I have a seat in the abandoned theater



in Beirut. I might forget, and I might recall



the final act without longing ... not because of anything



other than that the play was not written



skillfully ...



Chaos



as in the war days of those in despair, and an autobiography



of the spectators’ impulse. The actors were tearing up their scripts



and searching for the author among us, we the witnesses



sitting in our seats



I tell my neighbor the artist: Don’t draw your weapon,



and wait, unless you’re the author!



—No



Then he asks me: And you are you the author?



—No



So we sit scared. I say: Be a neutral



hero to escape from an obvious fate



He says: No hero dies revered in the second



scene. I will wait for the rest. Maybe I would



revise one of the acts. And maybe I would mend



what the iron has done to my brothers



So I say: It is you then?



He responds: You and I are two masked authors and two masked



witnesses



I say: How is this my concern? I’m a spectator



He says: No spectators at chasm’s door ... and no



one is neutral here. And you must choose



your part in the end



So I say: I’m missing the beginning, what’s the beginning?





