Liberated Thoughts — The Season of Drought!

And another summer...

Through it I trudge, in the morning, to my office. And I come back in the afternoon, to the house, with a flush on my face, and a smothered grief, and the ghosts of a smile the color of asphalt. And on my feet dust, and weariness, and the storm of my hopes... Then I wash the heap of dishes we use at every meal. And I sweep the tiles — I sweep only what shows of the room's tiles — leaving its corners as comfortable summer resorts for the spider and the cockroaches. And I plunge into water that runs down from a huge barrel, in which the water boils on the roof. Then in the kitchen I chew, in haste, the slice of meat... so as to catch my share of what is left in the shops: cheese. And bread. And labneh. And watermelon or grapes for supper.

I fell silent...

About what, about what, about what did I fall silent?

While I crouch behind a desk in my office, thirsting to hear the fall of any footsteps piercing this dark marble corridor. While I long for a cloud of smoke to lose myself in, puffed from a cigarette in the mouth of a hungry man. While I crave a look of interest, be it only a passing one, to tear the stillness of this solitude that is strangling me. While I dream... I dream... I dream... I dream — I have thought it... and whispered it, to give it a weight that binds the air of this day together:

Get away from these faces. Get away from these places. Get away from these repeated... repetitious events...

And I vanish into an elegant house whose mistress I am, not its prisoner. I clean it — I clean even the corners of its rooms — and I drown it in vases of roses. And tulips. And violets. And gardenias... And on its windows I hang gay curtains: red, yellow, green, in harmony with the color of the plain silvery leather chairs. And I flit about barefoot, between the bed, to which I restore the dignity of daytime, and the kitchen, where I carry out the wishes of an angel who watches over me.

I will kindle no uproar in this enchanted world, for in my head are the leavings of children's quarrels. And the obstinacy of boys. And the wailing of adolescents, and the threats of fathers... I will pluck out these leavings, and in every corner I will loose a cry of love... a deep love... deep, deep, that allows every human being to change the faces. And change the places. And change the events... And change...

I will sleep at ease, and I will sleep my fill. And I will bury my head in a vast breast that is tender. And doting. And watchful. And I will close my eyelids, feeding on the touch of a hand that roams the windings of my forehead and croons to my hair... And with the owner of that hand which grants freedom I will soar, in an enchanted world... I will soar to the stars... to the moon... to the clouds... to the darkness... to the branches... to the seas, and the rivers... to the pale light, to a corner gargling with quiet... to a vast breast that is tender...

And...

No,

I will not leave this house in the morning for my office,

for my body was not created to bleed sweat!

I was created that men might struggle for my sake! Created to create beauty. Created for gaiety. For perfumes. For sweet basil. For melodies. For stillness. For voyages to the stars!

Forgive me,

for I am dreaming!

I dream, while the man I answered climbs, like a filthy beggar, behind walls a few steps away from me, the germs of the migrations droning upon his face, to gnaw away his superfluous existence in my mind and wipe it out forever.

The fool proved unable to bring off a naive, fresh, ordinary dream.

And he thought himself the legend of his age when, in a summer gone by, he put out the great blaze of my days; and when I began to grasp that the clock of the "Fair" was setting my hours alight: a quarter of an hour... and a quarter of an hour... and a quarter of an hour... and a quarter of an hour... and an hour... and an hour...,

I murmured in his hearing, in gratitude:

I want you for a cutting weapon, with which to put an end to my loneliness. And to the emptiness of my life!

Forgive me, and forgive me again,

for I am drowning in memory!

I drown in memory, and still I leave the same house, in the morning, for the same work. And I come back in the afternoon, at the same hour, with the same flush on my face. And the same smothered grief. And the same ghosts of a smile...

No,

I have no right to dream. And no right to remember. And no right to apologize:

For at this moment,

fertile dreams have died within me. And memories have faded away... And a man I know passed by. And moved his hands, lighting the tip of a cigarette; and I asked him about his child. And about his wife, and about the mountain. And about the transportation. And about his health...

And the man moved off, and a rapture of reassurance flooded over me, at my power to strive, like men, to build a future for myself, and for many others.

And I locked the door, drawing up a program for the few days of my annual leave:

I shall see a masterpiece by one of the writers of the modern theater, in the temple of Bacchus, for I recoil from the classical plays: their atmospheres, and their sternness, and their manners... Shall I visit my family in the mountain? I shall not visit them, for I seize upon the summer to be rid of their heavy, tiresome breathing. I shall fling myself down on a solitary, unknown shore, from morning till evening — cooking no food. Washing no dishes. Sweeping no tiles... And I shall finish my reading of the book by "Albert Camus" — The Plague — and I shall drag my feet along the sidewalks, the heat wearying me. And the displays of the shops tempting me. And I shall be lulled by the picture of a flowered dress, and lights, and mad music, and a dance imp-footed in its steps, on a pure summit in the darkness of our sky!

No — wait,

for who is to oversee the carrying-out of all this: what man?

I am not free to undertake any act; I need a man in order to exercise my right to life, in order to win my freedom!

I am tired!

Who, then, is this almighty one, and who am I, the abased? The door is locked, and fertile dreams have died within me, and memories have faded away...