Tuesday, 2 December 2014

Ramallah, November 2014

Hussam Taha

Nadsat Orange

A body on a flight of stairs should have turned a few heads, but nobody cared. One passing person after the other, the body remained unnoticed, unimportant. It was quite the mystery, thought no one.

The body remained in its place, surrounded by walls that had been aging for decades. Among the many, many things that these walls encompassed were offices, doors that protected the secrets of their owners, and most importantly, ceramic tiles that carried a history all the way from Al-Khalil, and ignited jealousy in every other stone that witnessed their intoxicating intrigue.

Any observer of these tiles finds himself lost in their flowery patterns, and desperately searching for comfort. The flowers that the eyes see soon exude a scent that the nose grows attached to, and soon after, the ears pick up on the singing of the birds that find nourishment in the nectar of these giving flowers. It is a mystery that encircles the mind and indulges the senses, but in its own way provides the truth that nobody wants to face.

How can a body matter when it grows older and decays, when it does not keep a secret as well as a door, or when its beauty lasts a day less the day it grows?

The body remained in its place for days, completely empty and disposable. Until one day, its presence was finally captured by a man in his late years who was instantly brought to tears. After all, he had never felt emptiness quite this intense before seeing this body so plainly discarded in the shadow of a humbly-majestic archway, while in the background stood a line of ceramic tiles that burst with fulfillment.

Five minutes later, both the man and the body were gone, while tears continued to fall down from thin air, caressing the surface of the ceramic tiles each time. The flowers were never parched, the birds were never hungry, and the ceramic tiles always intrigued.

Faces of Reflection

Saturday, 29 November 2014

Ramallah, end of November 2014
artwork . nadsat orange

Since I die of love

Sunday, 23 November 2014

Love, with these thy whims and humours thou hast wrecked and ruined me.
Thou hast drunk of love's own nectar, thy lips speak entrancingly.
With those honeyed words how many like me thou hast bound to thee!
Take the knife and slay me straightway--pass not by me mockingly.
Since I die of love, ’twere better Beauty stabbed and set me free.-Sayat Nova


Back like that

Sunday, 19 October 2014

Just another road trip to the other side, where encountering with nature and nice people is endorsed.

nadsat . orange
Nigel O'Connot

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