My writing and my words preserve her, though she is not real. She comes to me in dreams, in fleeting thoughts, in the brief space between awake and sleep. I open my mouth but her words come out.
I write her on the walls, my pages splayed in a collage decorating my room with her voice.
She speaks to me, and I listen. Though my hands are not fast enough to write what she says. All she gives me are whispers.
Sometimes it’s her voice, other times it’s someone at my door. “You haven’t left in weeks!”
“I can’t.” She is holding me hostage.
“We should go to the market. See Algeria, not just the inside of this room.” A friend would say.
“I’ll be down soon.” Though this is a lie.
In the middle of the night she wakes me.
Write my song…
If only she’d tell me how! How can I capture her beauty on paper? My pen does not do her justice. There is so much… from her hair to her fingertips to her skin… that I cannot touch, feel, sense.
Her presence distracts me but her story intrigues me.
When will she allow me to celebrate her? I must listen to my muse but her voice echoes and then vanishes…
I must know her name.
At least that and it will open doors for me. I can’t contain the power she gives me. All of this passion rushing through my veins. When will it end? When will I be able to bottle her up? When will I–