اشترِك في نشرتنا الإخبارية
I must feel something.
Anything.
I haven't washed my hair in over a week. The fat around my belly is torturing me.
I have lost my sense of style.
I am not living a story. That, in itself, is a great punishment.
I live my days in a haze. Moving from one activity to the other. Aimlessly.
I am not living a story.
Haven't lived one in quite some time.
People around me have started to weigh on my chest.
To fall in love at this stage of my life would be a gift.
Fall in love with anything.
Live a story again.
To find a reason to wear my high heels.
To splash on my Chanel numero 5.
To buckle up my suspenders.
To smile like I really mean it.
Maybe this afternoon I will make time to go to the hairdresser.
I do so many things in one day.
Yet, I do not feel anything.
I want to fall in love.
With anything.
Maybe I should start with myself.
I wake up very early and I get dressed without intention.
Grab my cup of espresso from the grocery shop in our building.
I sip it slowly whilst driving to work.
As I get nearer and nearer to the newspaper where I work since over 22 years, I decide to take a ride towards the October Sea on the Corniche of Ain El Mreysseh.
People all along the legendary pavement overlooking the sea are practicing their morning rituals.
With ease.
With intention.
I want to be with them.
Yet, I cannot find the motivation.
I am not living a story.
I take sips of my espresso.
Small sips.
I feel my hair with my other hand.
I leave the steering wheel for a brief moment to feel my ugly hair.
I have pulled it back the way I usually do when I am not living a story.
I have let myself gain weight.
Four kilos to be exact.
They are resting inside my belly.
I am not living for anything.
Yet, everything is going smoothly in my life.
Lately I have been leading a healthy life.
No turbulence.
No anxiety.
No drama.
No story.
That in itself is enough to kill me.
Maybe I should take a lover.
Give in to pleasure.
No.
It is too boring.
I must live a story.
People are living their stories on the cornice.
Later on, they will go back to reality.
I can never go back to reality.
I must always live there.
Where life unfolds in chapters.
Who will my next lover be?
What will my next story look like?
If I am condemned to an ordinary life, then I prefer to peacefully dissolve into my dream world.
The last sip of my espresso makes me sad.
It will be hours before I take my usual glass of white wine. Tamed with a few ice cubes.
I shall lie beneath my lover, when he enters my life, and I shall tell him stories.
Beautiful stories I have lived whilst waiting for this one.
I shall torture him before I allow him to give in to desire.
He shall experience my anguish and torment and nothingness.
All the frightening unexplainable feelings that engulf me when I am not living a story.
He must pay for all the waiting I had to endure before he came along.
Maybe I should take any lover.
Then, if I do, I shall not torture him.
I shall not punish him.
For he will not be my story.
I shall treat him with polite kindness.
And I shall love his body with pity.
No.
That is too hurtful.
I cannot do this.
I must wait for my story.
Wait for my lover.
The one destined for the next phase.
The next chapter.
I shall patiently wait for him.
In a few hours I will be allowed my glass of white wine.
And perhaps, later in the afternoon, I shall pay a visit to the hairdresser.
I touch my belly fat.
Perhaps later I shall also join the gym next door to my house.
It will all be worth it when the time comes and I am allowed to thrust my high heel on his neck.
When he decides to show up.
And then, of course, I shall wash my hair regularly.
One hundred crunches.
I shall then do one hundred crunches per day.
A few of them whilst lying on top of him.
