, the day before and so on. But change was never really a necessity in this world, in fact It was considered a crime if it reached a certain extent. After a rather tedious drive he reached the colossal monolithic building he works at, ironically the building was never occupied by anyone else except him. But those were the firm’s policies and discontent was never an option.
Reaching for the door knob, Frank felt a bit dizzy and he almost fell if it wasn’t for the door itself. “What could it be?” he started wondering. “A suspicious cold? Or a sign of something greater that is yet to come?” He quickly ignored these doubts, as he pushed the heavy door and took the two sets of stairs leading to his office. A strange empty sound echoed in the corridor as the keychain hung from his hand in air. Many were identical and others just looked so bizarre. Every move he took brought him closer to his daily routine, a routine that seemed never ending after 20 years of devoted service. The moment he inserted the key, the lock’s mechanism clicked and a huge clock right above the door started ticking. Across the dark damp room were six wall clocks each pointing to a different timing, and again as usual the daily stack of papers resting on the old bulky desk. The task was simple; he had to stamp all the papers in front of him with an OK sign as told by his superiors. Superiors he never met but only managed to hear from through the bulletin board system that has grown to become a communication umbrella covering the entire country. When the first clock pointed to 8:00 Frank started stamping in a rhythm, unaware of anything else but the stack of papers in front of him. Every time he pounded the table a pale fading red OK would be left behind as his hand took off. This seemed the only way frank has ever managed to live and exist as part of the society, a society that did its best to banish all anomalies, and frank did what this society deemed best for him; stamping.
But the air felt different today, it was somewhat suffocating him. Every time he slammed the stamp a burden grew heavier on his back. Every time the clocks pointed to a new hour something crawled up his neck, he could feel it like needles driving through the flesh and digging deeper. “What is this?”Frank murmured “what sick sorcery is inflicting such a gruesome change?” slowly he puts his hand on the back of his neck and starts massaging it with his knuckle, a habit he got accustomed to since he was a child. It seemed to be relaxing but he knew his foe is waiting somewhere in the room. Hiding and lurking in one dark corner planning for his next attack. And before he could hold the stamp again he felt it choking him, to the point where he had to crack his jaws wide open with his fists but only a muffled shriek could be heard. Before he could realize anything Frank jumped from his chair in an unorthodox way for a man his age. Mesmerized for a few seconds he became conscious and completely aware that the inevitable has happened. An anarchist is orchestrating the cacophony of chaos in his mind, uninvited; this new guest took it on his own to alter the harmony which controlled Frank’s life. Looking for answers, he started dashing across the room thinking and droning on things he couldn’t comprehend. He implored all the ancient forgotten gods and icons, all the dictums he considered dogmatic. It seemed surreal but unmistakably vivid, it was a clear assertion; he no longer can repent or retract. Frank then noticed a ridiculously huge hammer kept inside a red metal box hanging on the wall next to him, and on the glass it read: “Break Glass In Case Of An Emergency.” What did that statement mean? What kind of emergency? And where was the box the moment he entered? Was it there but he couldn’t see it? How long has it been there? Thousands of answers and doubts invaded his mind like a stampede of bullets, Swarms of question marks leaving him so weak and confused.
Time was a factor he thought before breaking the glass with the chair and taking the hammer out. It was heavy but he managed to pull it all the way to the middle. Listening to the constant fainting beats of his heart in tempo with his heavy breathing, he closed his eyes to try and remember, analyze and assume. But as the darkness crawled into his head there was nothing left but a killer silent void. “Behold! The beauty of chaos!” he shouted before miraculously lifting the heavy tool and waving it in air and smashing the wall next to him, before he could stop for a gasp he was delivering the second strike to the clocks. And like David with his sling Frank hoists the hammer above his head before sending it swinging toward the giant door. Ironically the door stood still and seemed intact, just like the system he was trying to revolt against. Goliath seemed untroubled by this mutiny.
Amidst the shower of shattered glass, stone fractures and saliva Frank inhaled deeply despite this thick sparkling mixture. Limping toward the desk, he reaches for his pocket and takes out his sheathed pack of cigarettes. Silence was so overwhelming he could hear the flame burning through the dry tobacco leaves as he lit the roll and inhaled. A dry cough accompanied his puff as he leaned back on the desk while adjusting his position on the ground. Legs bent in front of him held by both of his arms, his head sank into his lap while he kept muttering words he didn’t recognize.
He couldn’t tell whether one hour passed, a year or a minute by the time he woke up. Frank no longer recognized time as the conquering master, for the first time in his life he was free. And to further insinuate this and assure himself he took off his tie and threw it away in a swift move. He was still gasping heavily but his heart was still pounding so fast he could hear it. But was it really his heart beat? Frank wondered as he touched the left side of his chest and found no significant movement. He became more nervous as the sound grew louder. “That is no heart beat” he whispered “those are footsteps.” And before he could stand up to face his new mysterious foe the lock’s mechanism clicked again and then entered an indistinguishable silhouette. Troubled as is, he couldn’t recognize the new individual. There was no similarity what so ever, on the contrary; this man was younger, strongly built and his neck tie was vibrant red, unlike frank’s pale one. But what worried him was what caught the attention of his eyes upon the entry of his guest, a name tag on the chest that read: “Frank Leigh.” The most fearsome day has come, his substitute has arrived. And just like the former uninvited guest this one inflicted even more fear and anxiety into his heart. He seemed discontented and annoyed by the mess Frank created. He looked in doubt at the questionable decaying figure in front of him but still didn’t mind or complain when he grabbed the chair and sat down, sinking into his elbows as he pounded the desk with them. A second or two passed before his entire existence was shaken and toppled again. A deafening noise filled the room as the retro phone resting on the table announced the arrival of an even more gruesome omen. With his motor skills in such a critical state, Frank almost fell off the chair when he first heard it. He could feel the other guy was standing next to him, stripping his thoughts with his eyes and breathing fire at his soul. His mouth was running dry he tried to swallow his fear and anxiety in but a lump of despair suffocated him. The room was getting smaller, his body shrinking, and his frantic heart panicking in a bone shield that has became a prison. And just before he picked up; there surfaced the distinctive stench of death. A distant serious voice was on the other side. “Yeah I totally understand sir.” Frank said as he hung up. He then looked at the other man and said: “It’s time you finish what I started.” And only then did he remember all the small details about his life, which to his surprise weren’t less boring than his present. That same presence he gave up a few hours ago seemed so futile now that his life was taking a turn toward its last destination. He couldn’t find a reason to regret anything; remorse seemed ironic for there wasn’t really anything to yearn for. He flinched for the thought of it but it took him a few moments to accept his fate and face it. He wanted to ask for one last favor, a request or a wish but he feared they would enjoy this as a moment of triumph and that alone was a loss he couldn’t afford. The new Frank now grasped his neck and before he could recoil he heard the sleek cold metal hacking through his dry skin, his own veins shred before a warm shy stream of blood muffled this sonata. Slowly he sank into his chair, feeling dizzy and embracing what appeared to be a light at the end of a very dark and narrow tunnel.
Frank Leigh wiped the last drop of blood of f the table and placed the napkin carefully in an envelope he stowed in the drawer. The room was back to its original state, not a detail seemed exotic. He lined the stack of papers carefully in front of him, patiently waiting for the first clock across the room to point at 8:00. He wasn’t annoyed or troubled by the routine. And in a dark corner above him time was lurking for the wait to be over; to start a new chapter of his never ending saga.

