"All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their mind, wake in the day to find it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they make act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible."
I'm sitting in the front passenger seat of a car. Becky's driving. Hot air rushing by invades through the open window. We're fifteen minutes away from the place we'll call home for the weekend, the shore house. My right arm hangs out the window, slowly tanning in the sun. The drive is always too long.
I pull my hands away from rubbing my eyes.
I'm sitting in the front passenger seat of a taxi. A forgotten man is driving. Hot air rushing by invades through the open window. I'm fifteen minutes away from the place I'll call home for 5 more weeks, the house in Northwest Amman. My right arm hangs out the window, cooking in the sun. The drive is always too long.
The truck in front of us kicks up dust. I close my eyes. I'm on my way to the beach. I open my eyes. I'm on my way to Tla'a a Ali.
The sun reflects off of the white buildings and settles as a haze over the city. I squint often to try to and tame its light. Sunglasses keep the sun at bay but color the world a peculiar shade of orange.
Standing in the kitchen I find myself watching a grandmother, her grandchildren, and a housekeeper stage a scene as though they had been born for that moment. The arabee slips past my ears. I can only read the smiles on their faces and the glimmer in their eyes.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm dreaming.
- T.E. Lawrence
I'm sitting in the front passenger seat of a car. Becky's driving. Hot air rushing by invades through the open window. We're fifteen minutes away from the place we'll call home for the weekend, the shore house. My right arm hangs out the window, slowly tanning in the sun. The drive is always too long.
I pull my hands away from rubbing my eyes.
I'm sitting in the front passenger seat of a taxi. A forgotten man is driving. Hot air rushing by invades through the open window. I'm fifteen minutes away from the place I'll call home for 5 more weeks, the house in Northwest Amman. My right arm hangs out the window, cooking in the sun. The drive is always too long.
The truck in front of us kicks up dust. I close my eyes. I'm on my way to the beach. I open my eyes. I'm on my way to Tla'a a Ali.
The sun reflects off of the white buildings and settles as a haze over the city. I squint often to try to and tame its light. Sunglasses keep the sun at bay but color the world a peculiar shade of orange.
Standing in the kitchen I find myself watching a grandmother, her grandchildren, and a housekeeper stage a scene as though they had been born for that moment. The arabee slips past my ears. I can only read the smiles on their faces and the glimmer in their eyes.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm dreaming.
No comments:
Post a Comment