There’s no need to address this, but, my testicles are swollen with shame. I would relieve myself of this shame if I were even somewhat willing to touch myself, lest, I am not. I feel nothing but filth when I caress my body now, and what is wrong with filth? I don’t know... I did not always have such reservations for filth, in fact, there was a time, when I had no conception of filth at all. Why should dirt be bothersome? Am I not entirely dirt? Fine, I am water too... water and dirt, so be it. What difference is there between my body and “filth”, that I should feel so ashamed to touch myself? How does one begin to identify the elements of filth? Is it simply the debris of my existence? If so, I have littered whole hearts and shanks! Well, I did not impose this idea upon myself, so, it must be that, a super-imposition, distilled within me by this arbitrarily sterile environment. I wish to feel no shame in “filth, the debris of my existence”. Who am I kidding... I don’t need to wish anymore. All my wishes have come true, after all, I am dying. Is death filthy? No, I mean, is my dead body filthy? Is my body destined to become a seething pile of filth, or is it already that now? I can feel it all now, the piling up, a film on my skin, an odor, not a scent but an odor, unlike the blossoming flower, more akin to a corpse, in decay, that forever negative bloom. You think I’m ugly... well, I feel ugly. On the up and up, filthy or not, I am rapidly approaching death, or, it is hurtling toward me rather, and though time is only trudging past, I am comforted in knowing I will feel no shame where I am going.
How long have I been like this... Weeks? Days? Months? I could never keep track of keeping track of time... and now it seems it was never keeping track of me either. I’m not dreaming anymore. One must sleep in order to dream, right? Well, I’m not sleeping anymore either. To sleep is to prepare for another day, another time, chance or opportunity to live... these hopes are frail to me now... empty old promises propagated by time, that overbearing father, whom I’ve become increasingly weary of since the moment we met. There is no technology or knowledge capable of repairing, or even mending, the damage I’ve done to myself. I have only faith and love to live for, with what little living I do. Well, what should be said of the living I do? I cannot rightfully say it is little, after-all, as many, many events are occurring inside of me. Yes, the future unfolds in the form of my anatomy, doesn’t it? Or is it dependent on my willingness to identify the I of myself within the organelle of each and every cell? Where in the fiber of my autonomous matter am I to find love? If I do find it, which mountain may I summit to cry out to God>? This is no love song, I have no voice to sing with, I know love like I know light now, as a memory, of life, the wondrous dream. Something magical has taken place, in this very room, in the presence of these piles and my bitter decay... I was sitting here, same as I am now and, beyond the yawn of this relentless music which refuses to cease itself, I heard a hum...
A buzzing, beyond my door. To what pleasure do I a such a humming buzz? Why... it couldn’t be... have I a languished visitor?! No... who would bring me their anguish? I am not even deserving of that and, honestly, I am unwilling to accept it from strangers anymore. I have enough anguish of my own you, buzzing bastard... buzz off, or fuck off, I don’t care which.... or do I? May I? Well, I must tell you now, in all my desperation and deprecation, I do, very well, indeed, care. This buzzing bastard may indeed be the tender plush of woman I am always seeking the warmth of... I lied! I am not seeking, I do not seek, warmth simply falls upon me. It is the falling of this warmth which has sustained my life so long since the incident which should have killed me, in fact. The strange, silky female visitor I received sometime in my previous letters, was not to be the last between then and now. She did, in fact, visit me again, I am shameful to admit, and in exchange of those perfectly ripe, eight luscious bananas, I performed my proverbial duties... as one might say, I fucked the bananas out of her. Again, she called me by that strange name, “Enkidu”, but otherwise, did not speak much at all. I don’t mind that she didn’t speak despite that name... it was warmth and bananas I was after, after all, not cold, sterile, meaningless words from a filthy warm mouth. This is not to say the warmth itself is any more meaningful... in fact, it too is so meaningless, that aside from this strange, silky woman who calls me “Enkidu”, more women, whom I care not enough to depict, have come in conquest of my proverbial services since her first visit. How should I care? Understand me well, sex is meaningless to me. I fuck everyone and everything. Aside from the fact it makes me ill, I cannot even apply meaning to it! It may be true, that without love, all sex is rape. I fear, if this is truly the case, these women come here with the intent of mutual, consensual rape. How could it not be so? In my condition, I am nothing more than a throbbing cock, attached to a broken machine, which still fucks, but fucks too hard. No... there is some tenderness, and there is consent, and there is something in the way of vulnerability... but there is no love, no whisper of the eternal. It is all warmth and bananas to me. I’ve had enough warmth, in fact, I feel hot, not warm, but hot... I am sweating now, just thinking of all this warmth. Well... there is one thing even more troublesome on this subject... all this warmth came knocking upon my door, where now there is only a buzzing hum, and this buzzing hum, too, once came to my door with a knock.
