It’s been longer than I can imagine anymore since my fingers married my mind, constructing beauty out of streaming thought-nothings. In golden beach-sun Rabat, I wish to surround myself with a present which inundates my salmon-pink brain, somersaulting with unfamiliar moments. But what constitutes such moments? Part of me dives into intellect, begging to be buried, fearing any possible means of getting hurt. School, work, the ever-reliable robotic existence, always there to save my day, to engage me with a larger majesty-world which i could never hope to embody. That impossibility, also known as the pursuit of knowledge, is both frustrating and addictive in its consuming, everlasting manifestations. Research feels both liberating and confining, gives you a truth to run away with and discover; yet that truth inevitably leaves me stranded with blurry residue, a library of story-beginnings. So I grasp a wooden shovel-handle and gaze at the ground, stab the undisturbed life beneath me for a chance to taste its deep-rooted wonders. Grains of sand slither away from me, revealing the intricacies of what lies still, throughout everyday space. These treasures are simple, waiting for attention before distractions can make more interesting appearances–they patiently sigh, sitting as themselves while I search for them in vain. What’s unrecognizable is the irrelevance of the search, the obsolete process which ensnares me behind bars of cold, jail-like titanium. The only necessary motion, now, is to surrender to the spaces of air inhabiting the outside-freedom–so easy to access when I release the reservations.
hannahkass 