المعلقة (Safa7, Ahmed Gihad & Gaki)

وليل كموج البحر أرخى سدوله..
علي بأمواج الحنين ليبتلي..
فقلت له لما تمطى بصلبه..
واردف اعجازا وناء بكلكل:
الا يا ايها الليل الطويل الا انجلي.

Music isnt but cacophonic sounds that carry the prayers too heavy for us to admit aloud,
The vulnerabilities that we hate to face that we constantly think about,

Like...

-Aint no sunshine when she's gone-

Huh, Aint no shit when she's gone,

She, the rythym,
And the ryhme,
The Conviction,
The haunting guilt,
The resenting prayer,
And the crime,
The vibration,
and the tone,
And the thought that conquers when you're alone...

She bares the complications of speech and the terms of language within her ground...

She...
a pronoun..
A preposition
And a noun,
The hidden images between the lines that are hard to be found,
The little secrets of the universe that makes the planets turn,
And fire burn,
And our minds concerned,

مهفهفة بيضاء غير مفاضة
ترائبها مصقولة كالسنجنجل
And I'm her necklace, as close to her heart as i can be, reflecting her happiness of my face shining as the stars.
She is my sky, my universe and beyond.

She's a melody that inspires the sun to wake up every morning to cast light upon this waste land..

Fuck that..
She is the sun..
And the sun is not really the sun..
The sun is just the moon that only reflects a fragment of what she represents..
And the moon is nothing but an irrelevant stone that got caught in the midst of all of this..

تضئ الظلام بالعشاء كانها
منارة ممسى راهب متبتل
And I'm the priest at her temple
She is a goddess, making me pray to her to keep her in my life to worship
She is a goddess, making me sacrifice my words at her alter, making my soul commit suicide every night so i can sleep peacefully by her side.

And she's even more,
And I can't spill ink on paper tryna trace the features of her memory without my papers getting stained and my ink running short,
And nothing I aim for describes the wrecked up train I get aboard when I think of her,
So it's kinda absurd,
To follow our tails around tryna get there...

So..

This poem is not about her..
None of my poems are about her..
All of my poems are about my incapability to write..
But I can help but to write..

Like a dark knight on the darkest night, I write..
Set the lines and take charge..
This pen has been my nobel stead on the front lines, I'm in charge..
مكر..
مفر..
مقبل..
مدبر..
كجلمود صخر حطه السيل من عل..

Like it's war, I'm pulling the hackamore..
Or maybe the steering wheel of a fast car..
Or even a bike with some handlebars..
I handle bars..
Like a mean prison guard, I handle bars..
Like Eminem on rap god, I handle bars..

BARTENDER,
Pour me some of that lyrical ink,
Cause these needles in my head they're starting to sting,
And it stinks,
This shortage of words drains me dry
فدع عنـك لـومي فـإن اللـوم إغـراء
وداونــي بـالتي كـانت هـي الـداء

فان كنت لاتستطيع دفع منيتي
فدعني ابادرها بما ملكت يدي

Allow me to die on the paper making my rivers of blood dye pictures of the battles of my thoughts and my pad.
How i handle bars
Walking proud with my battle scars
How i dissolve foes to evolve and transform into a revolv-er..

Roll down these ballistics..
Put down these unrealistic misfits in a coma..
I'm grown ma..
Watch as I flip this ancient school flows to futuristic..
I faced the ugly truth without no make up or lipstick..
I brought my wounds to the dark side and rib apart the stitches..
The child's play is over..