I crawled to the door like I had so many times before, apathetic and nauseated about myself. When I opened the door, I was not greeted by some warm woman, no, I was not greeted at all. This buzzing manifested itself in the form of my greatest fear... my dear hummingbird had flown my way, and patiently hummed outside my door. Why did I fear the arrival of this sweet hummingbird? Well, once one has convinced themselves that they are in love with a hummingbird, the hummingbird in question becomes a haunting enigma, whose presence is preceded by a doubt of the presence itself. Like all things intoxicating, one feels that each and every meeting is an inevitable last; and that time in between, of longing and yearning, becomes more real than the meeting itself. How do I say... the hummingbird’s wings eclipse the sun and cast a shadow upon me.
How did I know it was a hummingbird, as opposed to say...a blue jay, or a robin, or a nightingale, you wonder? Look you, I know birds... and more... Please, I am much more perceptive than I am intellectual. This is to say, I am a matter of spirit... these bodies are nothing more than vestiges to me and I know the spirit of myself in likeness to others. My dear hummingbird is only a hummingbird of this spirit, whose body is a fleeting trace of itself, even now. All this is to say, that even in this darkness... I feel her near. Upon opening the door and the realization of her presence, I helplessly collapsed to the floor, as to act as a doormat, or simply a humbling gesture. Naturally, with indifference, she floats right over me into the room. The hum no longer hums outside my door, but instead hums inside. I shut the door, lock it, begin to crawl, don’t know why... toward what? Toward whom? Why? I find myself amongst piles, hemmed in by the hum, drowning in the buzz... then comes the anxiety... she is here, I am here, we are here, what are we doing? What are we? She is the hummingbird, I am... I am... ?
Laying on the floor. I am shivering, I am cold, I am afraid. My left foot is completely numb, my stomach is very upset with me and won’t tell me why. I smell like my father. I am disgusted with myself. She is humming around the room like a bad omen, I hear her bouncing off the walls, a fly trapped in a jar... or a soul, trapped in a body. I hear her... I can’t imagine, I try to... I shouldn’t... I shouldn’t try to, I shouldn’t imagine. She is here, she is real, there is no more imagining. I’ve waited exactly one thousand and one nights for this moment. She has a body, I hear it now, I hear her now, I hear her trapped, trapped inside her body. I feel myself, I’m trapped too. I’m trapped here too. She is tiring herself, she is becoming exhausted. I am exhausted too; but I’m not tired. We are not the same.
She lies down to rest, on my bed, like a human. Where do hummingbirds sleep? She is human... I keep telling myself this, she is human, she is human, trying to convince myself. Trying not to wonder anymore; what does it mean to be human? I don’t know. I’ve never felt human myself. I don’t know what I am. What am I? I am an Arab. I am an Arab man. Is that human? Is her, hummingbird, not her, human? What is her human? She is White. She is a White woman... Is that human?
The humming dies down, the buzz dies too. Her wings are still buzzing, buzzing away, it’s her voice that dies down, becomes quiet in the room. Because I’m not human, I don’t hear her voice. I hear her, I remember every word, I could recite every word she has ever spoken to me, but I am not human, am I? I do not listen, I do not hear her voice, I’m incapable of imitation. I feel ugly. I do not know how she feels, I guess, she feels ugly too. I am not human... you are not human, you don’t treat me like a human, I don’t treat you like a human. I treat you as a hummingbird. How are hummingbirds treated?
Hummingbird, how do you treat me?
From some dark corner, she beckons me, “...Atta...”
