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.
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