Moi, The Fine Line

Postcards from Morocco – I

My Love,

Oh, my love, as I drive through the hills erect upon the body of Morocco I think of you. I love you but I do not remember. You once sang and danced in my mind’s eye, ever present and so very vivid. Now you fade.

I stare out through the window and pass a rock, a tree, a goat and but a moment later I cannot remember the goat or the tree or the rock, for the image of a hawk has pushed it out of memory. The skinny horse replaces the hawk. The panoramic views, offered by the driver, pushes out the memory of the skinny horse. And so the cycle continues until everything is forgoten.

I see a twinkle of your eye and I swoon. Then I question myself; is that the way it twinkled? I forget to answer when an image, long passed, enters my mind – that smile. The one that had gripped my tendons even before your “hello”. The sound of your voice in my imagination makes me sick. Badoom Badoom goes the palpitations of my heart. I cannot really remember. I really cannot remember.

I sit back and let the wind wash over me. It’s soft against my skin. I kick my slippers off and breath. I am really here, speeding through sandy golden hills which are further baking in the sun. The road is bumpy so I cannot fall asleep although the drive is long. But why should I want to sleep? I have dreamed for a year to be where I am now; and there is no more need for sleep or dreams – not for the moment. I think back and then I think forward – whatever. The car slows and the guards wave us by, which confuses the driver but he continues to drive, slowly to be sure. “But they always stop,” he says and shrugs.

Because I cannot remember, anxiety spikes. The twinkle, the smile, that voice, all inauthentic; replicas. They are not apart of you. My love. They are imitations of memories of you and nothing more. Can I love you so? But it is not you any longer. I loved you because I cannot remember. You’ve faded.



Grandfather’s Words

“I nearly went, but I was afraid. I mean who knows what could have happened. I guess I could still go; it’s going to cost a lot more now though. I don’t know how wise that would be. I love her but she’s so over this.” I spoke to my sleeping grandfather.

His head dropped to the side. I could see his wrinkled face beaming with inspiration. He blinked a few times and then his eyes opened wide. He smiled. I’d never have been so open if I knew he were really awake. How absolutely embarrassing.  I wondered what he though of me now. A wimp of a grandchild who’s afraid to do anything. I stopped scolding myself when I heard the croak of his voice. He coughed and I reached for the glass of water that stood by his bed. Once I had given him a drink he began to speak.

“The suffering caused by fear is tumultuous to the living soul. It is like working your fingers to the bone and then beyond, just so that you will not have to have a day of lack or of suffering. And then after some years you are pulled out of work because your mind and your body and your soul are all damaged. Damaged. Suddenly everything you have worked for has to be sold on to afford you a remedy for the damage you have caused. You then lay suffering in lack. Lack of any possessions; lack of any memories.

And then in your last days you’ve no advice to give because you obviously did it wrong and you’ve no profound life experiences to draw upon. Then, although you’ve been dead all throughout your life, you expire. Useless.”

As I stared at him he sank back into his bed, closed his eyes and exited this life. Silence had never been so loud.

Creative Writing, Musings, The Fine Line

Fear & Mania

And in a world governed by fear and mania the people were unable to unite.

There were those who instilled fear and used it to their advantage for fear that complete equality would make their lives redundant.

There were those who feared; and of these stagnant people there is nothing worthwhile to say.

There were also those, a minority, who couldn’t care less – que sera sera.

Ultimately, mania overtook them all and so did death.

Creative Writing, Momentary, The Fine Line

Who Are You?


You get home after a long day, an awesome day, just a day.

You look at me through the glass on our dressing table and you contemplate momentarily.

The face that was chosen to be put on that morning, did it fit the day?

If, upon reflection, you decide that your chosen face for the day fit, you smirk because you fooled all them mother fuckers.

If, however, upon reflection, you decide that your chosen face for the day did not fit, you frown because you’ve opened up space for speculation.

Either way you will pull off that face once the pensivity and the moment pass.

Sometimes, you will be gentle and prop the day’s face neatly on the dressing table, ready for tomorrow. That’s when you’re happy. But those days are rare. Most days you rip the face off and throw it to the pile. The eight of your faces crushed and battered in the corner.

When you shout at us we hate it, but we do not complain because we know you hate it more.

We have lived with you this way for four years now.

We miss the days when it used to be fun. When you would wear us and love us and we’d all equally be apart of who you are. But now we lie, hopeless in the corner of your soul. This darkened room. There’s never any light any more. And the glass we see you through is crumbling.

We’ve been open with you about who we are and how we are feeling. Consensually. We hope it introduces a glimer of inspiration for you to be open with the world about who you are; who you really are.