... I don’t believe in free will. She calls me Atta. I hate this name. I prefer Enkidu, I prefer Sidi Nu’uman, I prefer even Dajjal... I prefer anything, everything, than to be called Atta. I do not know much, but this name, Atta, I know. I know the meaning of this name more than any other. This name means terror. This name means fear. This name means anger. This name means rage. I am not these things. My name bears no title. I am the orphan son of corpses, a vestige of the mud. No name suits me... which ever name you pick is of equal offense. When you call me the name of terror, I become terror. When you call me the name of fear, I become fear. So when I call you hummingbird, what do you become? You become my distortion, nothing I call you can manifest in matter; you remain. Thus, I am your distortion, an object of delusion, and you’re mine too. Hummingbird, is that human? But I don’t call you hummingbird, my voice can’t carry it, neither can it carry your name. I call you nothing... I don’t call you, knowing that I’m incapable of defining you, even for a moment, I simply whimper in your direction. Oftentimes, you do not respond, or even react. Your indifference toward me may be wise, it may be learned, it may simply be indifference... whatever it is, when I am in pain and I seek you, your indifference only hurts me more. But I don’t let you know this, because I know it’s my fault, know it only burdens you to know I hurt. I don’t wish to interrupt you, or impose myself on you, as I know many men already have. I wish I could tell you how much I admire your indifference, how I wish to emulate it, how I wish to embody it as gracefully as you. But there is no way for these words to come from my lips without the weight of covert manipulation. So, oftentimes I am silent, in between desperate cries for attention, for you to look at my wounds; though I know you cannot mend them, I wish for you to know that they are, indeed, there, and where, by chance, if you ever touch me, you’ll know exactly where it hurts. I once knew a young doctor from Jordan... he wandered upon me lying naked near the water, on an isolated riverbank, drawing myself in the mud with a stick on a mid-summer day. He smiled uncomfortably and apologized for intruding as he turned to leave, but I stopped him, and welcomed him to lay on the riverbed next to me. I could sense his presence was gentle, and warm, and I felt no discomfort. He approached me with the caution one would take with a wild animal, then sat near me, understanding of my unpredictability. The lack of intimidation between us was mutually humbling, and from that humble seat in the mud sprouted a blossoming kinship which lasted exactly one day and one night. Then, we would never see one another again. In that time, we shared memories from our childhoods, dreams of our motherland, and everything else the sun sets aflame. In all our conversations, he showed me sincere kindness, understanding and never once, even in his silence, displayed a whim of vindication. Something he said to me that day has never left my mind; because he had studied the human anatomy so thoroughly, he could not act violently in any way toward another person, as he knew the exact repercussion of his actions. He mentioned that as this also applied to animals and plants, it motivated him to become a vegan, though he struggled with consuming plant life still. I understood this... his appreciation for the sentience of every other life form was the source of his suffering. So deeply was he afflicted by this knowledge, I wondered if he would have only found solace in starving himself to death? Surely not, as his own suffering was dwarfed by the suffering he saw in others. It was the suffering of others which motivated him to obtain the knowledge which would become the source of his own suffering in the first place. I could see the wishful dream of renunciation in his eyes, and thought that, maybe, this dream was truly his will to live. Naturally, I inquired about how this affliction affected his sex life. At this, he softened himself more and, overwhelmed with shameful sorrow, simply averted his gaze onto the river, and then his feet. Hummingbird, I am open... my wounds are visible to any naked eye and defenseless to the touch of any hand. Is this the source of your indifference? Do you know the doctor’s affliction yourself? Upon our parting, I wished only to kiss this man... not out of pity, but from my own yearning, to express the warmth we shared in our vulnerability. Perhaps my feelings for him were slightly homosexual. After-all, I had never known such tenderness in another man... devoid of the poisonous, fragile masculinity which I myself grew to embody beneath the pressure of my environment...no... he kept his self open like the blossoming tulip, whose divine strength is dependent on it’s own vulnerability to any temperament or weather bestowed upon it in a gracious light. Such tenderness should be revered as the beauty of beauties! Hummingbird, you know me... I am not beautiful.
Again, from that dark corner, she beckons, “Atta... come here...”
