Writing Takes Me Closer to Damascus
Writing …takes me closer to everything, and to Damascus.
Writing is the very magic of Life.
For writing is a process.
And so is Life.
A complex process simple in its mechanism. Don’t you think?
Writing requires some fundamentals.
For — writing stems from love.
And writing teaches me patience.
Being patient with my mind until it gives away the syllables to become words.
Words of the characters become dialogues.
The life of the plot.
Nothing can be enforced on characters.
Writing needs time and space. And so does — the world-building of the story.
Hence writing teaches me that I cannot, should not and ought not enforce any timing.
And writing has me understand, that I can try to make him feel my presence… somewhere in between the outside fence of his house and the window to his study.
And no, I shouldn’t strike a rose with a slingshot into his room.
What if I hit that hairy white cactus of his collection?
What if petals shiver off and only thorns remain, on their way up?
He, the dear writer friend, could be busy with his "Josephine"?
Even so, people in love respond to messages, allegedly.
Or, do they withdraw into their worlds where love shines through and no one can trespass?
And yet, the Rose can only await in her Oasis of Roses, right by their Ivory Castle, for the right time -- for them to respond.
And although I am dying to receive the call, the answers, writing tells me: "Stay patient!".
Writing teaches me that I ought to flow with the waves of creativity.
Whenever there’s a high wave of creativity, surf with it.
Whenever there’s flow, write, and then write better, until I can write better.
Moreover, writing is about intimacy.
The character of life ought to feel comfortable enough to allow me to enter their world, their mind... hence their thoughts and their hearts.
That’s not something that can be imposed on anyone!
No one can force their entry into someone's heart...
The Damascene fountain is near. All they have to do is reach out, in their time.
What about my time?
Writing intervenes once again: “Stay patient”.
“I am a bit concerned”, I think to myself.
“You shouldn’t. Flow, flow with the words,” writing tells me, again.
Writing teaches me to tame the burning flame… of my missing --Damascus!
Writing allows me to unleash the fire of the heart.
For writing is about feeling.
Even more so, writing is about allowing feelings to flow and linger.
Writing is about expressing… not letting words rot within. It's a kind of flamenco. Of words, and sentences, and passionate dialogues! Of intense waiting, followed by a joyful outburst of... the story.
It’s about taking chances.
It’s definitely about making love to the now.
And it’s about taking risks.
About asking them, even if the response does not come in my time:
“Are you Ok?”
About giving the moment a full chance.
There is no other way but to give the moment a full chance. Don’t you think?
Let’s give the moment a full chance and see what comes about.
I for one can’t see any other way. Can you?
And I miss You, Damascus.
I miss living without being followed around, in Bucharest, by a hovering shadow of a “rabbit”.
Boring ultimate boredom. Boring, boring boredom.
How can one be expected to display interest in someone they don't even know?
How can one enjoy being shown a bouquet of yellow tulips to match their coat and then the bouquet sees to its way on the Magheru Boulevard, downtown Bucharest?
The last time I checked, gentlemen offered ladies flowers, especially in the month of March, the month of Martisor Feast, a tradition of Romania. They don't have someone paid to display a bouquet of yellow tulips, on their behalf, when Ms Yellow Coat passes by. And yet, everything is possible when it comes to my life.
And some moments...aren't. They expire, in time.
Lose the sense of anything, and everything.
Because... the style and the energetic signature of the two -- match, no more. The style of the two are in cognitive dissonance. They don't match, NOT because there is another man. Rather, she feels no more. The whatever has gone dry. As elastic as the heart might be, it can't be stretched, and stretched, and stretched, over the years. Not even for a financially potent guy. The heart does not comprehend that. It is blind to that.
God willing, no one hovering around me has stepped in, properly, the Oriental way, yet.
Please be informed that this is not meant to be an invitation. It is the truth alone.
I miss living in the moment, of You.
And I miss having people knock on each other’s doors, like we used to.
And I miss our little community back Home when we’d gather every Holy Friday, the Sunday for Muslims, and share and interexchange dishes, and tea, and homemade rose petal jam, and the smiles of the heart.
By God, I miss you, Damascus, and the tender, loving sense of You.
By God, I miss your joie de vivre, Damascus.
On all the rosaries I am praying, I hope there shall be Light soon.
Because there comes a moment when there’s nothing one can do, but let go and allow for the Universe to knock on their door.