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In the Presence of Memory ......we weave our stories

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We come here with heavy loads, lay down our luggage - tools, brushes, colours, inks as we watch from across oceans - What is to be done? 

We have learned we must migrate, like flocks of birds who grow accustomed to new seasons of the soul. We have made our nests in neighbouring gardens. We live and dream as we always have, sing through the seasons, raise our hatchlings. We fly on the wings of freedom and ride the winds through guiltless heavens. We were born between the earth and the stars. What is East and West to us? So what if we must outrun the destruction? 

Here we bring forth all that we carry within us, that has formed us: the carpet spread along the corridor, the geometry of innocence, the fragrance of our mother’s dress, the silhouettes of clay and hay, houses fading in the distance.

We turn and capture a portrait suspended in the mirror - vague, contorted with meaning - visions seeking expression. The past and the future interlacing. 

On the stage of the Imagination where nature speaks to her children, to their innocence, in her cryptic language.. where the donkey comes to stand for all the stubborn faults of man; himself absurd, his head inflated, his moustache stretching the breadth of canvas. 

Where language twists in its very essence - mysteries imprinted in the ink, whispering of the Lover.. of melodies heard sighing through the streets of old Aleppo .. if only in the presence of our memory.

We tell our stories. Of all that we have lost, that remains unforgotten. Of all that we are, endlessly evolving. New worlds emerging from the dust of the past.

Stories of dreams and dark memories, the truth interlaced with the illusion as we try to ease the absurdities and complexities of life around us.

We return here, to this Presence - where the earth dissolves into paint pressed onto a surface dyed with the colours of experience... or charcoal lines in the still white void, traced with blind fingertips, interlinked as tight as fig roots.Searching, always searching. 

We are here...we are Present. We tell our stories. Weave together our memories of the future. We are hopeful, for we have felt the spark of Creation alight in our hearts, and we have honoured it.

                                                                    By  Omar Mooro





Syra Arts