Bartender,
Fill up my glass,
And I'll pour it down on history,
My palms are sweanty,
Knees weak,
But my steps are steady,
Towards victory,
I carry the league
Of the greatest,
امرؤ القيس، malcom x, and Mohammed Ali,
Move like a butterfly, and sting like a bee,
Words are my stingers,
Shooting grenades of trigger fingers
I'm dressed in my armor,
My thoughts loaded and harbored,
I'm faded,
My ryhmes integrated,
So pour it down, concentraded,
Let me stay this way,
Unrated,
Maintain my spot on my ground,
My esteem may be low but fuck, I'm hella proud,
These looks of awe wont make me grow,
These finger snaps make me snap,
But praise the loud, my prayers are loud,
venting, resenting, detesting the crowd,
I walk alone,
Those times are gone,
Where you unsheath them swords,
So I barricade my metaphors,
And I sharpen my words,

Bartender..
Overdose me on that blasphemy so I can blast my rhapsodies and let them linger..
It's like..
I'm volcanic eruptions..
Demonic deceptions..
I'm an Armageddon meant for personal functions..
I'm the fucked up version of pulp fiction..
Fuck son..
It's a cold world..
And I'm hulk mode with an ozzie that weighs a ton..
But I ain't angry this though..

Bartender

Serve me a shot of that lyrical vitamin
Open my third eye to the power of Suleiman
Grant my mind the gift of speech
Make my soul talk to the ancient kings as they call out for me
Pouring my rhymes into a bottomless hourglass
How the time expands as i drink from the knowledge glass
Placing stars in place as i guide tribes
Forming galaxies and black holes
Colliding dimensions, sending gravity waves at your dome
Pulling your conscious close as you listen to the creator of your world

Bartender partake in this mixture of flavours call it a demonic cocktail, a devil's pie or fucking lucifer's birthday cake..
I made mistakes..
I had my share of being fake..
So this is not for Satan's nor God's sake..
This is for getting wasted fuck a mental state..
This is for the sour taste of being great..
So in the name of this liquor..
Watch these lines get thicker..
Get sicker..
For this tongue will no longer hesitate..

Bartender,
Hand me the fucking bottle,
Pour me one for the road and two for the battle,
You think your bar's unholy,
So I'd take it wholly,
The Creator's complex,
The writer's block,
And the bartender's curse,
Your counter's my alter,
This bar's my church,
spit bars when I mumble,
I handle bars as I walk,
This table is temble,
I'm the tibet monk of singing along,
The catholic priest of doing wrong,
This mental image made me a priglimage,
But I'll stop before I end...
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,
Then pour me a glass to drag me to my senses,
I go further than I should,
and I aim better than I shoot,
So judge me by means and not the way act,
I'm blasphemous, but I blame it on the words, in fact,
My poems are intact,
But sometimes I lose contact,
To whatever's in my head,
So Bartender,
Bring another bottle,
Instead of eyeing me with dread.

Bartender..
You see a bottle..
I see the dwarf in the flask from full metal alchimest coming outta of it..
I see why life exists..
I see me taking risks..
I see the blooming bliss..
Of me not giving a shit..
You see glass..
I see revealed reflected reflections revolving around crucified cross sections..
I see names and questions that should not be mentioned..
You see a liquid flows to cup, I see a river's flow leading my road to redemption..

BARTENDER
Call the owner, this is a hostile takeover
Releasing ether bars,
Time passed,
We dressed in black with white clovers
Rewind that and bring in the yellow tape
A lyrical homicide is in place
I sting like a bee
Like I'm a killer with a face of a ghost
In the impediment of your worst nightmares
I'm the werewolf on silver bullets
I'm Jupiter with Zeus's spirit
Screw your mental limit
I'm reason of your writer's block
I'm your fear of failure with every tick tock
I'm the vampire's pope
Twisting your hope and Evans faith
Say my name three times and I'll appear
Talking to your chaotic conscious
Carving holy hieroglyph on the walls of your dreams
Shining upon your road of redemption and and sins
Im the mob, the king, the god
And you are a damn believer
So believe in greatness
Shining from the heart of a warrior
ملأنا البحر حتى ضاق بنا
ونحن البحر نملؤه سفينا
With endless flows and metaphors i'm repeating history
Standing in the middle of the battlefield declaring victory

ولقد ذكرتك والرماح نواهل مني
وبيض الهند تقطر من دمي
ووددت تقبيل السيوف لأنها
لمعت كبارق ثغرك المتبسم،
So pour me my latest sip and maintain your spot,
These battlefields conflict with this peace of mind the constant thought of her inflicts in me,

My thoughts shift in these..
Lands..
Filled with these.. blood red sands..
And unmarked graves..
And war slaves..
To a place.. where the red in sand turn to roses..
And I lose focus..
And I don't mind in my mind to slit my veins in vain..
If you would notice..

