When darkness comes, in the light of a candle... I write...

Only the typewriter can know.

I finally found the answer to one thing, and then it just disappeared.

Why do I always feel empty? Why do I need someone to fill this hole in time that I feel at each second that I breathe? This darkness in my soul is tearing me apart. Only the typewriter can know.

Only the typewriter can know how it feels to let words come out of your heart like knives, to let your darkness out on yellow paper at 3am and to cut your spirit apart with it. Only the typewriter can know the vibrating of the words when they just came out of your soul to real life. Nothing on earth compares to the pain of seeing your thoughts losing their colors because you got them out of your head. You just put them into paper so they don’t kill you, it’s rather you or them, but you’re dying alive anyway.

Only the typewriter can agree that night hurts when your sub consciousness is torturing you. When light gets darker, and your room, the street, all the world above doesn’t exist during the time your fingers touch the machine. You feel its power, take a deep breath, feel your own weakness, your fingers start vibrating, your head starts turning around,  and you don’t really know if you’re in sleep, if you’re awake or somewhere in between. All you know is that the tears drop on your desk, on your clothes, on the typewriter your fingers collide at each letter, hoping it’ll be the last, but there is actually always something else to add, something to tell, something you feel. You just wish this emptiness would be painless but it isn’t. You only wish you could stop, relax, think again, but once it starts coming, it doesn’t stop until the paper’s black, your fingers are tired, your body isn’t responding anymore. All the words, the lines, the pages just randomly come from nowhere, and you almost don’t remember a word of what you’ve written until you read it again after a while; after a sleepless night thinking about what just happened. You can stay up all night for the one hour where it all came and suddenly, you just found yourself surrounded by papers all over the room. But this is how it goes when you sell your soul to poetry, it makes you a normal person, exept it takes the only thing you really need: Sleep. You don’t suffer anymore about anything: love doesn’t exist when you’re looking for it, and you don’t really pay attention to how your body feels. But it makes you suffer of the only cureless illness: Insomnia.

Selling your soul to poetry is like selling your sleep for peace. All of this “love” stuff becomes really silly when you realize that you’ve never been looking for love to find it. One day, you’re working, relaxing or just thinking and you suddenly realize that you’ve always been looking for love, but only expecting compassion. There you understand that looking for love wasn’t a way, it was a purpose itself. And you are expecting compassion from the person who’ll maybe take your hand and say “Let’s walk on life’s road together”. You’ll certainly ask “Why me?” The right answer would be: “Just because the flame in your eyes doesn’t burn the same when I’m near you”.  This means this person sees your eyes sparkling when she’s around, but also sees them sparkling anyways. But real compassion is to have someone who puts you first, is sad when you’re sad, is happy when you’re happy, and who helps you when you need help. Without all the jealousy, steps, feelings, complicated things that we don’t even understand. We don’t get jealous because we know. We just know. We stood up all night together, we know each other’s demons and we’re okay with them. This is exactly the reason why compassion is a reachable goal. Love is made of luck, beauty and dreams. Compassion is made of time, physical attract and reality.

I guess I’ll be looking for love all my life without knowing more than I already know, not because it’s rare, not because I’m hateful, just because I need more love than I deserve.

K.BENJELLOUN

11/10/14 00:04