"...The voice of the famous Lebanese singer, Fairouz, echoes throughout the entire building. And why all of this? Simply because our beautiful, young new neighbor—as fresh as a lily—uncovered her ivory legs to clean the building's staircase. I wanted to offer her my help, but I hesitated because, in this building, I am not the kind of woman who excels at carrying on meaningless small talk. Anyway, I currently feel a sensation akin to suffocation because I hate Fairouz's voice; in fact, I experience a nervous and psychological shock whenever I hear it. This is not because Fairouz is a bad singer—on the contrary, her voice has made her something nearly irreplaceable—but because since childhood, I associated her music with my school days, and the teachers shouting at us for reasons that may or may not have been justified, all while those songs were played over the school's PA system."
I wanted to contribute another fragment to your creation; I hope it pleases you and doesn't come across as a deliberate intrusion into your artistic process.😅
"And so, while the stairwell was filling up with foam and that industrial lemon smell that gets into everything, I stayed on the landing, with the door half open and my body caught somewhere between the urge to go down and the paralysis of someone who knows that won't say anything useful. Because it's not that I don't want to help, God knows I do, it's that I don't know how to offer help without it sounding like an intrusion, without the other person feeling like I'm saying: "I felt sorry for you". And the neighbor, oblivious to my inner monologue, kept humming softly, barely off-key, happily unaware that Fairouz was still up there, on the hallway speaker, insisting with that voice that drills into my chest like a dentist's drill.
Then I thought: maybe I should go up and turn off the radio. But it wasn't my radio. It wasn't my hallway. And deep down, it wasn't my right. So I just stood there, broom in hand, I don't even know why I'd picked it up, feeling the suffocation rise from my stomach to my throat, and feeling Fairouz's songs blend with the memory of my fourth-grade teacher, shouting at us to be quiet. All I know is that every time I hear Fairouz, my body goes on guard as if it were about to take a blow. And there's nothing, at least nothing I know of yet, that can make up for that feeling.
So I closed the door slowly, careful not to make any noise, and sat down on the living room floor, my back against the wall, waiting for the music to end. Because sometimes the only way to survive the past is to wait for the present to fall silent..."
"As every time, your creativity knows no boundaries. Thank you, my pen-friend, if I may say so.
You have truly enriched my imagination with the events you built, turning a real-life scene that I wrote into something even more intense, poetic, and realistic. Because of this, I believe that in the future, we might work on a literary project together, given the intellectual harmony and the shared connection we have in the world of fiction."
I would love to... and I consider it as an honor for such an opportunity. Unifying two creative visions with a similar approach, wishing to express beyond the banal, seems to me a promising and quite novel project. It sparks my anticipation...
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