Quiet

Where to from now?

It's suddenly gone all quiet around here. Can you hear it? The words sort of dried up. Then, I don't even know if anyone comes here anymore, or maybe I'm writing to a void, bottomless, toothy and writhing like a giant caterpillar.

I'm still sort of sad, having left the Holy Land. I wake up with my head full of palm trees, and desert winds, and lively conversations half in Hebrew. I wake up to the reality of being here, in this cozy haven, familiar as the womb itself, where the coolish weather has been a respite for my sun-drenched skin. The reality reminds me to get off cloud nine for fuck's sake, and face it, man.

Why does my heart ache so? Why do Jaffa's mosques nest underneath my eyelids like rolled up carpets, to be stretched into vivid and richly patterned images as soon as I close my eyes? It's a laden step to decide to grow up. It hurts. No wonder not many travel this road.

Where to now?

Miss Smilla wants to run. She wants new virgin planes to set her not so little foot on. She screams for deserts, roads, books, stairs, stars. Is she stupid? Is she dreamin'? Is she marrying a demon? (just cos it rhymes)

Should Miss Smilla stay where she is? Just goddammit stay for once??

No, don't answer.