The first time you witness your country at war,
you ask yourself whether war is just another game the gladiators left for us to play,
and we, with our need to outdo generations,
forgot that blood baths are not another name for spa dates.
The second time you witness your country at war,
you ask yourself whether this is a climate change you should just start expecting,
fitting it into your annual calendar, somewhere in between winter and spring,
and when you finally witness a war within your country,
you roll your eyes, and wonder what living in denial feels like,
as if to say,
living in the calm that resides in the eye of the hurricane makes it easier to shut out the chaos.
I have lived in a time of war for decades,
standing spectator to empires crumbling like sandcastles.
They say, it only takes 21 days for something to become a habit,
so tell me, when you spend 21 years living with war and its aftermath
in a sick relationship where neither of you is happy,
how do you pave your way out?
These days, I spend my time waiting for the thunder to break the silence,
always ready for the inevitable change in weather,
as if waiting for the storm lurking around the corner.
So I feed myself a spoonful of serendipity each morning,
ask my body not to twitch at the sound of a hard earned minute of peace,
and pray to deafen the memories of cannons,
because somewhere at the heart of all this chaos,
lie my hopes for a good night’s sleep,
one that does not crave for gunshots like lost lovers,
and one that doesn’t wait for bloody tears to say goodnight.