The effect you have on my mental state
How i walk like I'm under hypnosis when i think of your face
Your grace I'm nothing but warrior but I'm aiming higher
I know i bring you disgrace but..

Who wouldn't desire being a sire..

Who wouldn't desire being lifted up higher..

Who wouldn't desire being inspired..

Still..
This poem is not about her.

Gaki who?

Wikipedia tells me this vessel is composed out of 65% percent of Oxygen,
18% of carbon,
10% of hydrogen,
3% of nitrogen,
The rest is calcium, phosphurus, sulfur, potassium, sodium, chlorine and magnesuem,
but, it doesn't feel so,
It doesn't appear so,
It doesnt seem fit,
So is it?
When I carry this chunk of meat and make my steps to meet my reflection on the mirror in hopes of seeing the truth clearer,
I see a pair of eyes, ears, nose, hair, teeth, flesh, arms, birth marks, a new pair of shoes, and one unfading bruise,
See that could be the truth,
But it also seems a bit far.
So I close my eyes cause maybe what we see is not what we are, and maybe my vision is what makes me blind to that truth that lies behind,
and I see dreams, memories, thoughts, plots, unfathomable floating colored dots, numbers, dates and schemes and a little bothersome child that constantly screams questions that I find no answers to.
So maybe that's who I am to me but who am I to you?
I've been told so many times I look like I have a soul too old for my body,
That people see potential in me that I'll grow and become "somebody",
That I give some people the vibes that yes I am young but I also seem wise and this person once said that I creep them out because I seem like I'm not afraid of demise,
And so...
But that also doesnt feel like me,
So is any of that true?
When I look at you and our eyes meet do you really see my soul?
But is that a bunch of bullshit that we've been told because the truth is a bit too dull for our liking?
Let me stop right there because there has always been more questions than answers,
And I've always been calling out for somebody who has further knowledge but no one ever answers,
And it tells me on the web that throughtout history no one has ever answered,
And so...
Everything that we'd say or think is weak and brittle,
So I guess I'll settle for what's little and that being nuisance, silence, fiction and nonsense.
And I'll carry those along in my pack to support me when my words lag and my thoughts lack and rhymes turn corny and whack everytime I'm asked who I am?
Damn...
I don't know who I am,
But I'll tell you what I think?
I'm 70% percent my thoughts, 15% my state of being alienated and lost, I'm 7% disgusted and grossed out of the world and the rest is this vessel I carry and you percieve:
As that guy that returned home to escape war but now thinks home is what he should've escaped in the first place,
That fella stuck in a society that thinks of him as a disease and disgrace,
I'm misplaced with no right place,
And I think why I bother so much with what I am is because I bother so much about where I should be,
You feel me?
You ever stood amongst your people and still felt alienated?
Wanted to cuss at the world but was told not to complain about what was fated or you will be deemed insane?
So many quotes tell us to stop and stare but it's impossible and unfair because we were unwillingly born on a fast lane.
Funny thing is,
I don't know what's right and wrong now that I'm grown,
And Growth is relating more to the joker less to bruce wayne,
And in the process you'll find yourself working your ass off to avoid being a loser like superman and eventually become lex luthor.
You know?
I don't know anymore,
I just think.
There's only one truth:
I write; therefore I am.
And I think that what I write and I are kind of alike,
Because...
Poetry is lines, ryhmes, thoughts, schemes, syllables and words.
Also,
Poetry is intense expressions, confession, sighs, metaphors and lies.
Poetry is i dont know man its that thing that some people do.
Poetry to me is not poetry to you,
and so...
And I am water, flesh, clothes, an old soul that is fresh
I am that guy in the mirror, on the road, in my head and in your view,
I am "I've never heard of him",
And I am to me is not who I am to you,
And so...
oh,
This was a mess,
I've always been a mess,
And this poem was me, being spoken.

