An Angel Story
And this post is not necessarily about sex. Its about sex and a particular city. But its not inspired by any particular gentleman.
I was inspired by one friend to write a story, and now I am inspired again to write another story.
Its not a strong penchant of mine to dabble into fiction and creative writing. I leave this task to my betters. Those who can actually write fiction.
I can't.
Yet I have certain images, certain fleeting thoughts that I am very much inspired to express orthographically. I ask my readers forgiveness for such rash and indiscriminate act as trying to write a story, but "fictionalizing" certain happenings and certain human thoughts is something I feel like doing.
I will use my creative license to write the story of an angel, an angel of mine. And angel here is a direct reference to the heavenly realm. Something beneficent and divine.
I always knew my angel would come one day. I was never certain of how he looks like, where he comes from, all these were just speculations, however, I was very certain of the magnitude of my feelings towards him.
I always knew that my affections and esteem would be like no other.
I have been blessed many times with all kinds of friends and companions. And among the many I encountered along the way, many I enjoyed their company and presence in my life immensely and pictured my future with them nestling happily at one corner or another of it.
Unfortunately this was not the case with many of my friends.
Many friendships, like trees, died a slow death, others like a wounded animal, died savagely, others like a sickly disease died sourly and bitterly.
And some like miracles, happen most suddenly, most unexpectedly, in the most odd of ways.
Lets sit together, somewhere cozy, comfortably, intimately, and unwind, let your minds run wild, just for a second or two and picture this.
Cairo, a city of a strange landscape, both explored and unexplored. An uneven landscape. A patch-up of misfitting parts. Each single bit with an entirely different story.
In one corner of this landscape, lies a nasty, middle class area, with dismal architecture and bizarre demographics.
On one street of this district lived a colonial child, who strangely had a great appreciation of anything Victorian. At the very heart of Cairo.
Some might blame education, some blame his parents bourgeois upbringing, the result was the same. There was a Gothic, sentimental queen living on the main street, in a middle class district in Cairo.
Victorian queens don't get very far, either when it comes to sex or friendship.
Our colonial child, like many of his beloved heroines, was wretched with passion and longing for that unknown, adventure in this great, wide world, and that unknown, hunky gentleman, who is usually of tall stature and hairy, to come one day and sweep him off his feet.
But Cairo is not the moorlands of the Brontes, nor do tall, hunky, hairy, mysterious guys fall off the sky.
Victorian queens can only make do, by forming meaningful, fulfilling attachments with other colonial children.
Not that these were not in abundance all around Cairo (you find them prancing in the older parts of the Belle Epoque, and God knows where else), but none of these understood or had any appreciation of the Victorian sentimentality of this colonial child.
All but one.
Named after the angel, he took after the name.
Our angel was less fearsome and biblical, but just as magnificent and saintly.
He was of a small stature, slender frame, exacting hands, and a childish smile that betrayed an enduring sanguine temper.
It was a radiant smile, easy, infectious. And the moment I (lets call the colonial child I), saw this smile, something inside of I, was laid to rest. I felt at peace.
(To be continued)
I was inspired by one friend to write a story, and now I am inspired again to write another story.
Its not a strong penchant of mine to dabble into fiction and creative writing. I leave this task to my betters. Those who can actually write fiction.
I can't.
Yet I have certain images, certain fleeting thoughts that I am very much inspired to express orthographically. I ask my readers forgiveness for such rash and indiscriminate act as trying to write a story, but "fictionalizing" certain happenings and certain human thoughts is something I feel like doing.
I will use my creative license to write the story of an angel, an angel of mine. And angel here is a direct reference to the heavenly realm. Something beneficent and divine.
I always knew my angel would come one day. I was never certain of how he looks like, where he comes from, all these were just speculations, however, I was very certain of the magnitude of my feelings towards him.
I always knew that my affections and esteem would be like no other.
I have been blessed many times with all kinds of friends and companions. And among the many I encountered along the way, many I enjoyed their company and presence in my life immensely and pictured my future with them nestling happily at one corner or another of it.
Unfortunately this was not the case with many of my friends.
Many friendships, like trees, died a slow death, others like a wounded animal, died savagely, others like a sickly disease died sourly and bitterly.
And some like miracles, happen most suddenly, most unexpectedly, in the most odd of ways.
Lets sit together, somewhere cozy, comfortably, intimately, and unwind, let your minds run wild, just for a second or two and picture this.
Cairo, a city of a strange landscape, both explored and unexplored. An uneven landscape. A patch-up of misfitting parts. Each single bit with an entirely different story.
In one corner of this landscape, lies a nasty, middle class area, with dismal architecture and bizarre demographics.
On one street of this district lived a colonial child, who strangely had a great appreciation of anything Victorian. At the very heart of Cairo.
Some might blame education, some blame his parents bourgeois upbringing, the result was the same. There was a Gothic, sentimental queen living on the main street, in a middle class district in Cairo.
Victorian queens don't get very far, either when it comes to sex or friendship.
Our colonial child, like many of his beloved heroines, was wretched with passion and longing for that unknown, adventure in this great, wide world, and that unknown, hunky gentleman, who is usually of tall stature and hairy, to come one day and sweep him off his feet.
But Cairo is not the moorlands of the Brontes, nor do tall, hunky, hairy, mysterious guys fall off the sky.
Victorian queens can only make do, by forming meaningful, fulfilling attachments with other colonial children.
Not that these were not in abundance all around Cairo (you find them prancing in the older parts of the Belle Epoque, and God knows where else), but none of these understood or had any appreciation of the Victorian sentimentality of this colonial child.
All but one.
Named after the angel, he took after the name.
Our angel was less fearsome and biblical, but just as magnificent and saintly.
He was of a small stature, slender frame, exacting hands, and a childish smile that betrayed an enduring sanguine temper.
It was a radiant smile, easy, infectious. And the moment I (lets call the colonial child I), saw this smile, something inside of I, was laid to rest. I felt at peace.
(To be continued)
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