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Before closing the door of his empty house except for memories, he had contemplated his poetry, which had been invaded by gray hair, and his face intact with the thinnest of poets and intellectuals, and was perfumed with a perfume that those who forgot it. had given away in the sixties reconciled with his paleness.
His hand clings to a cloth bag that has accompanied him from the stairs of his school until now. He ignores time, looking at the vast living room, and the windows that draw his gaze towards a mirage, avoiding it, and he does not forget to direct his gaze towards a ceiling full of lamps that take the day as time for naps.
Outside there is no sound but the sound of the torrential rain etching the land, and inside there are students who look at each other in amazement, trying to read their silence, each one in their own secret. The girls exchanged laughs, and some of them stared at their books so that the laughter would not accidentally escape to the echo, while the young people calculated – with their heads tilted towards their smartphones – the remaining time of this absurdity, and of this conference! that hasn’t started yet!
Jack Darras – “Maya” (Pens in the notebook, 1993)
Boring sex! This is how he used to describe himself and his peers when he was his age. Still bored?
It was necessary to openly exchange questions to break the intensity of this sudden silence: “Oh my heart, my notebook with an enemy with you?”, “My friend whose watch is with you?”, “Doctor, are you wrong with the number of the hallway? “,” Why are you silent? “
He did not allow himself to be provoked by that battering public between the noise of the community and the excessive silence, he kept contemplating the same corners and reading the same details, he did not update himself. Her absent presence interpreted.
No student came to carry the bag on his behalf with a filtering and “smoothing” motion, and no student surprised him: “Doctor, your coat is so wet from the rain,” or “Doctor, your hair is so messy” or “Doctor, your face is so pale.”
His gaze continued as it was, stimulated by the dialogue of the land and the rain outside. Rainy days have always been a milestone in every moment of her life. Soon the dialogue ended and the stranger approached his students at a slow and pointed pace towards his office, and was even more astonished when he turned to the blackboard to receive the grunts of the assistants from behind.
He erased the written form of theories that seem philosophical in a written record that he does not know, but a theory drew him: “Can I think that I am thinking without thinking?”
He cleared the weight of what was written by his colleague, who did not know him, concluding by the line that he had taken from the previous conference as a way of consuming time with narration. He tried to take the pen in his left hand, but backed away. He took a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, perhaps the first and last in almost thirty years. Exclamation marks appeared on the faces of some, but no one shouted, fortunately no plaintiff was rude with this surrealism. He stared at her and the cigarette in his mouth, deliberately not lighting his head. He may have wanted to imitate the gray image of Johnny Depp, the star he had never seen in a movie, but he loved him through this image. He just looked at the faces of the female students who make up the overwhelming majority in the Hall of Science Seekers, specifically Arabic Language and Literature. Most emphasized it. They are all part of two, two plays, two experiences, two philosophies, two difficult lessons.
The silence continued, he became helpless, and the laziness of the sixties spread through the veins of his neck, he practiced deafness towards the rain and the voice of Faya Yunnan as he sat down in his seat. She opened her duffel bag, which escaped from the history book, as described by its modern owner. Try to fill out the timesheet, but the pen is empty. Void of movement and of the ink that passes at night, releasing oblivion on its white papers.
He looked closely at the first seat on the right side, the features of the white girl with the large, deep eyes with an indisputable glint of shame, a smile that brings assurance, and long hair as comfort after a night full of worries. He consumed his desire again in a kiss on her treasured cheek. She gazed carefully at the body of her youth. Confused and understanding, she tried to laugh, but insisted on reading her crucified wandering in their gazes prudently and conscientiously early in order to gain wisdom or seek the purpose of this whole scene.
He was defeated for his innocence and “loyalty” to his solemn existence. Then he said in a voice that had been fasting for a long time to speak: “Let’s get started … Give me a feather, O …” I interrupted with an angelic voice: “Passion.” The name fell into his heart, just as there is a fresh memory in the hearts of his thirsty killers. He looked out the window smiling, and Faya’s voice flowed through his head, “All windows remind me of you.” However, the position of the sun in the sky, and the time exceeded in the afternoon, did not coincide with his emergency glee, so he neglected his smile when remembering “the last window and the open door of life”. They were saying something, but a voice from the back seats preceded him. The sound was of a bored and messy young man shouting cunningly: “Time’s up, oh …”
He pulled out his hand that was supposed to take the pen, saying quietly, “Go away … We said what we said!”
* Tire / Lebanon
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