On the edge of London, on the edge of Tripoli, on the edge of sanity, on the edge of his seat, on the edge of living. Streets folding, bending, bursting in flames. “The outside limit of an object, area, or surface”. That’s how the Anglo-Saxon Bedouin defines “edge” in his blue Oxford bible.
On the edge of reason, on the edge of madness, on the edge of the edge. Living on the edge of life, the Libyan coward goes on cursing this and that, falling asleep during the day, trying to get away from his fellow countrymen, but barely makes it to the edge.
Living on the edge as always, trying to maintain a balance on the edge, you ask him: “how are you? Or how is it going?” He smiles cautiously and replies: “it is going on the edge, but it is going.”
On the edge of the sea, on the edge of the desert, on the edge of the mountain, he always lands standing on his feet, never to let go of his edgy sense of humour, he will always whisper his political jokes after switching off his mobile phone, bursting in dead laughters afterwards.
On the edge of faith on the edge of blasphemy, on the edge of his sharp tongue, don’t try to calm him down; don’t even think about getting into his shaken mind.
On the edge of virtual reality he becomes the virtual Libyan, free from his name, free from his tribe, language, faith and place, free to hate anything/everything, free to hate himself.
He is still here walking among us, walking on the edge.
