The dark-sheathed witch placed her palms against the floor
Only she knew her craft of linear lines could roar
An innate stillness, comforting her inner brawl
The sounds of silence, a chapter unforeseen and raw
Listen like a newborn, like a bowl of steep cliffs christened by its first echo, or a deaf man gaining back his hearing. The humming machines above you, its motors filtering your ears. Slurry footsteps, sloshing against the rubble of the ground, heavy stomping of someone swiftly trying to get to his destination, laughing lovers-to be. Allow yourself to look, soak in the beauty that beholds, tracing the details that mesh it all together, observing.
A milky blue afternoon greyed by shifting clouds, relentlessly paint a new sky forth your eyes. Tiny winged bugs, creatures usually unnoticed now pop in disarray, blended molecules and clashing energies dusting the atmosphere. Flying: the birds’ swim, a ball darts swiping through the air and planes whoosh out their toxic whispers.People scurry across, buzzing thoughts focused and worried minds, rushed legs. The swaying hips: a calling. An androgynous person passes by; you cannot peel your eyes off until you make an exact distinction of sex. The sport of prediction.
A woman, confirmed. The scenario makes you question. Do you ever have the same effect on others? …Slack teenage clothes reminiscent of the 90’s and people asking for directions. You are a criticizing freak. Yet you do not recognize that, or at least pretend not to.
Imagination, visualization and creativity, a distant beat you want to hear so badly. Some strange dictator does not tolerate imagination in his land. The truth is the land is your mind, a field only you can live in. That dictator is your thoughts. A dictator, born in you in fifteen minutes of silence. Inhibited by thoughts, fantasies, everything you define yourself to be or have the skills to be.
This knowing buried in an ocean so deep, only your senses can see it. Grains of unconscious ways, hindering your path. Your blood vessels, held up by colour-patterned thoughts. Like a machine, ruled by thoughts, by a conquering voice, unable to liberate yourself unto observation.
Observation of the present moment, the salvation to any momentary, introspective crisis. Like twilight, as night falls in the hands of its salvaging destiny, so you learn the art of letting go. Like a meeting of horizon and sun, moon and stars, an instinctive tuning begins to arise.
So utopian, raging out its beautiful might
Her mind, convulsive, always trying to fight
Now she knows. ‘Oh I know’, the speech of her life
Give her a break; we are all a paradox; interpretations of an Ottoman saif.