Egypt is such a loose term; who or what am I referring to when I utter that name? It seems to be like those things you know through and through, and yet, it lies beyond your ability to mould into words..to delineate.
Places are queer-countries are places too-we give them hands to hold memories and we let soul wander in them as they define our decisions, as though they are people, or more: saints, angels. And in seconds, we can undress them of all reverence and leave them naked on the ground to tread whatever remains with a thousand dissing tongue. We fight for places and we die for places. We breathe for places . And places, they don't feel a thing. So, are we only bonding with the shadows of us intertwining on the walls? Are we merely attached to an enormous other self? Can all the emotion overflowing in our hearts be the facade of only one: possession? In their inconsideration, objects and places are the same; objects, though, I can touch; places, they lie between the abstract and the concrete..and in that too lies all the mystery.
I'll let Egypt pass through me like it's the minor and I'm the great. Call me a narcissist, or a megalomaniac, but I won't let myself be a part of Egypt, Egypt will be a part of me. If I want objective facts, history books will be full of that. I am here to be biased, to let all that is me overpower. I'll be the sieve through which the sunrays pass.
I cared to hear and converse, to argue to reach a truth. I felt afraid and recoiled to bed with my limbs shivering. For the most part though, I wanted to recede to myself, where none of it took place, where nothing at all takes place. It’s painful to be me and it’s more painful that I never want to break free.