Life is a tragic play or a doleful concert, although, at its end, everyone will get up likewise to call for an encore.
Speaking of music, I, myself, enjoy music too. To me solely sad melodies are the real music, what did you think? That I am not allowed to delight myself in music? You may think I’m a lesser-man that doesn’t qualify for the delights of the principals of a bank or even those of your butcher and gravedigger, but you’re lost in your fallacy: I hear what all of them cannot hear in melodies.
I have a little wooden radio that I transport with me in my holed pocket, I turn it on whenever I can afford its batteries, after which I feel as though I’m the real music that propels within the silence of the night, I feel as if my body is nothing but blue chords that deform the body of air, therefore bear ear-palatable language that most of the passer-by turn a deaf ear to.
Sometimes, I feel bodiless, and then uniquely all my fears dissipate at once, with my little sanity that remains so far, I discovered that all my fears are about my body, and are not of the dark, nor of the hunger itself, nor of the gelid nights, nor even of Satan and jinns, but that feeling doesn’t last for too long, it usually fades away within minutes, however, it leaves behind a wisp of courage and meaning that I hold tightly in my fist during the long inevitable times of hunger and cold.
I spend most of my sunlit days sitting on cardboards and leaning my back against the showcase of a thrift store, it’s the optimal spot for begging alms and for collecting at least 50 Dirhams, the equivalent of five dollars, I never outstretch my hand to ask for money, I let people’s pity and free-will extend towards me instead, and in return I give to the selfsame generous people a feeling of superiority that they might find nowhere but through me and men and women belonging to my class.
With equanimity, I lift my gaze to the concupiscent sky, then I drop it to my dirty bare feet, I find them more interesting since they walk me on the ground rather than the sky, the ground at least is humble, and even more it abases itself before men and animals ―their ordures and waste. When the sky, in the meantime, cannot content itself with things lesser than souls, dreams, expectations, and supplications, anyhow, the sky has her own way of being a mendicant, which doesn’t differ much from mine.
Sometimes, an openhanded lady whose name I still ignore, and who must be in her early thirties, often comes to crouch over me, bringing with her milk packets, couple cigarette packs, and minced beef sandwiches, all she donates to me in a haste, to ask me her witty redundant question, to which I never gave an answer: “Oh Dynamite! When will you explode?”
Sometimes, I think that I already exploded in the past, an explosion no one heard, nor learned of in the bold headlines of newspapers nor in the dwarfish titles of magazines, notwithstanding, that I’ve caused the most hollow subterranean depression, at its rock bottom, I’m stuck.