Of Honey, Pistachios and Cacophony

It's the northern region this time, the city of Tripoli to be exact. The drums of another civil war seem to be calling for more blood. A city once infamous for its history, heritage, religious state and sweets is now raging with organized sectarian conflicts, or not to sound pessimistic allow me to say miniature ones. You can't really tell who is fighting who up in the north but one thing is certain; the hands controlling and clapping to this puppet show are in no way of Lebanese origin.

The north was and still is a fertile ground for any demographic experiments other countries ( friends or foes ) have been running. It's a place where international borders go unnoticed and religious ones are threatened every day. And what else would make the Syrian government threaten more than once to take over the region should the Lebanese one prove impotent. Like any other Arab country Syria quite well understands the threats of a misguided religious extreme faction.

In fact Lebanon had its own share in 2007, where after sustaining some 5 months of shelling and siege the Nahr Al Bared Camp finally fell into the hands of the Lebanese army when the Fatah Al Islam terrorist faction deliberately assaulted and killed members of the Lebanese ISF. And to no one's amazement, most members of the so far called Fatah Al Islam were non Lebanese. While this is not the first time foreign interference had innocent Lebanese blood on its hands, we shouldn't let such a serious threat go unnoticed.

Every now and then a new faction rises to the surface with a new threat or statement threatening the foes of its supporters. And just like most of the Jihad videos that pursued the 9/11 era, all what you need is a Beard - Keffiyeh Combo, any cheap camcorder will do since the public will be interested in your message and not your facial characteristics. Add a few AK47's leaning against the wall and a flag with your faction's logo on it in the background. And of course let us not forget the catchy name that should be inspired by names derived from ancient heroes, leaders or conquests.

Islam is not new to the north, neither is strict and untainted faith and practice. But what's really alien and foreign is utilizing those to incite schism amongst the Lebanese themselves, and it really is a disappointment when you know that a city with such a history that dates back to 1400 BC and an unmatched heritage, is falling to pieces as foreign hands and shadow governments take their share of the pie unnoticed.