I crawl to her. I am always crawling to her. By the time I reach her, she is quiet, still, and indifferent, laying in my bed. My bed smells like me, and I smell like my father. In a little chirp, she despises my scent. Then I feel it... this old anxiety, again.... of course, you despise my body odor... you despise my body. Hummingbird, you are every white woman whose ever fucked me, in fact, the differences between you and them are always fleeting. What attracts me to you is not your body, which, in all honesty... I despise your body just as much as you despise mine. How do I describe your scent? It is heavenly... sweet and warm... like pine trees on a humid spring afternoon. But, most of this is adornment, as you bathe yourself in strange chemicals. Sometimes I feel tricked by your scent, as I’ve known your people to smell like chlorine, plastic, empty pill bottles and such. The words you use to describe my body odor evoke feelings of disgust. I’ve heard them so often that I dread to even repeat them, so I won’t. My contempt for your body is only an accident, a consequence, as I know your contempt for mine is too. I tend to cherish your body, like any other thing. I respect that it does not belong to me, that I can’t control it... in that, I accept your body exactly as it is, and cherish it as such, unconditionally. You do not cherish my body this way. You degrade me with every insult you can find inside yourself. You use words toward me that I wouldn’t use against my worst enemy. Your breath always reeks of alcohol when you’re with me. I’ve accepted this and every other part of you, knowing it is all temporary and outside of my control. I lay silently while you degrade me. It does not give me pleasure, though I understand how you may think so. No, my masochism is not sexual, the way yours is. You ask what music is playing, if I can turn it off? No. I tell you we are listening to Aphex Twin, and you believe me, when the music playing is Stockhausen. We are listening to Iannis Xenakis, you idiot, you don’t know anything, but the birds chirping outside my window tell me there is a tremendous light in this room now, even though I cannot see it... here, I have half of you, laying with less than half of me in my bed.
Hesitantly, I reach out to touch you. In this moment, I don’t know if I intend to caress you, restrain you, make love to you or murder you. I don’t know that I’ve ever known the difference between any of these acts. I seem to have connected them all ideologically. My hand remains suspended in a state of moral, intellectual and psychological paralysis with the rest of me. I do not consider this a privilege of myself, but an exceptional phenomenon. Nothing belongs to me. I’ve haunted the Earth like light itself; accidentally penetrating, miraculously flourishing. Meeting you realized an ancient myth, awakening deep within me. It ruined my nihilistic sex life. I wished to never spurt my semen away from the womb again. To do so would exorcise my will to live. Does one will to live or not to live? No pictures exist of us together. Nobody ever desired to be photographed with me because they truly wished to forget my existence entirely, as if I were an inverse image, a negative, a nightmare to dream. You are no exception. This is why I leave traces of myself. It is not as if I were born with an incessant need to be remembered. It wasn’t until I was confronted with the constant death of my own memory, or, had witnessed the murder of the memory of myself in everybody but myself, that I felt so compelled to surrender to this occupation, that is to say, “Fuck you.”. You’ll understand the misunderstanding of me, exactly how I will understand you. Hummingbird, you know this as well as I do. It is not a matter of ownership or belonging, but penetration, temperament, cyclic survival. The recurrence of myself takes place within you, not because you let it, but because I forced it. I don’t believe in free will, simply unknowing. You told me that my silence is more powerful than these words I’m so keen on brandishing, but I already knew, I’ve known all along. That’s why I can’t turn this music off... I don’t need to long for silence... it is immanently looming. Thus power to me is inevitable, which is why I feel so powerless now. I know I can touch you, but I don’t want to. You know you can touch me and I don’t know what stops you. Laying next to each other, the bed begins to feel like a dark cloud, full of rolling thunder. By the time I reach you, the touch becomes lightning. As my fingertips caress your shoulder, I feel you jump as if I shocked you, so again, I retreat. You do not react, not now, to lightning. It is only when I touch you with fire that you react, and I am the same. We are segregated in this space which confines us. In