And things remained that way for months.
Then one day, as I was about to leave the apartment with a friend, she reached for the switch to turn the light off—as normal people usually do to conserve electricity, perhaps—and I pounced on her, screaming at her to “freeze!” I startled her and she panicked. I calmed her down and explained why I don’t want her to turn the lights off, but she got angry. Why? She said because I’m ignorant. I let the insult slide and didn’t ask her to elaborate, but she went ahead without my having to do so and explained to make her insult sink deeper: “C can’t see the light to know that you’re here and get scared.” Why so confident? “Because C doesn’t have eyes.”
The news struck me like lightning. C doesn’t have eyes? But how can it see? And what am I keeping the light on for then?
I have tried to get a closer look at a cockroach before, whether dead or scurrying down the street. (Of course it’s going to panic, it can’t see where it’s going!) I tried to look for what will rid the cockroach from its negative qualities. Nope, the fear is stronger than me. It’s an obsession, I think. Psychologists must have analyzed by now the reason behind this fear/disgust shared by all humans. It’s irrational for a living being of five foot three and one hundred and sixteen pounds (my weight after extensive workout) to fear a C! And despite it being so irrational, it’s still real. And so, I’ll have to go through extensive therapy to overcome this fear, especially since it hinders my life in the summer when all the Cs come out for fresh air. And as a first step leading to therapy, I must think about this some more and read self-help books. Fine, I will read the books; can we change the subject now?
In short, I’m at my door; I look but I can’t see the cockroach. My muscles relax, but, inside, I know it’s there, I just can’t see it.
I consider the apartment safe. I go in, shut the door behind me, and sit at my comfortable couch. I switch on the TV after plugging it in the bathroom, and relax.
For some reason, the electricity doesn’t go out in my bathroom. At first, I wondered whether my bathroom is electrically connected to a neighbor’s apartment in another building—a thought that troubled me because it meant a connection between one of my most intimate spaces and a nearby complete stranger. This security breach terrified me. So I replaced my uncertainty about the electrical source with the conviction that its source is unknown.
I relax in my spot in front of the television letting the moving pictures distract me from time. I wonder, should I go out today or stay in my apartment? Stay here alone with no electricity and a bunch of books? I wish I was in the mood to read, but I don’t read, and I can live with that guilt. The laptop’s here, and reading on it is less demanding than having to carry a book and abandon the outside world for it. On the laptop, as I change pages, the topics change as well, and so does the level of enjoyment and knowledge along with it. I’m free. Books, on the other hand, are so exclusive: one world with one story that, at best, has many levels. And my imagination flies with it and builds an image. That’s too much work compared to the freedom online.
It’s a phase. I save my energy and I’m too stingy when it comes to it, as if it would rob me of my prior comfort—being a cheapskate. I hope I grow out of it soon, this phase. But for now, I can lose myself in my laptop while the TV’s on.
I’m going to stay here, comfortable with my house, and society will be comfortable without me.
Maybe I’ll change my mind when night comes.
Scratch scratch.
I can hardly push the laptop off my lap. I surrender to a sweet sleep caressing my eyes as I sit in my comfortable couch. Sleep I have time for. Maybe it’s the shade that’s been darkening my apartment ever since they built a three-story parking garage to supply spaces for the residents of the mighty building adjacent to it. The parking lot blocked my sunlight, and now I have nothing but electricity to provide me with light. And today . . .
Scratch scratch.
Beirut sleeps with me, and I sleep in her lap. A strange comfort fills my subconscious; maybe it’s the security of my apartment and its seclusion. I’m trapped between sleep and waking. My body is floating like that of an astronaut in space. Silence engulfs me like an aura, and it’s not frightening. My forehead is relaxed over the bones of my face. And like sprinkles of water, a smile spreads over my lips.
I surrender to my imagination—a daydream that doesn’t replace reality but covers it like a soothing white cloth draping over places, faces, and stories. Everything inside me unites with all that’s within me to enable me to live my dream, and feel it.
Beirut is asleep.
Magic slices its darkness; its sun rises and light floods its corners, but nobody wakes.
Beirut is asleep.
Silence fills the streets; I get up and walk them.
The shops are closed, and the alleys look as fresh and soft as flowers in the morning.
The main street is empty and the cafés are lifeless.
Nothing in Beirut is moving but me, and the trees are happy with the present days of spring.
I hear no horns. It’s like walking in a dream.
My head turns slowly, searching for a sign of life, and finds life without the living.
Beirut is sleeping.
I see construction workers lying at their sites,
