There''s a small bug on my hand.It moves lightly towards my typing fingers where it stops, as if it is trying to read more carefully the secrets I''m willing to share. There''s a small bug on my hand who has seen my reaction to every MSN buzzing conversation, to every shared emoticon and to every unspoken word. There''s a small bug on my hand that is moving now towards my wrist, where it can feel the beats of my pounding heart... those beats upon which I hold no control, feeling them increase, decrease and fluctuate depending on the situation at hand.
I bite my lower lip as I keep typing, with my middle finger aching because of the additional dosage of Formol I used. It doesn''t matter. Soon enough it''ll be numb and it''ll grow stronger. Numb and stronger... eventhough the remaining nails are equally weak and equally fragile, he''s the only one to suffer and ache. I used this word once in an essay I wrote, including it next to another word "Heart Ache"... The teacher removed one point and said "There is no such thing as a heart ache. We say a broken heart". Of course I didn''t agree, yet I didn''t share my opinion. How can you tell an english teacher that she''s wrong about her vocabulary? How can you tell her that there is a huge difference between a broken heart and an aching one? That you cry your heart out in the second situation, while you just bite your lower lip in the first one? How can you tell her that you rarely are heart-broken but that your heart aches every second of the day? ... I simply didn''t. I didn''t tell her anything, I just smiled, sat down, and repeated Bonny Tyler''s lyrics "It''s a heart ache" in my head... Once back home, I threw away that 9/10 graded essay and slept. There''s a small bug on my hand that doesn''t agree with my action.
There''s a small bug on my hand that is persistant, that won''t fly away. It craves for more information, for new flashbacks of old revelations, that it just clings to me, the way I clinged to my mom during her pregnancy. My mom who fell off the ladder, slipped down the side-walk, and were pointed a gun to while she was pregnant with me. My mom who cried at every time, thinking she might have lost the baby, that baby she held so many hopes for, that baby whose dad expected to be a baby boy. And every time the doctor told her not to worry, that I was still fine, my parents'' joy exceeded with that persistant baby who wanted life more than anything else. And every time I cried and every time I screamed, my mom would hold me close to her chest where I could feel her worrying, worrying about not knowing why I was upset, not knowing me as much as I know myself.
There''s a small bug on my hand that is hesitant, hesitant between clinging to my hand or jumping to the "Y" on the keyboard, that letter I was often hesitant to press, yet often analysed in my head. It never really helped pressing it anyway, since it never resulted in a straight-forward answer or in an honest one. There''s a small bug on my hand that seems to be convinced, that isn''t jumping anymore. Oh how many times did I wish to jump, seeking that "flying" sentiment where you feel you''re helpless, yet you''re free. When I''m up there, I can''t think, I can''t ponder... I''m just falling, yet I''m enjoying it. However the closest similar feeling I got is the one I experienced in the Pirate Boat at Dream Parc, since I''m affraid of heights and wouldn''t bungee Jump. There''s a small bug on my hand that is showing off, jumping up and down on my hand.
There''s a small bug on my hand which I named Mrs. Lucky, which I''m not going to shoo, which I''m not going to kill. Mrs. Lucky is happy, is proud of her new name. Mrs. Lucky is happy, I passed my luck to her. She is very well aware that luck is a rare priviledge granted to a rare bunch. However she doesn''t know that all this happens for a reason. She doesn''t know that n''t know that we cannot have both success and luck, and that luck never brings success. It might result in one on the short term but could never bring consistency in success. She doesn''t know I don''t need luck and that I''m willing to donate it to the first bug. Mrs. Lucky is offended, that bitch is ingrate.
There''s a small bug on my hand that abandonned me, leaving me struggling with my weak internet connection, trying to publish another bit of my thoughts and a microscopic glimpse of my current bugged feelings. There was a small bug on my hand who couldn''t care less.
(06/10/07, 1:52 am- Lebanon)