a Stream of Thoughts

I'm stalling,
Standing in lines to buy time,
Using ryhmes to explain emotions that are hardly mine,
I'm running around from running out of solid grounds,
They say faith is mandatory but what do I do when it's nowhere to be found?
I search for little things in late night prayers that I could believe in,
reachin' for the stars just to distract myself from the fact that the basis I stand on isn't as solid as i was told from the start,
And until the truth unfolds and reality falls apart,
I'm stalling,
We,
We're fallin in love and then immediately out of it,
We call ourselves misfits just because we like the sound of it,
And we indulge in playground roles that we find it hard to snap out of it,
And so we grab our wooden swords and we wrap capes of paper around our throats and line up words pretending they're bound to save the world.
You see we're playing make belief in a society where everyone fake believes,
carrying the badges of a prophet,
And we know there's no gained profit,
Only more lies to kill the time we buy,
And it's never enough,
All of this nonsense we mumble and absolute bluff,
Is lies,
Denying the fact that we actually deny everything within the sight of our eyes,
Each one of us forgot that they're acting and dived too deep in their role of this theatrical play, and that's kinda nice,
But like... everybody is programmed for a certain set of lines that they got memorized,
And would never let go, like how you go:
-كيف، تمام؟
-FUCK NO, I'm tired of the pretense and I'm sick, and I'm drained, and I'm starting to worry that I'm falling apart and that I'm going insane.
I'm afraid there's too much I percieve and it's terrifying, these mounts of struggle and grief that we smuggle in her eyes, and his face, and your words,
انت كيف؟
Huh,
it all shows in those exceptionally well written roles that are full of contradictions and broken metaphors and linguistic flaws.
And it makes me wonder...
Should we really believe that this love poet's heart is captured and punctured and that his knees really did fall apart, and his soul rained and he was struck with thunder when his and his lover's eyes met?
Are there really dusted demons stashed in some corner beneath my bed and that I can say are the ones to blame?
And are the remaining bones of skeletons hidden in the pockets of the clothes lined up in my closet are the source of this hesitating voice that whispers my name,
What a shame,
What a shame,
I could be the thoughtful child that maybe sees things through his glass eyes that do matter and exist,
But instead my brain will insist with the constant thought that all the things we think makes us nothing but frauds,
That our emotions are delusions,
And our map for the route is a mis-decyphered code...
Oh well,
Oh well,
Hold that thought.
You could sell it for a penny now, or for a dollar when I'm dead, but they say money weighs to naught,
So why not get rid of it instead?
I think we're adernaline junkies dipped in a bit too much curiousity
Taking leaps of lack of faith disregarding the physical laws of freefalls and velocity,
Chasing down our dreams but being held back with anxiety,
We just hope that somewhere during the fall we'll be able to percieve things from a different point of perception,
But... there's none,
I think we've wasted all of our possibilties all while we're too young, and too wrong, and too lost in the decieving thought that we're a little too strong.
So it's all gone and whatever is left wouldn't be there,
soon,
The moon will crash into earth and the sun would burn away before we reach the grounds and put an end to this falling,
But until then,
We're stalling.

