3.

Dear Anias,

I’ve been thinking a lot about composition. There are times my body—my being—feels like a well-tuned instrument. And there are other times that I feel so out of sorts that nothing feels right. Regardless of the notes I struck, they sound flat. There are no curves- only jagged lines that are not continuous. A break in the line is how I’ve felt lately. 

This morning, I looked at a painting with triangles, circles, and spirals overlapping. The colors are punctuated the white space. My eyes were drawn to orange and purple. I remembered a moment from my childhood. A yellow field. Red flowers. Pine cones. The smell of firewood and roasted marshmallows. Graham cracker on my tongue. My fingers are damp and sticky from the melted chocolate. Braided hair and wet bathing suit bottoms. My sisters breathed in my ear and our eyes filled with the stars. Crackling lights. Those are fireworks, our mom said. We tipped our chins up with our mouths wide: trying to fill our bodies with the rainbow lights. 

I am standing at the Rabat train station waiting for my departure to Marrakech. I’m eating a soft, flaky croissant and the contrast of the pastry against the environment is arousing. 

I love incongruous objects; I thrive on the contrary. I find opposition arousing. The room is cold and hard. Fluorescent lights glare down on the hard tiles. The floor is wet from the mops two Moroccan women use to sweep the urine and mud from the main paths. My mouth is full with the warm, flaky sweet. My body groans from the sheer delight and radiants out into the cigarette-scented tarmac. 

Abderrahmane is so grounded it sets me off into a spiral of angst. He draws me downward into him. The heat and wetness. His body is hard around the edges and when I stick my palm on his chest, I feel rooted. I am here and never moving. We make love when my head is on his chest and my legs are ticked under his. I tuck my knees up to his waist and he layers his thighs over mine. Hooks his chin over my head. It’s one of my favourite spots and every when my legs fall asleep and start tingling, I do not move. I am here and never moving.

I feel soft and mushy next to him. My thighs and breasts and arms. Without flexing, he is like a Grecian statue carved from stone. Immobile. Waiting. Our first argument was seated on the couch and he slunk down deep into the cushions and put one arm over the pillow nested on his chest. The other hand, he used to shield his eyes, like a person blocking the sunshine. Like a person shielding themselves from the light.

I’m not angry. He said.

I know. I said. I am. 

I had no specific point to locate where my discontent stemmed from and had. I thing to say. I don’t feel connected to you. Why. I don’t know. What does that mean. I don’t know. What can I do. Nothing.

Is this normal, Anias? 

When we make love, I feel like I’m deep sea diving. Sticking my hands in shells with fleshy insides. The water pushing and pulling my limbs in all directions–I close my eyes and probe deeper and deeper until my body is on the sand and I peer out through the seaweed towards the glittering sun beams at the surface. 

I have outgrown my ways of thinking. My outer world is the same, despite my moving every month, though my inner world has ripened and fallen away. Something has gone rotten and I don’t want to pick it up. I need to plant new seeds. I need to cultivate a new way of looking out. My old thought patterns do not serve the person that I am now.

Photo source.