The Cabaret Dancer living inside my head

All my life I believed there was a cabaret dancer named Martha living inside my head.

She made my days bearable at times where all I wanted to do was runaway. Martha made me stay. I owe what is left of my sanity to this tall woman who wore her black bob as proudly as she ornamented her white skin with black garter belts.

Her story lines are as ambiguous as my love for her. And yet, as rooted as my gratitude for her determination to save me. Her high heels are rooted inside my soul. Somewhere inside my desperate need to escape.

She had that ferocious look in her eyes. A defying look. Her leg would sometimes stretch out while the other one would bend, and she would lean on a chair. And slowly her body would flow downwards. Martha. For a long time she was mine. I clang to her as though she was life. And in more than one way she was. My life.

Throughout all of our friendship, I never really saw her face. Not as clearly as I would have liked. But her eyes. Those large, extremely large blue eyes I saw. They were recognizably different. I never managed to make her stay in one clear story.

Yet, I saw her dance. I saw her magnanimous persona on stage. I sometimes became her. More so when real life suffocated me. When it made me aware (in subtle ways) that however hard I tried, I shall never belong.

There were tidbits of dialogue with other characters. Sometimes I heard them. A fine woman. That is how I defined her when I caught glimpses of her conversations with people around her. And when I became her, I would feel her tragic effect on those stuck inside her sphere.

But as soon as I came back to reality, I would instantaneously forget the dialogue, and thus was never able to write it down in order to turn it into a readable story.

On the fringe of schizophrenia. Thank God I remained on the fringe.

She suddenly left. I never knew what made her take that decision. I never went after her. I allowed her the freedom to be an occasional visitor. Exactly like happiness.

I was drinking coffee. In the living room of our house in the district of Achrafieh in Beirut. Not so long ago. And then suddenly I heard it. A woman's voice. Quiet and serene. Lingering somewhere inside my head.

Definitely not Martha's violent voice.

And then I saw her. A small fragile looking young woman with long, straight hair gazing in despair towards an old man dressed as an emperor.

"We must leave your highness. We must go conquer other countries. We must leave. Go there... where everything is strangely innocent and yet wounded by violence". She sweetly says. There is a certain tinge of sadness in that singing voice. A serenity unaffected by reality.

And then the old man, a fat balding old man, suddenly looks at her and smiles.

"Julia! Do you ever feel that life has not started yet?"

Julia! Ah! Julia.

Well perhaps this one will have a defined story line.