“Its time“, he says to himself. He looks back at his watch, a piece to remind the time, the time gone or left, no the time that’s present. The confluence of fast and slow moments prognosticating the event of now. And now it’s the time to commence the procession.
Beneath his feet he can feel the damp sand soaked with all that’s been given to earth by sea.
“Aah..damp“, he exasperates.
He observes that more he stays in the damp sand more stable his feet becomes and more deeper he goes in the sand. In front of his eyes lies the agromaniac vast ocean, whose waves are rising in ovation and then flowing back as if acknowledging the veracity of this nuptial bond.
He smiles at the plagiarism of his eyes, which seems to have stolen the drops, same saltiness. He wonders how much the earth has to take to make this vast ocean of saltiness compared to his. He can feel these moment pearls spilling from his eyes to mouth as if finding the shore.
He opens his hand as if taking a flight and feels the silent air gushes through several paths unknown in his body. If it would have been any other day this embrace would have meant something else but right now it’s just a feeling of numbness.
Numbness leaving nothing in the forsaken territory, but he knows he has to do it, no way to procrastinate. It is time. It is “Maktub” (written).
He repeats maktub..”yeah sounds same“…
Beside him was lying a kind of diary with some kind of sketch being done on its surface. It was not clear why he thought of making such shape. He being dilettante or it’s done on purpose to show a hidden truth behind his imagery. Near the bottom something was written as if burned with pyre. He takes the diary in his hand and brushes the sand to make the letters more visible.
“Words“, he reads. A smirk follows his face as he opens the first page…
To be continued….