"To the impartial eye, the world not only seems an unlikely one-off phenomenon, but a constant strain on reason. If reason exists, that is, if a neutral reason exists. So speaks the voice from within. So speaks Joker's voice." - Jostein Gaarder

Sunday, July 22, 2007

Ink, always gets more vivid when it dries

He writes with ink, he uses white paper with many small watermarks splattered all over it, and writes with ink. The ink takes a long time to dry, absorbed by the wet paper, it feels more vivid with time. Some of these papers have been lying here for years, some of them might still need many more years before you can read them.
I picked up one of them and started going through the smudgy lines.

...He would lie there next to her, for hours, watching the subtle movement of those lines on her back, as she breathes ever slowly on her way to sleep.
His fingers used to caress her skin, drawing lines slowly through the sweat. His fingers never felt more confident than when they're touching her back. Listening to the faint sounds of their hearts and breaths, breathing in all the odors in the room and going through the delicate details of her curves takes him to one of the many fairytale worlds they'd laughed so much about. Her dark, sun colored skin never fails to make his heart stop beating, for many hours, waiting for this body to speak, to tell a story of a world. He imagines how history took place between the small curves of her body. Right above her neck where her hair grows ever so soft, that is where Egyptians fought the Hittites in Kadesh. There, where a little drop of sweat was making its way down to her belly, was probably where Achilles had his last battle. Peace and war, love, life and death, revolutions, all couldn’t have taken place no place else other than her beautiful skin… The lines of her back form a different world from that we know. They tell Homer's Iliad and Neruda's Saddest Poem with few subtle moves, they explode with colors and words that he doubts anyone will be able to put into paintings or poems.

The ink-smudged papers fill the whole place around me, on the walls, over the television. Some were ripped apart but u can still see the ink seeping through them.

I try to make my way out, stepping on as few as I can. When I close the door behind me, I wonder, whether I might ever find my way back there again, and maybe, just maybe, write some of my own.

Who can imagine what goes through their minds as they lie there, while the whole world goes bustling around them behind these walls...


Blogger Golaniya said...


July 22, 2007 3:51 PM

Blogger saint said...

Yazan, the post is dreamy, but I was curious, what kind of place you have been in? Is it a tattoo shop or calligrapher shop or ?. I assume the location is in Japan. Your response will do good to piece reading.

July 24, 2007 7:08 PM

Blogger Yazan said...

thanks golaniya,

it is not dreamy, it is a real recurrent dream. so i have no idea where that is, i guess dreamstan.

July 25, 2007 12:05 AM

Blogger Lujayn said...

Eloquent, Yazan, I stepped into your dream for a few seconds, despite its brevity. By the end, I felt I should tiptoe out myself.

July 26, 2007 10:10 PM

Blogger Fatima said...

Ink ,,the print of our fingers,,
As always , you thrill me with your abiding by aesthetics and your soaring into realms of ecstacy and ascending red hills,,,

proud of HOW you are ,,

August 05, 2007 6:22 AM


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