I have sent my naked pictures to a man who means nothing to me. Maybe he means something to me. I told him, "Tonight, you will treat me like a whore".
I roam the empty Streets of Beirut, And I try to hold myself together.
Around me, everybody is falling apart.
I have failed my life.
There is a new moon slowly making its way into my life. I cannot touch it yet.
It is there.
My name is mademoiselle Julia. I do not exist. I am a librarian.
More or less.
It is a stormy night.
Outside, the wind is screaming.
Inside, my dreams are haunting me.
I might escape.
From everyday life.
From the woman in me that hasn't been awake in what seems like forever.
I haven't screamed in a long time.
Somewhere inside my boredom, my body sways to the beat of a certain woman I used to be.
I take care of my ageing father.
He thinks he is an emperor.
More or less.
I search for someone. Someone I haven't met yet.
All my life, I believed there was a cabaret dancer named Martha living inside my head.
It's going to be a long summer. I have never been here before. There is no sense of Deja vu.
What a mistake to have discovered the outside world.
My father wants me to write the story of a man who remained alone all his life.
It is not my story.
I simply want to be elsewhere.
I search for someone.
Someone I used to be.
So many attempts at a life, I don't really know how to live.
I want to wear a dress.
To walk hand in hand with you.
I decorate the walls of my prison with projects.
But we both know I died a long time ago.
And you taught me to be alone long before you were gone.
I am almost 50.
My body reminds me that I am ageing every single day.
Things end and people leave.
He doesn't want me anymore.
No longer cares about my naked pictures.
And I roam the dead streets of Beirut in search of a friendly smile.
I miss you terribly.
And yet, you still haven't entered my life.
I wait for you.
And I know you are not coming.
I want to hide in the corner listening to the sound of my wasted dreams until I see you walk towards me.
I shall recognize you from the way you don't look at me, and yet somehow you do.
You shall avoid my eyes when I look at you.
And yet, I will know that we are both writing the first lines of a story that has just begun,
Suddenly, I am in our village, Koura, in the north.
I kneel down and I open a small, ornamented iron door leading to what looks like a deep, protected, forgotten cave.
I stretch my body and I ignite the planted candle in the small pile of sand on top of the old font. And then I close the door. I look up and there is a huge statue of Saint Elias holding his sword. "He must finish it before he leaves", I whisper to the old saint.
Silence.
Saint Elias is busy watching over the impossible dream of a house my dad lives as his daily bread for 30 years.
I am Mademoiselle Julia.
I live inside the mind of a woman who used to dream.
The church bells are ringing. They compete with the thunder slowly joining the upcoming storm.
They compete with the presence of the wrinkles forming around my eyes. Gloriously announcing the second and last part of my life.
He doesn't want me anymore.
He hasn't wanted me for a long time now. I hung on to his shadow in order to escape the empty streets that have invaded my soul. And the hollow eyes of those who almost remained alive.
It happened overnight. I suddenly became an older woman. And society started treating me as a has - been.
I used to be a writer. Then I forgot. Something must have happened.
It is a sunny June afternoon.
Too hot.
The cafe is charming.
I choose a quiet table on the pavement.
What is the title of this summer?
I watch people pass by.
Their eyes resemble holes filled with void.
I saw my father fly from the window to the end of the living room.
Fourth of August 2020.
A massive explosion destroyed Beirut.
And that was when I lost my father, although he remained alive.
I drift into my own world.
Early on, I discovered that in order to survive in this world, I must create my own world.
Walk into my life, already.
Invade this quiet scenario.
My father wants me to write a story about a man who remained alone all his life.
I say: "Dad, this is your story. Not mine".
I simply want to be elsewhere.
Maybe I should write a story about a woman who wants to be elsewhere.
I have started cleaning my mother's closet.
Too many clothes.
Too much dust on the clothes.
I send the ones I like to the cleaner's. I shall probably take them. She will probably notice. And she doesn't care about the fact that I have started taking care of myself. She will know that I opened the closets. She is attached to the smell of dust. She does not understand how I let fresh air into them.
The dust is the only evidence she has of a past not really understood.
Not really forgiven.
And I have started taking care of myself.
But her past is not really forgiven.
Neither is mine.
I used to be a dreamer.
Now I pay my bills on time.
My name is Mademoiselle Julia.
I do not exist.
I bury my head on his chest.
He cups it with his large hand.
"I want you to show up already. To exist and make all of this walk away", I whisper.
My hair is very long.
My dress is longer.
I do not wear high heels.
Yet, I am all woman.
He cups my tired head with his large hand.
I haven't been a woman in a long time.
And yet my body is awake as I melt into his.
My father protected me. I was his little girl.
And then he was gone.
Replaced by a frightened creature.
Every few weeks I cut his hair.
"He looks so funny", my mother says quietly.
When he dies, we must shower him with perfume. He always loved Perfume".
She still loves him.
After all those years.
In spite of all the crimes he has committed to her heart.
My name is Mademoiselle Julia.
My hands are so small in comparison to his.
He slowly undresses me and suddenly my lips part and I remember what it feels like to be a woman.
Tonight, I have come out of the mind of the woman who used to dream.
I am alive and I seek recognition.
I might escape.
From all the stories I never had the courage to live.
Suddenly I am 22 and my hair is severely tied to the back.
I have big dreams.
I have inherited my mother's anger at my father.
His arrogance.
( To Be Continued)
AR 
EN