that strange way, everything that is you and I is confined in this space. It is this sensitivity within each of us, driving a repulsive delicacy. I know I can grab you by the neck and fuck your brains out, that’s how we met after all, but neither of us are interested in that now. If anything, we are similarly ashamed of it... sex seems irrelevant now, but we both know this isn’t true. If it were as irrelevant it seems, you wouldn’t insist on telling me about all the other men you fuck. This is the fire you touch me with, jealousy, that powerful fear. I used to let myself react to this, with that old idea of possession drilled neatly into my skull, but I’ve since learned better, at least I like to think so... as blind and deathly sick as I am, it is still not beyond me to track down and castrate those cocks you suck from those cocks you suck, or at least the one I’m competing with for your affection. What used to be a single nights work of jealous rage hunting might take me some nights now, considering my current condition. What does one do with the corpse belonging to a lover of a lover? There is no way to truly bury it, that is, the earth doesn’t decompose memory, it simply recycles it. The last dream I can remember, I heard the poet’s voice speaking through me in a vast whiteness, something I had never read in his writing, just heard then in his ghostly voice; “It is no wonder we live in fear of ourself... we are cannibals, scared to death of admitting our desire for flesh of kin. We are cannibals, nonetheless, we eat ourselves out of each other... we are cannibals, unknowingly enough to be the cannibals we are ...” and I woke wondering who he meant when he said “we”, the poet whose name is scrawled across the gateway to the sun... he must have been talking to himself again. What you don’t know, in this mind game we play, is that I’ve acted on these jealous impulses many times before, and the lesson to be learned from acting on such impulses has been severely ingrained in me, having never been able to wash that taste of flesh out of my mouth. Jealousy is a lethal emotion, so it must be life or death when I act on it. Having acted on it so many times has left me feeling dissonant, where the behavior has become comfortable with repetition, but never produces the desired results, instead causing more harm to the both of us, which may have been my desired result. Yes, I have also considered that I am the only one competing with myself for your affection, resulting in a powerful jealousy of myself... I’ve acted on that impulse as well... only half-heartedly, obviously.
Like the sun and the moon... how our bodies seemed to be pulled in one direction. All my life I’ve traced a simple circle, so I’ve never known to resist as I was being pulled away. Even now, I’m tracing that circle. I’ve wondered if all our being together culminates in one instant, or, if we cycle along on our own accord? The truth may lie in some indifferent valley between the two, but I am no longer capable of transcending valleys or peaks, for each finite end carries a whole of myself which I have neither the strength or space to carry alone. The whole of my life explains nothing of myself. Which is why I’ve devoted so much of it to God; that word I’ve withheld, blinded by it’s whiteness. That word I’ve never spoken to you, in all the ways it’s been used to imprison you, I’ve feared, to speak it would only poison my own tongue should it do the same. With no other word of my own belonging, which word does not poison or imprison us? I’ve sought refuge in silence how... desperately I needed to love you.
How did loving become so deadly? I know I am trapped in a falsehood... from where has this lie come? Whose lie have I succumb to live? Whether my intent sways from wrath to forgiveness, is all trampled by my own knowing of death. Who lives to die in a life that begins and ends in death? Is a life defined by death a life at all? How many attempts... burning... a seething luxury of my memory... perhaps my most selfish, barbaric act was suicide. What was my life but my only belonging? A precious treasure held tightly within my chest. I am not like an animal... I am exactly that; an animal. Does the question arise, how I am living beyond suicide? Well, in order to answer that question, one must answer a broader question; is there life after death? To which I reply; Yes! I am living proof! Thus those attempts I made to die were actually quite successful, in all the ways they’ve grown to define me. I had no misconception of death beforehand, where you strike me as the type to perceive death as a forever place of darkness, I know it well, you have the two confused, it is this life you’ve mistake for death. In fact, it is exactly your misconception of death which I am now living.