Bear with me

Bear with me
My tongue is dry and my veins are drained
the letters in my mouth taste a little bit strange
And I aligned those lines but theyre still deranged
So Bear with me
If I stood and my knees cackled like silver spoons
And the vowels held on to my tongue and tripped over my teeth
And
every breath that I breathe felt like my lungs were clogged with flames
and my thoughts fossiled in my ventricles, and I suffocated on your names
and I let you down where I should've stood tall with you on the ground
Bear with me,
I tend to make excuses, I tend to lose things occassionally so I guess I'd say that I'd done done lost my faith thats why I started losing people's faith in me.
Bear with me,
I'm clumsy
and I must have stepped on a truth and tripped over a few promises and accidentally broke them. But I swear whenever I hear promise I think about the reassurance at the beginning not the let down finally and not the anticipation based on absurd truth in between first and eventually.
Bear with me,
I forget things,
You tend to be forgetful in times of war,
I'm always at war
And Sometimes I forget what cause I stand against and who's army I fight for,
Sometimes I forget to put my arrmor on,
And I know that's obscene in your culture but I feel a lot lighter when my armor's at home.
Bear with me,
I'm the kind of a person who pushes people away only to regret it when they end up alone.
Bear with me.
I'm an anchorstone,
I'm that metal bar that brings the thunder upon your ship,
I'm the ice bergs standing tall against your titanic trip,
I hold you back.
But have my back,
bear with me,
I have no sense of fashion or directions so if I one day dress up as the devil, hold your right hand and take you to the wrong way then bear with me, I swear I don't usually mean to.
Sometimes I indulge in blasphemy
And my vocal chords defy the voice of the law.
And sometimes my thoughts defy what's divine and that's not defined by the fact that the delusional poet I am thinks his metaphors are shelters enough for him to hide behind.
Bear with me,
Because I write and I try to express and not expose
And impress without having to pose
But I suppose I'm a little bit out of my mind
Because the words I eventually align are sets of thoughts that were never mine.
I guess that makes me a pathological liar,
Or a conman,
Or the Frankenstein of truths and lies,

And I'm sorry if my heartbeats are thoughts that keep you up at nights,
Or if you thought my pets were monsters that were to hide beneath your bed to frighten you,
Or if you ever thought that I was there for fighting you
Bear with me,
We sometimes give each other black eyes and I know you caught me a few times cutting open your stitches or tryna push you off bridges
But people do that to themselves sometimes.
Bear with me,
It won't be long before I choke and I run out of ryhmes.
And my train of thoughts derails,
And I run out of adrenaline to find,
So I take a leap of faith..

But until then...
I'm alive...
I survive...
Right?

A dose of Hypocrisy

Man, I'm sick of poets writing poems about how dope their poetry is,
I'm sick o'them forcefully dragging emotions along with them to freak shows just to show off their fucked up senses of metaphorical fashion.
I'm sick o'those painting their faces with nonmatching colors o'passion a desperate call for approval.
Yellow smiles, red excitement, and tears too blue to be true.

I'm tired of love poems.
And I guess love poems are tired too,
Burdened with so much wordplay, so many tongue twisters, and way too heavy metaphors for a love poem to still look, feel, and sound like a love poem.

And, I'm getting tired of words,
How they betray their creators and turn against them,
Shred the writer apart and take all the messages they were suppoused to deliver and burn em,
What good is causing a stage mayhem if it wasn't you behind the mic?
What good is writing a thousand bloody lines to explain what something feels like when you don't even know how it feels?

But I don't blame them,
I don't blame words, writers, pens nor phone screens,
I don't blame metaphors, rhymes, nor word schemes,
I don't blame music, singers, bands nor solo musicians,
Not the media, not the west, not aliens, not even the illuminati,
I don't blame us. I don't blame me, I don't blame you, and..I don't blame our parents even though we're only taking the steps they once took before...

It's a marsh after all,
And it's... less of a civilization more of a freak parade.
Can't you spectate? Look around you...
There's a set of definitions for normal that we all work our asses off to live up to,
Yet no one reaches it.
And if you can't make it, you fake it,
So I guess that makes us less of a society, more of a masquerade:
Manmade massproduced humane flesh that we pay so much to buy just so we can glue it to our faces just to look human,
And man, should you be careful...
Make sure that you pour enough glue on that face,
Nail that mask to your eyelids, lips, and cheeks,
For if you fail at keeping that mask on, if the temptation of flashing your face to strangers overcomes your willpower to remain lowkey,
Then you'll end up like us, you'll end up like me,
Buried in names and labels, locked in between descriptions and definitions...

Society's unwanted children, its blackest of sheep, adernaline junkies too indulged in their little selfish sins,
The posers, the fakers, the sinners, the pretentious brats and the misguided fucks,
Look at them, trying with what seems a little too hard to fit between misfits,
Rebellion's brakes, tranquility's rebellion,
The stains of mediocrity in literature, the stains of shame in time...

