03: 31 am  There is an ocean in my heart. It beats with a sense
of urgency. Its water runs deep. It murmurs and shatters on the
shore of old longing before it gets swallowed in moving sands.
If you observe it carefully, you can catch the trails of
Eurydice and Orpheus in a haunting pattern. They are both
swaying between the earth and warfare’s dust. They are both
trying not to look back, while the looked at stares back at
them. Struggling with the mechanism of absence and presence,
they are sculpting a narrative of loss. Both the seer and the
seen are dallying in my heart, wanting to go in, to be in, but
the in is still taken hostage by a sense of fog. My heart knows
that by looking back I can alter the results of an experience.
So when I look back at my origins, at my scattered roots and how
they resemble so much the roots of Beirut, the Beirut that I
love like one can love a deep old bleeding wound, I ask myself,
am I making Beirut disappear into the seen or into the real, am
I making myself disappear into