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In The Meantime

14 تشرين الأول 2016 | 12:20

 

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.

 

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