And in time... we end up isolated even from isolation,
Looked down at and frowned upon,
For we're the ones historians trash the most and wipe off the records, and...

I'm getting tired of words,
Getting tired of poems that take us nowhere,
Tired of revolutionary songs and passionate love speeches,
Of the monsters that we hide behind those masks of humanity and their constant screams and screetches of objections... and...

I'm tired of this.

The Frustrating Teaspoon of Love

See when it came to writing lately:
ALL THE FUCKING METAPHORS SOUND USELESS AND USED,
ALL THE POEMS UP HERE ARE CRINGEWORTHY,
all the ones about your eyes,
your face, your lips, your thoughts,
All the similes of how you walk,
how you talk, and how it all puts down this...
this pile of piles of intersecting loopholes, newspaper shreds of crosswords solved wrong and explosives full of damp gunpowder that fails at being it self,
how it puts down this linguistically poor sad excuse of a metaphor into...
(I DONT KNOW THE WORD)
see that's the thing:
It feels as though all the language I learned since I let out my first unintelligible shout of objection is severly inadequate and that no matter how many dictionaries you go through you still wont find a word that says what you want to say.
I KNOW that words are suppoused to be mere complexes of voices that can hold any meaning but that's not how it is
how it is is how no word has enough syllables to hold off what weighs on this che- mind.
And then all the words I always were familiar with turned themselves into tongue twisters I only heard for the first time and my tongue grew heavy with  speaking hardships
Thats why every I love you I say sounds less like a word and more like a sigh,
because I love you doesn't really say it.
I love you doesn't even live up to the standards of a phrase that would say it.
but I settle down for what little that tiny teaspoon shovels off my thoughts because the closest thing to how I feel about you is holding up a dr.Suess' book everytime I look at you and my heart feels as if it's flooding in a strawberry milkshake and my dark face flushes into darker shades of red and quoting something irrelevant to the context of love.
So I'm not sure if this makes sense to you but when I say I love you what I mean to say is...

"walter Witter called a waiter: "Waiter, over here!
I want some water, waiter. Water, waiter! Is that clear?
The waiter brought some water. Walter Witter shouted: "WRONG!
This water's really watered-down! I like my water strong 
The waiter brought more water. Walter Witter was upset. 
"This water's dry!" said Walter. "I like my water wet! 
Bring me wetter water, waiter!" Walter Witter said. 
The waiter brought a pitcherful and poured it on his head."

you feel me?

