17- 7

It is strange. The world outside is cracking, shrinking and expanding; fighting and making love; bubbling and exploding with all sorts of legal and illegal activities, while we, or I, are sitting on the stairs. The stairs of the most favourite place to my heart; a vast, old, humid yet elegant and quiet building that seeing it and entering it just makes me feel home. On the stairs. Just leaning my head to the stairs wall; looking to the servants stairs; the old black window; the 2 green elevators; the old smell; the old names of the building ranging from abaza, nasim, hachem, taymour, ratib, and some new ones. The doors are the same old, same old. Light brown with a dark brown rectangle to cover it. Very tranquil. Very solid. Very so non impressive. Yet, to me i feel my heart sank as I take the stairs from the 8th floor down to the basement. I walk slowly. One stair step at a time. Have this smile on my face as I penetrate to the walls and remember. Many things and none at the same time. I fail to connect the memories and even disconnect them. They pass and I snarl. and more and more feel my helplessness with time and the inability to hold on any of the memories. Wonder if there is any string theory or the relativity theory can bring it back; whether I can use the parallel universe theory to peak at the old ones, that are not old but in parallel; peak to the left maybe able to see the coming ones that are happening but their time are not yet allowed in my processor. I wonder. Silently.

It is just that this huge huge immeuble, this cold old staircase, this silent doors, old and reserved inhabitants of these apartments are all my little very cozy small home that I come to rest on its stairs. To just relax and feel that the world is still safe.

It is everything about this building. Everything that made me more attached to it. It is my history; a little part of my history.

Well, it is not strange after all.