MY ALEXANDRIA
And my Alex was intended to be a 'megalopolis'. Created in the shape of what is called a chlamys, a macedonian military cloak, with walls that would strech endlessly into the distance, streets wider than any yet seen. An ideal city. Laid in such a way as to benefit from sea breezes yet providing shelter from the wind. Aristotle will call my alex so. A library. A lighthouse.
When the originial founder, Alexandre, died his generals quarrelled on who to lead it. As if Alexandria refused to be led by anyone but the original leader, my alex split.
But it was for its learning and teaching that my alex was chiefly known. The library was built there, dedicated to the muses. From the start, the plan for my alex was not like any other. Bigger than elsewhere. Authentic. Different. Original. Created with a purpose.
And it got tired. From the greed and selfishness spreading everywhere. The endless fights to obtain it and control it. Naively or kindly or even dignified as my alex had stood always, refused to utter a word. Allowing, under the cloak of surrendering, and depending on the military origin, to be used for all other purpose than the one created for. Watch silently the burning of its library; the destruction of its lighthouse. Forgetting its real purpose and original nature. Allowing to be inhabited by those who are scared and timid. Incapable and unable. Selfish and abusive. Leaving itself to be inhabited by lazyness. Purposless. Transferring it to be their replica. But unfortunately, a mild copy that is struggling between the great past, the bright future and the lost present. Forgetting by the second what it was created for. To be a destination to those muses and continue shelter those in need. But in doing that, it will remain Alexandria. A center. Not a deserted corner.
Alexander died. Muses left. Chlamys cracked. Breeze squeezed. Shelter exposed.
I can no longer recognize my alex
انا بعشق البحر
زيك يا حبيبي حزين
و ساعات زيك مجنون
و مسافر و مهاجر
و ساعات زيك زعلان
و ساعات مليان بالصمت
انا بعشق البحر
When the originial founder, Alexandre, died his generals quarrelled on who to lead it. As if Alexandria refused to be led by anyone but the original leader, my alex split.
But it was for its learning and teaching that my alex was chiefly known. The library was built there, dedicated to the muses. From the start, the plan for my alex was not like any other. Bigger than elsewhere. Authentic. Different. Original. Created with a purpose.
And it got tired. From the greed and selfishness spreading everywhere. The endless fights to obtain it and control it. Naively or kindly or even dignified as my alex had stood always, refused to utter a word. Allowing, under the cloak of surrendering, and depending on the military origin, to be used for all other purpose than the one created for. Watch silently the burning of its library; the destruction of its lighthouse. Forgetting its real purpose and original nature. Allowing to be inhabited by those who are scared and timid. Incapable and unable. Selfish and abusive. Leaving itself to be inhabited by lazyness. Purposless. Transferring it to be their replica. But unfortunately, a mild copy that is struggling between the great past, the bright future and the lost present. Forgetting by the second what it was created for. To be a destination to those muses and continue shelter those in need. But in doing that, it will remain Alexandria. A center. Not a deserted corner.
Alexander died. Muses left. Chlamys cracked. Breeze squeezed. Shelter exposed.
I can no longer recognize my alex
انا بعشق البحر
زيك يا حبيبي حزين
و ساعات زيك مجنون
و مسافر و مهاجر
و ساعات زيك زعلان
و ساعات مليان بالصمت
انا بعشق البحر
Comments
you write beautifully.