Empty Skies

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic


I’m having the idea of writing down whatever thought crosses my mind. It is the name of my sister that suddenly just came to be wrote by such a matter of spontaneity that will resemble the intricacy of a leaf drawn by God. I woke up at dawn, felt like bit crooked, that something was wrong and I was not where I belong. That is where, lies and arises the feeling of discomfort, as if life was flowing in the wrong way. And just then, life showed me the tenderness in you, you showed me my worth, the amount of thought you bestow me. I felt comfort, that I caught a slice of the rope thrown by God; to return, to take the journey of going home, to the origin, to the great bask of light where I belong, to the ultimate thought. I am throwing my thoughts, it’s my hands writing down for you, I want you to hear the ecstasy in me, the thrill that travels down my spine. The world will sing again, it will strike its words like burning arrows. I saw the blaze of the blue, the luminescence of the purple, the grandeur of the indigo, the lightness of the blue-sky, the swiftness of the lilac. I saw two crows, moving their bodies around like tigers, their eyes as sharp as knives, exposing your soul, exposing your flaws, your pride, your nature. My desired, my sweet and creamy, pure and twisted, dear little child. I am looking at your inner self, I am looking at your reflection in the eyes of a crow, eyes as dark as a ravine that thrusts you into void. I am looking at the threads that move you, vulgar marionette, the desires gnawing you, your basics instincts hurting into the noble codes you’ve labelled. How your limbs struggle and nibble your flesh, how your claws encrust in your skin your lust, how your mind is thrown off-sense and how your thoughts wobble in the background, how your demons laugh in pure frenzy and their tails giggle and whip you deeply, madly. You are yourself a scarlet poison, that is you I am talking about, you are amazed, seduced by the world I create inside you. The writer does nothing but bleed, he does nothing but see himself in everything, he wants to feed on himself, but he is tamed, he is tamed by the impulse of immortality. He goes into trances, he feeds on you, he feeds on the leaves falling from trees and the bird bent in the skies of freedom. I saw a bird standing in the sky today, I found beauty in its stagnation, how it is flaps its feathers against an invisible barrier, how it struggled to go in a sole inaccessible direction, how God refused its will. I found beauty today in a joint smoked underneath a tree, a tree that recalled me of infancy, that whispered at our very first encounter, that it will be my treasure, my safe home and my protector. I found protection in the dog lying beside me, close enough so I can feel his presence, far enough so he can look over me, right in sight so I can feel his warmth, dissimulated like a leaf in a tree. My senses are being driven by the words of the wind, by the howl of Zephyr, by the grand hymn of Nature. I looked around and found the trunk, as harsh as the wrath of god, as alive as the pulse resonating inside you, warming my insides, speaking at the frequency my body emits, entering through the pores of my skin, making me remember the myriad of feels that are scattered around, I am not writing for a purpose, I am not writing for love, pride, fame or any other reason, I am writing only because it feels like pouring my body fluids on a paper, on a wall, on existence, on you. It feels like bleeding, it feels like I might get empty, that I might get dry but it never stops pouring, and it will never stop, no until my last breath, not until I lie underneath earth. I will keep on feeding hope to all the creatures sent on earth. My angel’s name is “God that is hope to all creatures of earth”. And I am not speaking out of delusions, I firmly devote my body and soul to my essence, to the wail of the blood that swirls inside me, to the universe that can only be perceived throughout my stingy eyes, to the air that can be bent by the contractions of my throat, to the flames that spring from my mouth, to the fiery smoke that evades through my nostrils, to the breath of the dragon, the dragon that sleeps inside my guts and who’s eruption I fear most, I yearn for most, who corrodes my organs with boiling magma, who makes my ideas jump all over the place. You are not returning to the stars; you are not stardust. It is stardust that longs for you. You are grand enough to be on pair, to be greater than any other creation. You are grand enough for the world to want to belong to you, for the cosmos to beg to find way in you. You alone are a thousand fantasies, a boundless tale, a fathomless pit. You are all those fine little gold droplets, you are the home, the awakening of the spirit, you are the fury, the intensity, the whole world whipping, the fig falling from the titanic tree, you are the non-sense of this world.


Submitted: May 11, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Malek Jerbi. All rights reserved.

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