adam bezaar

Insomnia seems to have vaccinated itself against me. I sleep at nights, sleep like a baby. I dream now, dream something new every night. Good thing about dreams is that you can force them to be forgotten. And the peculiarity about so many walls that had stood with me, so many swings that had been pushed with me, so many trees that I had recognized and so many library cards that I had lost is that they move on with me as imprints and are never forgotten. And because they never cease to haunt the future they keep the past as an intrinsic part of my present. Along with them walk so many faded shadows. Shadows because the obstructions in the pathway of light themselves have always transformed into something translucently unapproachable in the future. So, my conversations remain without an end. In fact, when have I ever tried ending them or needed a fresh start for their resumption? Each conversation that can invade years.

I crouched on the carpet in the living room where wooden chairs rested with their legs firmly placed on the ground under the glass-top waiting for a meal to be served. The marbled wall looked determined in maintaining its poise while my gaze burgeoned past the forest under the dining table. The frowning winter afternoon gave a melancholic pretense of an ancient library to the space. I lifted my cringed self to spread over the table. My hair fell upon it like crooked fingers of a corpse.

Ali rushed by, I followed him with my eyes and because inflicting distraction is the distinction about him, he came back and poured water on the table. Creeks grew out of the splash and made their way toward me. The ends of my hair first drank from them and then submerged willingly. The pale fingers then inflated with individual ends of my drenched hair resembling a Porcupine Puffer, reminding me of all the conversations that I am still in and how sharp their ends have become over the time.

The sky chokes on patakhay because a year has ended.