Meena once told me that his job was like music played with the strings of his heart. But in a society that doesn't practice art, they were bound to be cut.
Our meeting was set on a chair and a bed. Meena was stolen from his body; his breaths were catching life, and shaping clouds had become his new hobby. Violence had forced its way and laid him down. He's been living these days counting losses and miscounting cobbles in the ground. The connection between his heart and lungs was wearing thin. He was in covers and white sheets when I walked in.
"I expected a visit from you." He said smiling - rather in pain - then held his shoulders and offered his hand.
How are you? I asked.
Newspapers had mentioned an invasion on a boat. Government detained the queens and followed the king's oath. Guns pointed at life and threatened hope. And in the end, a dancer was hung on a rope.
"I'm disgusted by this view."
He said, looking out the window with gloom.
"This public; remember their constitution and you'll forget. Make your space between their walls and you'll find no room...two days ago, Diya sat in your place with his frown. 'One of us didn't survive'; he said the news I knew deep down. Many birds had flown by, many breezes sent chills to my thigh; nature was giving, and giving often is for the return. Azhar was taken. He's become only the mosque, the garden; a memory to yearn."
We spoke for hours as he told me about Azhar and all they shared. He said sand would grow trees from his hair. And even after their house looked filled, it missed him. Even though Meena, Diya, Badr, Darwich and Khader seemed content, they wished him.
No consolation was given or understood. Meena left the bed after his feet could. Weeks later, the city was still in silence. Dignities were investigated, friends were separated and lives were faced to intolerance. But the public watched from behind the curtain. A story once told and continues to be certain.