If I Just, Definitively, Fall down

Do not hold a memory with anything, except with that monster, who is growing up slowly, elegantly inside you,
your fear.

Places are just an individual fantasies, wooden patches for bodies thrown on it with a dice futility,
for other bodies that will be the pawns of the game, which the dice chooses their moves.

all houses, which you will descend then leave,
starting with your mother womb,
are just a nice forced dungeons, to reduce the size of fear, to gather it fully in a room, then trying to beat it,
a room that you will share with nice, rude, guests,
or live in, alone
then in both cases, you will love to furnish it with some of you, of “your fingerprints”: that here you were.
as if that will mean a thing, to someone, one day,
just another absurdities.
the tomb is the only property that no one will share with or snatch of you, except that monster,
he will necessarily be buried with you,
or to be more accurate he will be had become all you, had become you.


Friends, or to be more personalized, the friend,
if the chaos of life, coincidently, gave you a one,
the memory will be with him, a spontaneous fabrication, embellished or distorted, incomplete or excessive, painful or fragile,
anything or everything;
except what exactly happened,
a game and a curse for the two of you,
the hidden ability of both of you, with the spontaneous sensual convinced non-agreed participation, to imagine the memories instead of remembering them.
depending on the mood of the moment.
depending on how much, each of you needs to feel, that he owns there, in the far, a solid wall, can back to it, squatting behind it, broken, scared,
whenever the vacuum whirlpools intensified on the self.

Schizophrenia, if you were lucky enough to be infected with, is the “faithful buddy”, is your radiant completeness, in terms of being your utter antithesis.
who is the “always here with you”, despite places difference, moods difference, everything difference, in terms of being an internal beautiful difference of you, in you, with you.
Is to always keep, unconsciously and unawareness, that creative wonderful conflict between “mind and instinct”,
to watch it satisfactorily, without championing any of them.


– A retrieving try of what can be a memory:
It bites me, every night, as I am lying down, near you, while you are asleep,
the loneliness bites me,
at the same spot,
infixes its fangs, in those old holes across the heart wall, where I tried for the first time putting it between a wolf fangs;
that was when my mother visited me for the first time, after a year and a half of detention, for three minutes that were not enough to tell me about what my absence did to her,
was not even enough to cry the tears she jailed in her heart for a year and a half, waiting for that moment.
Those three minutes itself were enough for the wolf to shutter its fangs on my heart, while I am hearing her shriek among the soldiers forcing her to leave. “for God sake, just let me give him the socks I brought, its cold in Sydnaea*”

what deformed me that day, that I was forced to smile as I am cutting my mouth with a blade”don’t wary my beloved, you know me, I don’t feel the cold. next visit you can bring them with you”.
there, behind the bars of the “court cage”, ready with a trembling heart to receive a five-year prison sentence, ready with a roaring heart, while my mother’s hand looming to me holding the socks, to eat the flesh of all of them,
its day, I became half a bird, half a beast, with half a living heart, and another half a dead,
I almost became without memory,
rather, it shuttered on a heart exhausted by pain, no longer able even to the silent whining,
that was when I hugged her for the last time, before being entirely snatched, to the ends of North,
its day I almost transformed, inside her, to just a doubtful memory, a distorted memory,
her son, her little child, became just a distorted memory, ugly and painful
a beast with a half heart.


Do not hold a memory with anything, except with that monster, who is growing up slowly, elegantly inside you,
your fear,
your fear, that your rancour against the world comes out at once,
or stifles you to death,
as you are lying down, near her, she is asleep,
and the loneliness bites you,

– O my love, why did not you wake me up to bite it?
– How do I?
and it always has your teeth, even that it has your smile, and every time I am just about to kiss it,
the smell stops me, the smell of its mouth, is not your mouth smell, but the smell of a wolf’s stomach starving inside me.
– I did not understand that much!
– You are my mirror, which I am trying hard not to break, so what is here comes out.



The legend says: When the blood of a man is mixed with the blood of an animal, they become companions.


In 1989, I was about five years old, and there were relatives of us in the area of the Demas neighbourhood in the countryside of Damascus. We were their visitors one of the holidays.
Near their house, there was a small zoo recently opened,
I do not remember from all what was in it, except that there was a wolf,
I was wearing a new sneaker, bigger than my feet,
I remember passing one of my foot through the cage’s bars to make the wolf angry, it bite my feet, scratched the top of my big toe,
its day, what protected my toes from being a meal for the wolf, was that my shoes were slightly larger than my feet,
with time, my steps become smaller than the place I set foot, I walk groggy, and what protects me from falling, that I am always pulled with a thousand hooks in my flesh,
with each step, I peel off slowly, without losing my balance,
if I just, definitively, fall down.


*Sydnaea: A big military prison, specially designed for political prisoners, placed in a top of a mountain in a village called Sydnaea, near Damascus, the capital of Syria,
during the winter the temperature reaches minus 25, in that mountain, without any heating tools inside the jail.   

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