Beauty Seen is Never Lost

I know,
that I wont ever come across such a place in this world- in here, where things exist with reason, where things are bricks upon bricks of science and logic, where things materialize merely based on the dependence of being real. It’s no place for us to meet, it’s no place for you to be – not here, no.
But if there was such a place, where miracles swift by like morning birds; where time is a thread we weave into sweaters and quilts; where dreams become people, and people are a palette of colors- If there was such a place, somewhere on the fringes of this life we stand on, I’d meet you there.
But then again, what words would I give you after all this time?
Maybe, I’d tell you about that page I memorized from “The perks of being a wallflower”; and how lines slipped off the paper and became phantoms; ones that still hover somewhere inside of me. Yes, I’d tell you about it. Maybe, I’d tell you about that Eid day, where for a single,magical,infinite moment, we were all intertwined; as if that bukhoor-scented living room, that laughter resonating from Grandma’s sorrowful soul, and that clinking sound of bicycle bells coming from outdoors, had made everything around us; absolutely weightless. Yes, I’d tell you about it. Maybe, I’d tell you about your brother, about the moment he became somebody’s someone; somebody’s everything; and how his weary eyes, sparked with unshed tears, when he heard the words “ You’ve got a son”. Yes, I’d tell you about it. Maybe, I’d tell you about that song I accidently heard on the radio that day, and how it’s unusual lyrics drifted around me for days; leaving me breathless, only to discover in the end, that I had simply misheard it. Yes, I’d tell you about that. Maybe, I’d tell you about that day, when I boarded a plane alone, with a head filled with somewhere and a heart swollen with tiny specks of achievement. Yes, I’d tell you about it. Maybe I’d tell you about my other family, and how they’re made of ever lasting star-matter; glistening eternally over me, holding my seams together. Yes, I’d tell you about them.
And Maybe, I’d tell you about tears, about vanilla-scented fabrics, beauty salons, frilly-handwritings, furniture stores, newborns tucked in strollers, heels, money jars, branded handbags, life-sized paintings, nachos left on cinema seats, musicals, desserts, songs, key chains, belgian chocolate, morning buffets, animated screensavers, pink hallways, and an endless string of days. I’d tell you about it all. Yes.
And maybe, I’d tell you nothing at all.
I’d just touch your face. Trace it with my fingertips.
Put my ears against your chest; listen to that heart of yours; beat again.
Just that.
Only that.
Once more.
Yes, just that.

Posted by Diddlina at 6:44 PM 3 comments  

I’m lying at the bottom. Skin to tiles, tiles to skin. My palms pushing against the ground underneath, unsure of what’s holding what. Somewhere out there, there’s a life. If only I could be wave of sound;
a trail of smoke ;
anything dissipating,
anything that could take me through.
Take me back, to it.
To that cloudy morning; walking to the bakery in town; the sky shedding it’s rain upon us. No invisible strings pulling us back, no hands tightening our wrists. Just us, our umbrellas, and a beautiful day waiting ahead.
To that mystical afternoon; Standing on the upper deck of that boat, mist brushing our cheeks, like fallen wishes. Entangled, we were; amongst myths and legends, starring deep into the abyss of Loch Ness.
To that sunny day; sitting on those steel benches, looking down on the endless series of stairs and the outline of a faraway city. Tracing clouds, and wondering how they could look like wandering turtles and floating dragons at the same time.
To that evening in the highlands; tiptoeing on sidewalks, kicking pinecones along the way; laughter engulfing us like a magical halo. Taking away the weight of the world that was once lazed on our shoulders.
To the million lives we lived, in a span of a month ; I could call a lifetime.

Posted by Diddlina at 2:12 PM 1 comments  

The girl with the lopsided smirk- I remember her. Always dressed in a traditional Jalabya; her dark black hair tied in a high ponytail. She was my closest mate at that intensive-long, excruciating summer school we attended in the British Council. She’d pull her chair right beside me in class and sit on the edge; as close as possible, her workbook almost overlapping mine. She’d watch me scribble letters on my workbook, and try to distract me with the glittery stickers encircling her page. Odd, the things that find their place around my memory now. Her name, I cannot recall, but I can almost sketch that smirk of hers, and the prominent mole above her lips. I don’t remember what school she came from, but I know with foreign intensity how much she idolized her older brother. And, most of all, I remember how she taught me the art of stealing books from the ‘walking library’.
“ It’s Okay,” ,she’d say “ They want us to read them anyway,”.
And I bulged, and I believed, and I stole.

The concerned High school English teacher- I remember her. Walking into class, starting her lesson by asking for our daily journals. Her voice stern; laced with expectations and genuine concern. Always, trying to keep everything intact, always trying to peel off that cavernous immaturity which plagued us at the time, Always trying to extract that single quality that outlined each one of our characters, making them distinguishable, in hopes of envisioning a change in the future. Her grammar lessons had evaporated, but her “ How is everyone doing this morning?” still rings in my head. I cannot remember her ways of teaching, but I recall her reply to every work I submitted, always repeating “ One day, I’ll hear your name somewhere, and it’ll be somewhere big”.

The boy next door – I remember him. With his light brown hair, round face, raspy voice and stuttered speech. How he loved to play ‘pretend’. He’d be the fish, I’d be the fisher, he’d be the eagle, I’d be the snake, he’d be the judge, I’d be the criminal. I don’t remember when he moved or where he moved; yet I recall his absurd obsession with Ketchup. I don’t remember how many siblings he had, but I remember vividly how he hid a knife in his pocket one afternoon and taunted me with it.

The black-haired girl of the driving school- I remember her. With headphones in her ears, and grey eyes wandering about. She had a detached aura about her, which seemed odd in a driving-test waiting room. I don’t remember if she had an accent, but I recall our conversation about “ Sophie’s Choice” with haunting accuracy. I don’t remember if she passed the test or not , but I know of her fascination with Orchestras and how music could move her to tears. I don’t remember what she was wearing, but I remember the peace sign charm dangling off her bracelet.

Somewhere, along the line, they subtly come into your life ; molding some parts of it, reshaping some future outcomes, giving away shards and pieces of themselves here and there ; a word,, half a lifetime, a tug at a heart, a moment, a memory. And as swiftly as they came, they leave. And Somehow, you become; because of them.

Posted by Diddlina at 7:33 PM 0 comments