شماعة: وماذا بعد؟

"النهاية."
انتهى تدافع الحروف، تزاحمها على السطور، توقفت ركلاتها المستمرة لعقبيه، لم يعد شيئا يرغمه على التقدم... لم يكن هناك مجالاً للتقدم على اية حال.
ما أسوأ ما قد يحدث؟ الموت؟ ابداً.
ما أحلى الموت مقارنة بهذا المصير، أسوأ ما قد يحدث هو ان تعلق.
ان تنتهي قصتك، ان تنتهي الرواية التي كنت بطلها، وتنتهي أصوات ازرار الآلة الكاتبة التي كانت تفاجئك حرفاُ تلو الآخر، واصوات همهمة القراء، وتتوقف الاحداث عن الحدوث وينطبق الغلاف الأخير على الورقة البيضاء الأخيرة هو أسوأ ما قد يحدث.
ربما كان مصيره أفضل قليلاُ إن مات اثناء الرواية، ولكنه عاش طويلاً جداً. وإن عشت طويلاً جدا لتشهد "النهاية"، فما اتعسك، وانا اقترح عليك ان تبدأ بندب حظك، واعلم انه لا شيء اجدر بأن تندب حظك لأجله.
وصلت به "النهاية" الى الحافة، لم يسقط تماما، ولكنه يقف هناك، لا مجال له للعودة لأن الحروف وراءه تشكل طريقاً وعرة جدا، وان استطاع العبور على اغلبها، فإن الالف واللام والطاء بعصاتها يقفون له بالمرصاد، جدران وراء جدران تسبقها جدران، وهو يعلم جيداً انه سيء في القفز، وان الهاويات بين الالف وبقية الأحرف واسعة جدا ولن يستطيع ان يقفز عبرها...
هو يخاف السقوط.
هو يخاف كل شيء.
انتهت روايته وتجرد منه لفظ البطل وأصبح لا شيء سوى نفسه: جبان.
لم يعد شيئا سوى لا شيء، لم يعد شيئاً ابدا.
وقف على الحافة، عَلِمَ ان الهوة امامه تنتهي بالحضيض، وان لا خيار امامه سوى السقوط، ولكنه سيأجل ذلك قدر ما استطاع.
أراد الجلوس ولكن فكرة ان تهوي قدماه الى الأسفل معطية الجاذبية الأرضية فرصة لسحب رجليه مُعجلة بسقوطه ارعبته فظل واقفاً.
سيقف هنا حتى تنهار الأرض تحت قدميه، ذلك الحل الوحيد. هو سيسقط، ولكنه سيقسط فقط حينما يريده الله ان يسقط.
بياض الورقة الناصع يؤلم عيناه، يشعر بالحنين للسماء الزرقاء، او المعتمة، وهو لا يريد في اللحظة سوى بعض النجوم، وبعض من هي...
كان يحملها بين اضلعه، تذكر ذلك، النشوة غلبت الرعب للحظة، والتفكير، ادخل يده في جيبه، اخرج المفتاح وفتح باب قفصه الصدري، واخرجها.
هي لم تنطق، كانت تكره ان تكون سجينته، ستعاقبه بالصمت، ولن تدعه يملأ جفنيه بسحرها. هي تعلم سحرها، وتخبر جيداً قدرات كلماتها على اسعاده، هي تعلم ايضاً ما يحدث له الآن، وهي غاضبة جدا، تركها في صدره المهمل ولم يعتني بها، لم يعطيها الاهتمام الذي تستحق، ستجعله يندم.
تحركت هي بكل خفة، رفعت قدمها عن الأرض: خطوة. وضعت قدمها اليمنى، ورفعت اليسرى: خطوة. كررتها عدة مرات، صارت خلفه تماما. تبدو أقدامه غبية امام اقدامها، تشعر قدماه بالإحراج من نفسيهما، يريد الدوران، يعلم ان لا قدرة له على الدوران، تعلم ان لا قدرة له على الدوران.
يعلم انها عنيدة، وأنها لن تأتي امامه، وأنها لن تنطق.
لا فائدة، سينهي هذه الفوضى وسينتهي.
خرجت الحروف من فمه متقطعة، كانت الكلمات محتارة الآن، خصوصا وان "النهاية" تقف خلفها، وهي تعلم ان لا مكان لها بعد النهاية.
قال:
إ
د
ف
ع
ي
ن
ي.

ارتسمت ابتسامة سادية على وجهها أرسلت قشعريرة في جسده.

ل
ن

ت
ف
ع
ل

لم يكن خطئاً واحداً الذي ارسله هنا، بل مئات. خطؤه الأكبر كان ايمانه بالنهاية السعيدة، وثقته العمياء بالكاتب. لم  يكن يعلم ان الكاتب كان يمقته، وانه أعطاه كل ما أعطاه فقط ليأخذه لاحقاً. لم يكن يعلم انه ليس سوى وسيلة لتفريغ موجة من العدوانية اجتاحت الكاتب في يوم سيء.
كل شيء ضده، والله هنا لن يقول للأرض ان تنهار، ولن تدفعه هي، ولن يحدث شيء، بعد النهاية كل شيء ساكن، وسيقف كل شيء هنا، يسخر من وجوده.
لم يكن ابداً بطلاً.
لن يكون بطلاً.
هو يريد القفز، ولكن الكاتب جعل فوبياه الوحيدة هي المرتفعات.
امال رأسه وارغم بؤبؤا عيناه على النظر الى داخل الحفرة، شعر بالدوار، فقد توازنه، وسقط.

والنهاية هنا ارغمت السكون على السقوط...

وظل يسقط.

"البداية."