2016-09-12Comments are off for this post.

Details

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Those unbearable moments of someone disappearing, or worse, someone disapproving of appearing. It's a different kind of sadness. There's a certain detachment from whatever one is surrounded with when her body is somewhere else but still permeating every fiber of your being because moments ago you talked, laughed, missed. But if you go to sleep without her voice in your head, well, what is there to rest from when nobody echoes in the chambers of your mind? Instead, details keep you awake: the wind blowing, the rain dropping, the Imam, suddenly, calling.

2016-07-05Comments are off for this post.

What is missing

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Being reminded of something, to me, only occurs when you are seeing something that is not part of what you are remembering. Otherwise, one would only call into conscious what was always connected to that very object. Seeing myself in this picture, I remember the smell of caustic acetone in that room, I remember my eyes falling shut and my friend complaining about skin burning. But the more I try to forget I was there, I see a room and not much else and I am failing to remind myself of anything but what is missing.

2016-05-12Comments are off for this post.

Mickey

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I met Mickey Mouse in a reception hall in Paris. He was very sweet. I stared at him, waiting for his squeaky voice to speak to me, for his animal body to embrace my small human frame. But he just took me into his arms while his face appeared to freeze. And I guess I took the bait as the trap seized what's been the mouse all along.

2016-03-25Comments are off for this post.

To tell a joke

 
There was so much quietness. Better: noiselessness. The opposite of clamor, so many voices speaking soundlessly to the beautiful brashness of crockery, mother's eyes pointing towards bread, hands dashing across the table. I can breathe easily, I can see myself saying, I can easily breathe. And then, someone leans back into the chair, let me tell you a joke, and then he would tell a joke, and the laughter, oh my, what a glorious mess, silencing the dishes and not much else. 

2016-03-24Comments are off for this post.

Slowly Breaking

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My father used to call me out when I was losing empathy. I can’t sleep at night, you know? We got some food and we were sitting in the car and he stared through the window pane and he could not look at me, for he knew I was drunk and slowly breaking. And when he finally asked how I was feeling, I fell into pieces, poisoned, scattered around for him to pick up.

2016-03-17Comments are off for this post.

Prayer Chain

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His father used to have a prayer chain, one made of beautiful old amber, each bead oval-shaped and bright. You would hear his voice, trembling its way to pronounce His name. I never saw my father do the same. In fact, I really rarely saw him pray at all. But whenever I would leave for a longer period of time, he would hold a golden-clad Quran over the doorstep and ask me to walk through.

2016-03-17Comments are off for this post.

Vanishing Point

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I remember my teacher teaching me about vanishing points, where even the objects that are very much present are always pointing towards the vanishing. It is now that I am wondering why I would ever want to draw something where the point is to disappear. Interestingly enough, there were times I would run out of class, myself becoming some sort of undertow for the grown-ups who were chasing me, their authoritarian gaze fixed on my body. Some of them would catch me, some of them would leave me, in return believing to be that undertow I was myself at times becoming. And sometimes I would vanish and mostly I would not.

2016-03-17Comments are off for this post.

Allotment Gardens

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I used to visit these allotment gardens when I was younger than the amount of young I am right now. It belonged to the parents of a Turkish friend of mine. I remember the way he used to say "mother" in excitement, in anger and in shame. Those sounds still resonate in me though I forgot about the space.

2016-02-01Comments are off for this post.

A Moment’s Notice

You drop the bags in some corner, let’s turn on the lights. And when you finally do, your eyes light up, like they always do when you find something at a moment’s notice. Look at this, you say, smiling, turning at the spot. And my eyes barely move as I am looking, looking at you.