Trance

Out of my periphery I see my hands, resting on the keyboard cushion, fingers extended and grazing the keys of the board but not pressing anything. The edges of my hands and the letters on the keys become fuzzy and melt into each other--my eyes stare at this image, which becomes the gateway into my trance.

I am moved into another realm, where shapes are ever-transforming and objects are only defined by the boundaries of their colors and the pitches of their sounds. But as they dance, anything definitive about them is redefined.

I'm happily lost and choose not to use the bouncing beats to navigate my way. These are my stars and they make my universe-scape. And here I can forget and meditate and still think actively. I hear bass. I hear drums. I hear natural sounds.

And I hear his voice. Snippets of our conversation are woven into my musical muse. The shapeless beat bodies part, creating a path lit by visual memories of our discussion--I am in the Tooree living room, placed on the seat by the window. I am curled up and hugging my knees with one hand; the other hand gestures toward him as is necessary in Arabic conversation. "Shu3la" I repeat to him several times..."3al 2aleel, shu3la."

"N7abasna u sawayna u 7akayna u t3ibna"--I hear his echo. The recollection of this conversation is jarring against the liquid, soothing sounds of my trance. This debate cuts the notes like a machete to feathers. But both are organic, and both flow for hours (our discussion just a tick mark in the Palestinian conversation continuum). We, he and I, took the talk from the middle of the night to fajr. And right before the largest star in our universe emerged to tell us to stop and stare and mediate, I went to pray for solutions.

I only found more fixation.

I'm sucked out of that memory and back into the shapeless and sound-filled abyss that is my trance. My hands, still positioned on the keys of the keyboard, are coming back into focus.

I'm reawakening and realizing that I need to go back and continue the conversation.