I have lost my voice. It is too quiet outside. More so on the inside. Sundays in Beirut are heavy. Everyone seems to have ran away somewhere. The house smells of baked bread in different flavors. This has been the case for hours now.
I must build a rich, cozy and comfortable life for myself. So I started baking. The aromas allude to a feeling of safety I can no longer afford. Laughter and Overlapping conversations forever beyond my reach.
Children running on the pavements. Trying to sell roses. "As red as your beautiful face". The elderly fishing without much expectation. Casting lines without much hope. They do not seem to mind. They simply need an occupation. Anything to live for. I might do the same. In the hope of finding a reason to go on. Any occupation will do. for you see, life, can no longer seduce me. I am far too busy escaping the restlessness of my soul.
The laughter and overlapping conversations of my distant past remain beyond my reach. The aromas of the baked bread slowly bring them closer. Yet, they are forever beyond my reach. If only i can catch them for a few fleeting moments in order to write about them
However, I have lost my voice, it seems. Never mind. I shall use the noises of the Capital instead. And you are there, where I don't belong. I no longer take life, or its habitants, seriously. And that includes you, dear anyone. I am sure you forgive me. What other choice do I give you?
The neighbors in the opposite building fight over trivialities. They do not take into consideration my need to bake my bread to perfection. i need the silence inside the walls and the noise of the Capital in order to smell them properly. Remove them from the heat before they burn. However, I am almost sure the Capital, this Sunday, is making no noise. It is waiting for you to extend your hand and ask me to join you, there, where I don't belong.
My fur babies demand attention. And I pretend I know the lines, chapters and plot of this new story no one asked for my permission before they forced it , shoved it in my face and demanded I live it.
I lied to myself for too long.
As I settle comfortably in middle age, it no longer seems necessary. But I must lie to you. Especially when I insist that, hidden inside the walls, I do not dream of your weight on top of me. Nor do I wonder, in my moments of weakness, what might have been. As you thrust deeper and deeper inside my illusions, I do not hear myself sighing wantonly. I honestly don't. You see, I have decided to respect my age. And to stop dreaming of what might have been.
And I no longer remember my life in the old apartment we left behind when everything ended, pretending we were writing something new. When really, all we ever managed to do was scribble a few chapters on top of the old story.
I am no longer a writer. Nor do I care to be.
Maybe I am simply documenting a life not lived. Perhaps I am archiving the hidden screams of a Silent Sunday in a Fabulous Capital.
A much needed cliche, I must admit. The window in my atelier is wide open. I hear nothing of the life that could be unfolding everywhere outside of these walls. But your weight is on top of me, and I almost hear my desire. The aromas of the baked bread take me further and further away from the pier overlooking the sea. But I can hear lovers whispering, The sick praying, the grief of those still in mourning. And I lift my skirt slowly.
Cinnamon, herbs, some vanilla sugar, and I could be there with you, if only you'd allow it. How can you be such a fool and leave me to fend for myself in a world I no longer care about?
it smells so beautiful inside these walls. So delicious I almost come back to life.
And I could be there with you, if only you'd allow it.
M fur babies, Berry and Blu follow me everywhere. The canari I have inherited from my late Aunt whistles angrily when I do not give him attention.
I have lost my voice. And the eerie calm outside lulls The raging silence inside the walls into quiet despair. But it smells so beautiful. As beautiful as beginnings.
I talk to Blackie, The neighbors' dog which guards their land. I scream really. People must think Am crazy. Blackie is a female. But I feel safer when I treat her like my male chum.
I drink coffee. And the cup offers me its last drop hours later. My life has become so slow I almost forgot who I am. Where I started. When did it all end? And why can't I keep the Blanket of memories? The overlapping conversations. The laughter.
It smells so delicious inside these walls. The delicious smells relieve the heaviness of this Sunday. As does Blackie's excited tail.
I really am sorry if I am confused by his gender. Do animals have strict attachment to their gender, dear anyone? or must we address them as they wish to be addressed?
Somewhere in these forgotten streets someone is praying. I thank him silently for relieving me of this duty. Especially on this heavy Sunday.
And I search in Ras Beirut for a delusional man who lived as a king. You must have noticed him sometime. Somewhere midst those historical streets.
He is always wearing a brown coat he bought from Paris one winter, holding an unlit cigar, living impossible dreams, and swaying midst the richest families and the most velvety society. Hiding his loneliness. Searching for a feeling of belonging.
And I bake bread, and eat Falafel sandwiches defying my inevitable much expected bloating.
I visit the old coffee shop by the sea where he used to play cards with his rich friends. Hiding an inadequacy which accompanied him long after he became a king. Never really forgetting the poor lonely child he used to be.
Sundays are heavy in the Capital. They force you to feel until you are left with no choice but to heal. And you are there, where I do not belong.
It is dark now. The lights of the surrounding buildings have become a beacon of hope.
I might knock on the door. Any door. And ask to be let in. It does not matter that I am a stranger. I shall ask for a cup of coffee. And leave the aromas of the trays of baking bread behind. The overlapping conversations and the laughter forever out of my reach from now on.
"Did you ever belong anywhere?", I shall ask anyone who is willing to answer. And then I go back to Ras Beirut searching for the outsider who wore a long brown coat he bought in Paris one winter.
And your weight is on top of me as I hang onto you in hope of feeling anything. I slowly lift my skirt up.
You must have seen him somewhere. Walking as though he owned the world. Hiding his loneliness and feelings of inadequacy behind his thick moustache.
AR 
EN