Morning Without Memory
Written on the wall board: “Search for a morning without memory.” And he walked away.
Eyes stared at the words, raising objecting questions. Is there such a thing as a morning without memory? Our mornings are idiotic in their details, beginning with dismembered bodies, ambulance sirens, blocked roads, and obscene questions.
Silence for moments, but the silence was torn apart in the moment of objection:
“Which of us doesn’t want to hold onto their memory? But it is a memory pierced with helplessness, fear, and the search for a sip of love from a moment of passion lost in closed pathways, until we have come to search for mornings that leave our memory in the night of our whispers and murmurs, under half-moon nights where the moon grew tired of our complaints and turned its cheek, exhausted by confession.”
He noticed Fairouz in her song: “Yesterday we met… yesterday we ended… neither we were, nor they were. O keeper of promises, let the promise become forgetting.”
He falls silent. Words are lost in the moment of the sitters’ silence. No one leaves a comment. Eyes move across mobile phones and Facebook… sometimes faces laugh, sometimes they remain neutral.
So it is another morning, and another song that repeats every morning:
“Don’t call out, there’s no one there.”
He stepped out to the front courtyard of the place. Roses and trees where colours cross-pollinate with green, and a boat moored at the lake’s edge, toyed with by the water’s movement, tied by a rope to the lake’s fence, with small fish dancing around its wooden body. Motion has long left it, and it remains silent.
So it is silence everywhere, broken only by terrifying sounds and a worry hiding behind the walls of the soul, leaving behind a question about a morning without memory.
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