The Assassination of the Living Dead

          Get closer. Perfect. Now, say cheese.

          It was all happening too fast. They were trying to seize a moment there, trying to frame an image, to capture the last of a fleeting glimpse of light, of eternity. It was his fault because he trusted a second chance and fell short from the promise in the gap of the persisting fact.

          It was but a morning when he decided along with his peers to trespass the trancelike vibe of a busy corner. It was a deceiving sunny splash of the perky morning walks aside. It was the darkest of them all.

          Pressing his thumb against the screen, little he knew that he was on the hinge of letting go of scenery painted randomly with the joys of a daily frolic while rushing to assemble the crumbles of smashing glass of a portraying present before it bursts to void. All in vain. Something within was pleading for the milliseconds to melt along and procrastinate forever more. Something knew for sure that it would be too fast, too worthless, too flamboyant.

          It was perfectly planned and neatly prosecuted. It was never as raucous and messy as anticipated. No. It was perfect. A silent merge of weird colors and a twist of events. It was a chronological jam. It was an artistic outburst by those who dare not admit art by conventional means. For that, we apologize. It was not a bomb that killed Former Minister of Finance Mohammad Chatah, sixteen-year old Mohammad Al Chaar, six casualties and wounded over seventy others. No. It was all done for an elite purpose. It was done for the audition of another piece of truth to our mosaic lives. It was done for reasons we shall not be able to grasp. It's not "why" that we ought to ask. It's not a question that we should offer, not that we at least know of. The purpose is far more transcendental to be contained in a set of accusations. You know why? It's because we seem to have lost our human self. It's not those who shed their bodies who have lost, but those who survived to live another mourn. It's those who still prove to have lost life, or the reason to live by overdosing on political heresies and ephemeral pleasure. Those who have lost time to ask.

          Mohammad Al Chaar fell short from smiling and paused for a never-ending photo of a never-ending construction of what insists on calling itself a country.

          "RIP Mohammad Al Chaar."

          Lies and empty expressions of ostentatious melancholia. 

The Subtle Say

          It's funny weird. A little teasing, nevertheless, to be shoved off course as the doubtful breath of self coats the truth of meaningful says. When scenery is limited by the flamboyant expectations and "pragmatic" distancing, every touch is altered and replaced by that of a rolling act.
          She is beautiful as ever, perky and weird as she will ever be. Behind the big round rampant glasses and the "kilt-like" scarf, behind the flushing rich feminine lyrics of her mouth and the blazing blond volume of her hair, lies a person so peculiar, so exorbitant to be contained in a set of words. All those wrist bands and accessories have grown inseparable from her character. A flushing flow of words smashes against the wooden set of squeaky chairs and bulky stained tables as she decides to revolt again on the henges of redundant formats of our everyday lives. I can't but lie to her; she does something, says something, or maybe nothing to arise the "what did I just say?!" phenomenon from my side.
          As the perfect sway of coffee fumes flushes repeatedly against the drained syrup of our table talks, something within the ongoing vibe transits to another place. I swear I could feel our conversation peeling to a core chat. Ideas most of the time are suddenly frankly addressed. Most of the time.

          Time goes by as the vocals of our throats continue to tremor with the most "acceptable" statements. No chance to sway out of the anticipated orbital and fulfill the simplest acts of childish frolic. At the break of every norm, when mutual silence offers a space for perfect words to be placed and for battling gears to be matched with the chronologic demands of events, nothing seems to happen. 

          It seems that things happen or don't for those who will or won't have the courage to speak of what lies within to the force of the universe. That of which is determined to set challeneges for he who takes the toll to defy all attempts to rectify the boring do's  and don'ts  of a social law.

          As the day shuts down, and the many words we exchanged are still somehow unsatisfying, we seem determined somehow to put an end to all of that, and corky ice-cold breeze can't grow to agree even more. We diverge solemnly at the end of the subtle say with no further words and a million thoughts and feelings left volatile at bay...