The right hand of a tardy person
Hope is the burden of the future. I can, in so many words, start whenever I want, but you won’t believe my character. Because what I am looking for requires some kind of authority, that’s why I try to mock, ironically, what is going on around me. I am irritable. I haven’t published one novel so far, because I don’t have the patience to coordinate my thoughts. I can write anything, but using words like “TV” or “Computer” in poetry seems a bit ridiculous to me. I will now open two buttons of my shirt and try to plait a braid in my hair. I really need a cigarette though I am not a smoker. The scene just tempts so. I am a young man by the way, very funny when I am alone, and make up a lot of situations to take a violent attitude from them, and then, when a beautiful young lady who writes poetry comes to me, I don’t believe her and start mocking her. Sarcasm in the end is my favorite hobby, and people, most people, are very innocent, very weak, and take me and my words seriously. I forgot to say that I use lot of color in my clothes, and I have a piercing that combines my right with my left at some point in my nose. I will leave me now in a room which becomes narrow when the curtains are opened and wider when there are shadows on the floor. Description is language’s favorite game.
The first dream:
On these walls circulates an idiotic ghost that smells like my mother but doesn’t look like her. There are stars following him that make the corners wet with their spittle.
All the trees that I have known in my life are barren; they strip but don’t bear fruit, only women, I made them pregnant with my thoughts so I can continue. What filth! I spit and wipe my sleeve with my mouth. Just a little smell from her and I would have thought human sin had started from there. Street lamps don’t see who passed in front of them, so will never give me the direction of her.
The second dream:
What if the buses had walls without windows? I turn my face and I only find shadows. I don’t really understand the meaning of being free as long as there are people who seek to monitor and rate my actions. They say do whatever you want, but we will hold you accountable for this. Those are the big cities, the ones that make you feel the emptiness in your being, opened to everything, but you are so tardy.
The third dream:
I hear a crackle and I realize that the electricity has been cut off. Hahahaha, no I am not in Syria, but I want to get out of the house. I have plenty of time to talk to myself.
The fourth dream:
My memories are suspended like wet street lamps. I know it is a feminine thing that shouldn’t be traded with me, but nostalgia almost suffocates me. Did she really return to love stealthily, without even bearing my name with her? My lover was a feminist, and when she realized that she could not convince all girls of the importance of her issue, she abandoned me.
The fifth dream:
Belief in a thing, any kind of thing, differs itself from hope, and its followers are fiercer and indifferent to rumors. Those people I pretend to respect because I can’t confront them, and frequently if they didn’t die because of their thoughts, they will lose faith in them little by little; there is nothing worth dying for.
The sixth dream:
I am a coward who loves tragedies and wars, and I see lust especially in lying and shabbiness. The poor-weak personality tempts me because it reminds me of my humanity. So when I meet a prostitute or a child crying on the edge of the pavement, I check my coat and bend down to give him a tissue expressing my deep respect. I am tacky; I still argue about religion and study languages and grammar without complaining.
The seventh dream:
My problem has always been with the intellectuals of newspapers, who complain about the lack of time, and read articles instead of books and adopt ready short ideas. My problem is with those who use the pronoun “we” in their literature and write as if they were giving a public speech. I hate them, because they don’t believe in the individuality of the human being and forcibly gather their readers into one circle to get involved in the text with them. I fear them because they comfort their consciences with writing.
The eighth dream:
Who forced the dead to sit in their graves?
The ninth dream:
haha.. Streets can’t handle the names of women, hahaha, no slogans of hope, only small lamps fill the darkness. haha, there will be a street in my name someday. I will not ask them to make a statue, my curves don’t necessary matter. hahaha..
A topical and last dream :
I wish I were a novel character, so the author could be responsible for all his troubles and worthless language. I also hope not to pay more taxes.
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