IN THE MIDDLE

©Ines Ghanoushy.
I’ve been waking up to an unbearable sensation in my stomach lately. At 3 am and a half precisely ,I ‘d biologically wake up by conscious unconsciousness to stare into the night. The sky’s blue was getting lighter and lighter announcing the beginning of a new day. The light of my cigarette is the closest I’ll ever get to a brand new person. With an ebbing desire for the things that used to bring joy to my existence. I push myself to write like I used to before with an unending inspiration and thoughts racing in my mind urging me to scribble incoherent content on a crowded sheet of paper. No feeling is worse than Anhedonia, this depressive episode hitting me harder than ever. With an ascending painful rythm, it all comes back like a cycle, a vicious vile cycle.
And I’d recall the numerous times during which I’ve been intoxicated. Trying to psychologically analyse my state of mind. A pile of atoms barely touched.Detaching from my surroundings and floating away.Unconsciously singing with such a hoarse rusty voice and words would burst out like intelligible cries from my straining chest.
Such a strain.
Such a strain in my chest.
Such a strain in my straining chest.
With a soul that seemed dark and troubled to the outsiders. So I just lean my elbows on my knees and rest my head in both hands trembling like a leaf,wondering what was wrong with me.
And now that It’s become mentally agonizing, I gave into pharmaceutical brain tricks to fool myself into being “treated” by mind-altering chemicals and synthetic emotions. Without fiction where is my fire? Where is my burning hellish desire?
I wave away my stinky thoughts along with the smoke and I fix my eyes on the flickering city lights. I’ve always claimed that I loathed this place. A place where I grew up between contradictory beliefs, schizophrenic personalities, ironic happenings, both old fashions and wide horizons and the invisible strings that tie me to everything about it: The palm tree beside my house; My highschool’s old yellowed by time, saggy roof; Its windows that gaped holes for the wind to rush in and out ; The door that was hung on its hinges at a jaunty angle although now it’s just frames with old blue paint that comes off the second you touch it. I bizzarely connected with the time that had performed those irreversible deeds upon the city’s crumbling factories who’s bricks and cement have been eroded away. And Oh how I enjoyed strolling between bookstalls!
For my soul to heal from the pressure of modern life, the touch of dusty books was vital. And so I recognized that I didn’t hate this city afterall. I loved it and I was deeply attached to it and its strangely beautiful creatures.
I thought,as my cigarette was coming to an end, that I’d never trade this peaceful reassuring familiarity for anything in the world.

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