I smiled at a lady walking infront of me and continued marching towards the end of the street. I felt little cold while I keep my jacket unbuttoned. I can’t stand temperature. Only if it was really cold I can drop my strange will and envelope my body with the buttoned jackets. I march while my cigarette hanging from the tip of my lips. My hands down my pocket, my eyes were passing by the crowds striding off the street. Some of them stopped in front of some shops’ facades, gazing at the merchandise. Some have this hungry gaze. Some have that lost one, while some would just check women out, that sort of thing which have no specific plays, or timing.
I didn’t know what made me leave home, pack my laptop into my innocent misery bag, and leave my home to wherever. I thought like I may walk to zamalek, maybe I’d have a nice cup of cappuccino; Irish flavored, and think about the mystery of the universe.
Some taxi approached, the driver throws a wondrous look. I avert my eyes.
Now am walking in the downtown street of sheiref Basha. I could have walked in my usual way to zamalek, under your own steam passing Muhd Mahmoud Basha Street—where you can always find Aucians and plainclothes policemen, to Al-Tahrir square—where you can always find hookers, gays, and plainclothes policemen, to Abdulmoniem Riyad Square—where you always find microbuses along with plainclothes policemen, then walking aside the Nile Cornish—where you find all what I’ve mentioned plus the plainclothes policemen, crossing 15th of May bridge to 26th July street—sure I don’t have to mention about alternative 6th of October bridge, so you reach the promised lands through some of the most victorious dates in the galaxy.
My plan is to engage with 15th of May bridge but with talking the street of 26th of July right away, as Shieref Basha street spells out his limited destiny on the body of the monstrous date of whatever street.
It seems lovely, beautifully matching, that I don’t know why I left home, an either why I’d choose the way am walking now. No bad contrast, there’s no black and white. There’s Just whiteness or darkness. One lovely ocean lay down before my tired eyes. They are really tired. Looking into the self you have, all the time, is not that joyful gregarious thing as we all might know. I kept walking.
While am automatically passing through in my way, I can’t help thinking in so many things, imagining so many fantasies. Walking is a way maybe to really have this physical actual thing, instead of keeping thinking in your tiny room. I didn’t felt like writing—that miraculous passage to kick off some of your own demons—so I tricked myself with that good bone: you walk to zamalek, drink up your cappuccino, open your laptop up and you may find a way to kick those demons in a decent profitable way.
In my pocket lays my quiet cell phone. Sometimes it would speak up, conveying voices from far away, so far away even if they were only meters ahead. I like telling myself that I quit worrying and I quit waiting and I quit pushing the buttons. I like telling myself that streets are really nothing but a surface to march in, and messages are nothing but electronic figures—or aimless handwriting, or soundless typing—delivering data, cold data endlessly marching through cells which are us.
Departing. I always found this word as magical as Moses’ stick. Departing and departed, are two conjugations for the infinitive departure. That value means some kind of graciousness, like you are that privileged to walk away. You have this right amount of dignity to leave, not to die yourself crowding on something lost that unique intimacy created by privacy, by uniqueness; to choose what people would hesitate, to stop crowd on the cheap things people would count as treasures, including the very self you have.
Am, by going a step after another, departing the person I know. Like in every single step with a different idea I am some conjunction of the same infinitive, me walking this step isn’t the same man I believe I know in the next step. Walking, according to this kind of thinking, is nothing but a process of departing. A departure off the souls we all struggle to lift off. It seems we all fooled ourselves when we put that fiddly concept of souls which are so very lighter than bodies, souls with noble and upright metaphysic significance, glancing toward the heavens with prophet’s eyes, versus the evil evil body worshipping Satan and lavishing the mortal existence. Souls actually are truly heavy as sleeping doesn’t make it fresher. When you try to depart you own soul you’d do nothing but to pack some. Packing is not always when you travel kilometers here or there on a road or on air or even riding a careless straight forwarded train, and your luggage are not always some clothes and a toothbrush.
You, sometimes, had to pack your some of your soul, few of greetings, handful of dreams and little of dooms, a box of solitude, some smiles and some tears, lots of joy and some of all fears.
And, as a gentleman would, you have to stretch your lips in a smile, lean your head politely, give them your back and march steadily. You go and march steadily. Never turn around, and never inquire about the destination.
I found myself, the departed writer who have no clue to kick the nice demons, walking down the bridge. Zamalek is standing tall with its usual superciliousness. I moved my bag to another shoulder, lit up a new cigarette, gazed at the old bakery closed in front of my eyes and felt sorry. I used to buy its yummy cheap pizza when I stopover in Zamalek. A sexy woman was strolling off the street in playful confident ease, two miserable police soldiers walking carelessly naming each other, an old man standing on the sidewalk with frustrated gestures on contrary with his nice clothes, a delivery boy flying on a bike with a wide smile, people are coming out from their prayer in the tiny so-called mosque under the bridge structure, a luxurious lavish car firing away its noise leaving the gas station on my left, where two men were speaking with stupid laughing. I felt little bewildered trying to determine which café I’d knock, and then I remembered being a steady gentleman so I slightly stretched my lips.