By Haajar Boutafi
By Haajar Boutafi
Morocco World News
Safi, Morocco, April 20, 2012
“I am determined to sleep early tonight so I will have the dream I have long waited for,” Zara recapitulated constantly to her mind. For days, she has been falling asleep early for this purpose. A dream that never embraces her deep sleep, and which she has thought of as a savior of her actual life. Every day, she would start her day with a dawn prayer followed by a prayer with which she begs God to make her dream about what would happen in her future. Her future, a forced mysterious journey that lay ahead; what was the use of it, if not to be recognized before? Since childhood, life for her was just a series of events that happened on a daily basis bringing with it a time of happiness and another of sorrow. Sorrow probably was its remarkable component as it was always associated with the tears of her own mom. She washed away the thoughts spreading in her mind and started to arrange her bed.
“You should first arrange the bed you are sleeping in,” a thought passed by.
She couldn’t remember where she saw it but it sounded good to her ears. She began by taking all the blankets off her bed, then her pillow, in order to fold the yellow nap that covers her mattress. She then put a new pillow-case over the pink pillow while placing it in the head side of the bed. After that, she began folding the three colorful blankets, one after another, placing them at the feet side of the bed. Now that the bed was arranged she made a swift turn towards the commode beside, with her arms around her hips, remarking suddenly about some dust on top of the head clock.
“Oh My God, I should clean that too,” a soft whispered mumbling was heard while she hurried to the kitchen to get a handkerchief. She swiped the head clock, the frame of the picture of her father and mother and the small box-like antique with a verse from the Quran on it. She reminded herself how dear this little antique was to her, which was given to her by her mom. Suddenly, she remembered her mother and how lucky she was to have a mother, a father, a great family and started wondering how strange it was that she had such a pessimistic restless personality when she had the blessing of family, a good career and this beautiful box-like gift. With a deep breath she returned the gift to its former position and looked around the room for anything else to set.
“Everything is ready for my night. I should first unfold the blankets, get inside them then turn off the light,” she murmured.
As she got inside her bed sheets, she remembered that the lights were still on. She inhaled deeply inside, yawned carelessly putting her right palm on her lips to stop the flow of air from going out of her mouth, then got up again to turn the lights off. Normally, the light switch should be placed close to the bed frame. It was probably a shortage of creativity on the part of the house-owner, or she had just forgotten to buy a bed lamp and attach it with a mobile plug-in wire long enough to reach the main electric socket next to the door. This way she would not need to get up every time she got inside her blankets to turn the lights off. She smiled wickedly to herself as she recalled the same scene happening to her every night. She switched off the lights and went back to bed covering herself tightly seeking warmth.
In a dark room, inside her bed, fixated on the window with her chestnut eyes and recalling her past life events: everything was so quick, she was a little girl playing with her only sister in a wide backyard garden attached to their huge house. A house, which faded away as the memories of her childhood in it vanished. In a short lapse of time, she graduated from the university with a promising diploma and a wide reputation as a prominent writer. As she chose to follow the path of a writer, she chose also to follow their choice of career: teaching. She never portrayed herself as a teacher though she was looking for a job badly.
The window looked unexpectedly like a piece of art, a source of light for the room and stereo playing within it the most beautiful melodies of the rain drops, people’s mumblings, the sounds of walking and car wheels crunching the mixture of mud and rain. All these sounds became familiar to her ears as they colored the calmness around her in her room.
“I have to learn to draw lines,” she was whispering to her heart. “What is meant to be is meant to be and eventually everything happens for a reason.” She changed her sleep position to the right side, and read some verses from the Quran then decided it was high time for sleep. As she couldn’t get rid of her dispersed ideas, she tried an old psychological therapy she saw in a black and white movie, which consisted on counting numbers till one fell asleep. The therapy seemed logical for her, except for the fact that she didn’t have the breath to count numbers. The stress and the exhaustion that she felt lately left no place for her voice quality whatsoever. She noticed, as everybody else noticed, her voice changed into series of whispers that was even difficult for her friends to hear when she spoke.
She started to count numbers endlessly until she began to hear her own voice coming from somewhere. The passage before her changed into white and her numbers began to fly around her mind. In a second, the view was blue, then black. Afterwards, fainted shapes and figures began to appear with sounds of cries and howling all at once before they were shut forever.
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