I'm sleepless in Beirut.
Come fire. Come rain. Come thunder. Come puddles.
The crackle of TVs in a silent street.
The pitter patter on the window like fingers drumming on the door.
The heavy thuds of neighbours shake the walls and floor.
The dripping showerhead on the bathroom tiles, water spreads beyond the cracks.
Days sew themselves together, a patchwork quilt of this and that, and
only the sound of needle poking through the fabric announce a new day
New ways to amputate time's swifty flight? I don't have any, except
the wait: it weighs you down to sit and watch the floor that's always
still and firm.
See anticipation doesn't do the trick, it moves you. Anticipation.
Even the sound of the word is happening, it's like a gust of wind
dispersing leaves, reeds, hair, whatever.
Waiting. Like a yawn, an early morning pulling you unwilling out of
bed. An ocean of stretch and drag.
Like the "and" between push and pull, I stand victim to them both.
But mainly wanting. Craving for escape and change. The problems here
are not mine. But then again they are, and then again...I cannot
imagine solving them without a gun. Eight and fourteen bullets, fired
in all flying colours. Fire works?
Wouldn't that be a celebration!
My aim is good, no doubt. I doubt I'd do it though. So I choose to
leave and hope some other coward with a big idea turns brave.
Changes. We all want some big fucking changes.
But we wait, anticipate, the car arrives, 5,000 L.L. tip, the boy
delivers, IKEA opens up and next to it a depot of little exotic men to
do it for us.
Let's pray the airport road is fireproof when the shit hits the fan,
because escape is our number one export and we can't fail to deliver
this time round.