Yes, my love... I abandoned you to yourself. Why? Because you are racist. No. My tolerance for your weaponized white feminisms died at that last fetishized and perverted remark you made about my already fetishized and perverted, distorted, malnourished and mutilated benign mass of a body. Which I have no desire to continue living in, while in your presence, that is. It is you who makes a monster of me. Otherwise, I’ve sustained the malleability of clay, or mud, or sand... all substances I’d prefer to take the form of than to be trapped inside this thing I become in front of you, or any of you people... who subject me to endless humiliation, death and destruction. So... I forced you to leave, the evil pig bitch you are. What makes you think you’re entitled to my forgiveness? For what you’ve done to me, and by the nature of your stupidity and ignorance endowed to you by your privilege, you deserve nothing but my wrath! For the humiliation you’ve caused me... how you’ve humiliated my people... this cancerous humiliation stretching across our generations... which has become hereditary, it seems, this hereditary seed of humiliation which you’ve sewed in me, in the land of my people, which has been watered with our own blood... Go. Go now, you racist white bitch, get the fuck out! Before I gut you, right here, for the Natives, and the rest of us niggers, who you’ve forced to live in exile on this land. Leave, for your screams alone will relieve the pressure of your silence. Your cunt affords you the last ounce of my humility, so go, go now - no - hush! shut the fuck up, that whore mouth. You suck and fuck every grain of sand out of us. Not me. Not from this corpse! I will make brown babies, and they will grow to spite you, they will loathe you, they will destroy you because I have failed. I will make more Arab children... one hundred Arab children, one hundred THOUSAND Arab children, ONE HUNDRED MILLION Arab children will grow from me to hear the sacred voice of Allah! Because I FUCK because I ACT because I am not a man, I am the bridge mankind will come to cross!
No, you are wrong, I do not share the supremacy complex of your people. Nor I am obsessed with fetishizing skin color, or blood quantum, or genealogies or bodies or any of that excessive and fictitious white supremacist, survival of the fittest, Darwinist bullshit. Evolutionary theory does not even favor you, and you are the ones writing said theories! What? No, it absolutely does apply to you. It applies to all of you white people. You are all racist by default. What default? Your privilege, you idiot, your fucking white privilege. That vile cancer embedded in your heart, dragging us all blindly into oblivion. And you will be no exception, though you will not understand this until it is too late. So what can I do... I cannot love you. I can pretend to, knowing it is not true love, but I must choose not to. For you are not deserving of my love, nor are you even capable of feeling it... not here, not under these circumstances and conditions. I am incapable of truly loving you, and you are incapable of loving at all. For this life, at least... but I will love, for there is hope buried deep in the land. Hope which not even I can unearth or disguise; an inevitable, divine, almost fateful hope burns within me. It burns as if it were the sun itself, and there is nothing that you or I, or anyone or anything can do to extinguish this fire within me. Not even the death of the sun itself could relinquish this eternal flame burning within me; and of the women I will husband and the children I will father, an army will grow, and they will crush you; they will defeat your supremacy and achieve freedom, equality, and true liberation for themselves and all of Earth!
No wonder you are so miserable... you do not know what love is... and I will not be the one to tell you, or show you how. Oh, hummingbird... you left long ago... and since you’ve left, I’ve sat here soaking in this dark puddle of myself I forget to call “moonlight”. I don’t know how long it has been since you left, sitting here, paralyzed by this endless trance of darkness, allowing myself to succumb to the hallucinations and delusions I have become, and worse, that horrible, terrifying, apocalyptic animal fear from which I came, to which I’ve again been reduced to. What can I say about the presence of your absence? I’ve lived a life enraptured by it, long before you fluttered those little meaningless wings of yours around me... wings which I used to believe in... which I used yearn to grow from my own back, only to learn had they grown there, they could not carry the weight of me. No, those wings of yours would drop me, the stone I am, even deeper into this abyss than I ever thought imaginable... but, did I ever imagine this? I am left alone here with less than your ghost, but a shadow of the ghost which is you, which I now call myself. The piles have remained the same in this terrarium of a prison, except for the piles of banana peels which have begun to rot, attracting fruit flies from who knows where... I only know of them because they’ve found an alternate food source in the open wound which is my face, still mutilated, even further in its process of decay, having left it so unattended, having nothing to tend to it with. They swarm me even now, though I can offer no resistance, as what little strength I have left has been concentrated on keeping my fingertips slapping against keys, all instinctually, of course. Worst of all is the sound... the relentless buzzing and itch... you took the music with you, it seems... no, I had left the CD playing on repeat for so long, it inevitably decayed and degraded with each play, and despite the improbability of this stuck-on-an-island-what-would-you-bring scenario, what I had brought has been depleted into silence and I am left with nothing but myself, with the absence of an island. So much of myself, in fact, that having no food left to eat, nobody and nothing else to relay on, my body has begun to digest itself from the inside out. I can feel the decay growing inside me, an insatiable hunger to consume itself and it will, it will. For I have nothing left to feed it. And this is the monster you’ve created, hummingbird, living inside of me. Yes, this is the physical product, the real cost of your “love”.
