Being possessed by demons of nostalgia is not the most glorious bless a man could have, especially during those moments when it’s cold enough that you can clearly hear the sound of steel teeth of those diablos sinking into the flesh of your soul, deep to your very heart.
We know profoundly how those cold moments are there to stay, for hours, days, and even centuries. Regardless how they fade temporarily squeezed by our urge to fight insecurity between the sweaty rush of life and the yellowish summer smoke of the city

There I was, nostalgic to and haunted by daydreams of her beautiful flawless wrinkles, getting more wrinkly with ever goddess-like smile, her creamy tones adding taste to my morning coffee, the nourishing energy spells cast by her caring hands that fed me for years, the rays of light shining down on me from the halo around her head, her systematic heart ticks whispering in my ears as I’m wrapped in the heaven of her arms, and mostly… the muse of her voice bathing me with her early morning and late night blessings.

I have missed you mom
I’ve missed how you fight the urge to smile wickedly whenever I’m cheeky
I’ve missed how you fight with me to change my opinions and beliefs in order to keep me with you in afterlife, and yet you rub it in my face when you sometimes prove that you’re right
I’ve missed how you cook the most delicious food in the world no matter how cranky and tired you could be
I’ve missed how differently your glasses change the shine of your eyes and their purity
I’ve missed how angelic you look no matter how dark the colors you choose to wear
I’ve missed how you protect me from being cocky by not giving me any credits, but still can’t hide your cockiness when you speak of my name in public
I’ve even missed those grieves we have had shared, how you gripped my arm as we prayed our final farewell to dad, and how you gripped it once again when we said our not-final goodbye to me in Damascus Airport.
But I’ve missed more the happy dofus pleasures, whether in our humble family house, or in the naked outsides, starting by the giggling at the shadows we made when the power was off, and ending by the late night ice creams long walks and talks.

Un rêve qui n’est pas comme les autres, une vision magique d’un pays magique.
Un rêve à la française, dans une ville française, où les personae sont françaises, et même la musique au fond viens d’un accordéon français.

Elle, je l’appelle  « le rêve » parce qu’elle est l’envie du monde entier, et la raisons de ses souriras purs et sincères. je l’appelle le rêve parce qu’elle est légère comme un sieste dans le pluie de l’été, lunatique comme les sirènes de la nuit en voyageant parmi les étoiles filantes, et qu’elle est une princesse d’un conte de fée.
Elle est vivide, lucide, et réel comme l’âme de dieu qu’elle a portée, pourtant elle l’appelle le rêve.

Elle… elle est la raison pour laquelle j’écris en français au nouveau, car seulement elle m’a donnée l’impression que j’habite en France, et que je pourrais avoir un ou deux moments pour apprécier le vrai esprit de ce pays.
Enigmatique et « Enormatique » plaisir pour les yeux, délicieuse comme une péché, jolie comme le paradis, à couper le souffle comme un voyage astral en donnant le frisson du Mistral.

Chaque mot français est sorti de ses lèvres fines m’a donné la chaire de poule, chaque mouvement a causé mon cœur à faire un bond, simplement car c’était elle, et elle … casse tous les standards de la beauté

Elle… elle est le seule ange concret parmi tous les anges de concret en France et l’Europe entière.
Elle m’a donné la confiance en la beauté non-artificielle en ce pays artificiel.

Si tous les enfants sont adorables et mignons, je l’appelle un autre spécimen, je l’appelle le rêve.
Je vous présente « Élodie »

Like every day when I’m all alone and almost unknown in a “terra firma”, when the road is  my one and only true companion, I saunter through colorful streets to gaze upon faces, some of them are as banal as winter to the point that they become hardly-noticeable, and some are quietly the opposite in every extraordinary aspect.

He, an old man in his late 60’s, was one of those unforgettable faces. He was standing there on the edge of a bridge cradling the horizon with his eyes, wearing pride, history, and a heavy winter “Manteau”, staring far away with persistence as if he was preparing to call upon lost souls or welcoming memories of the past as if they were old friends. His facial expressions have got that thing that awakes a sleeping sensation in you, to leave you there jaw-dropped with a scar-deep like memory.

Something strange made me step into his head to see what he was seeing.
It was like a Hollywood movie, as we both shared the same view tunnel within our heads, erasing new architecture, constructing an old one instead, drawing people with smiles on their faces and finishing up by coloring the sky to our liking.
For that we both smiled at the same time to the perfect image, and the perfect memory.
Was he a man that sold the world just like me? Could he be me in 25 years from now? or could me be him from the past? … I don’t know.