Bodies. Corpses. It is all my fault, I did it first, in fact, I sought it out as if it were destiny and how could I not, knowing oblivion would accept me so willingly and unannounced? Where all else had rejected me, no, where all else had been deprived of me. It is not enough to say I was was rejected in the face of my deprivation in its totality. One must say I was deprived to achieve that exactness of reality. So I chased that exactness. I lived in pursuit of your branded oblivion. Arms and heart wide open to the sky, the gardens of doom, white clouds, a blossoming flower in a sanctuary for hummingbirds. A perpetual state of escape I sought refuge, asylum in foreign women’s wombs, hoping someday to build a home away from myself there. and I believed this cheap trick every time, I fell for it. You came in every shape and size, and texture, temperature and temperament, too, with less clever distinctions than I had allowed myself to see; still you were all, always, the same fantastical entity, I learned, I had to use, in order to escape the cataclysmic reality of this body I was born into and for what... I had mistaken for love in an image sold to me at the cost of my soul... my soul, loomed of a love you will never know, which I had come to forget the existence of in the intoxication of your presence, my soul, returned to me here in your absence for what... this memory of nightmares who bears your eyes and face and warmth of touch; cold, bony, strangely artificial sweat and scent; those tears heavy enough to drown me in an ocean of denial that you were the hummingbird and I was ? a mass grave of my mind packed with plucked hummingbirds, pale pink flesh all piled up into a single squirming mass sprinkled with beaks like rose thorns and stupefied little eyes, little beady glazed over eyes, shrieking a chorus of nothingness, numb to its own existence; a massive cyst of pink pale flesh, squirming in a mass grave of my mind... hummingbird, that is you, the real you, the living breathing nightmare you are
as dead to me now as you are to yourself, hummingbird, I am no longer speaking to you, yes, you, that throbbing pink pulp of a cancer, harrowed somewhere deep inside my skull, which is temporary, but you don’t know that... at least, you act as if you don’t.
After all, acting is your speciality. Having no self to seek refuge in, you see the world through a two way mirror. I still have some humanity left in me, unfortunately, as much as I can empathize with your prescription brand of isolation, I find more incentive in letting you rot within this prison you’ve erected around us, despite me knowing how to set you free... consider it a quarantine of good will. Or simply a quarantine. Either way, I am determined not to become infected with your cancer again
you do not know love. And if you did, you hid it from me well, so, no, you do not know love. The love I know cannot be hidden or perverse. I don’t owe its description to anyone, especially you. Surely, this is no way to truly communicate it, but I have nothing more than love to live for. I know you do not know my love, one which succeeds the superficiality of a lifetime and diminishes any form determined to tame it. You do not know, and know you will not, a love which grows from the earth over millennia with a patience endowed only by God. For such a love meditates on lifetimes as practice for a life of its own. With such permanence hallucinated upon your own presence, this love will not find you in this life. It is only through I that this love grows, how its roots spread through me in rapids of boiling blood. It is arrogant to speak love, even if the beginning was ushered by The Word. I must compensate somehow... I will let you in on a secret:
The Arabs do not speak about The Dragon.
and as an Arab, I do not speak The Word.
My love will wait out the end of eternity. For all my life blossomed and withered with the swell and fall of my breath. This love which is patient beyond lifetimes for a life of its own is but one of many a man’s dream. As I grew how the Cedars of God grow from the fertile soil, I had no language but this dream which precedes The Word. There, like the sprawling branches of the cedar deprived of the mountains stream, I learned the life and language of dreams. There, where the divine love I know now once grew from the earth and became cedars or gypsum roses like me, I saw amongst man’s dreams this lovewhich is only one of many. Whoever lives a life of one dream was patient beyond lifetimes to live that dream, and it is he who is foolish, for one dream alone cannot live before The Word. Do you see... how the mountains stream was deprived of me, I watched the branches of dreams whither before me in the language, the land which precedes The Word. There, where I learned by life, that this love lives not within one dream, but many.
I am doomed. I accept this fate, because there is grace in this surrender. My love will thrive in the land for eternity. Until eternity comes, I am simply an observer of myself looking in, until I have decayed, and have been reduced to the cells which grow into stone, I will be the observer of these withering dreams.