Kareem is a fictional character I have created precisely one year ago. He has been my companion ever since. Kareem is the main character in a novel. But instead of me telling you his story, Kareem decided to take hold of things. You see Kareem has an eloquent tongue and a most intriguing character. Below is an obsession; below, each post categorized under “Kareem” is a conversation we two have shared, take it as a recollection from a schizophrenic deviant mind, but a recollection worth mentioning nevertheless.  There is no specific time, or day that our conversations take place. Rather, my recollections of Kareem follow no order, no linearity and no chronology whatsoever. They are snapshots from here and there, fragments, segments, pieces from a kaleidoscope.

-Kareem, would you imagine having a kaleidoscopic vision?

K:Is that how we spell it?

-Never mind that now, just answer my question.

K: why do you want to know?

-I think I would like you to have one in the next few pages. Just so we might get a feel for it, see how how it goes…

k:You make it sounds as if I’m not even human; as if I’m your…your guinea pig.

-precisely!

K: so do I even have a choice?

-Well, I’m asking you, am I not?

K: AH! Then since you were so polite as to ask me, let’s see what you’ve got.

-Are you challenging me, subject?

K: God forbid.

-Depart, be gone, and co.

K:Can’t

-Very well.

K: But wait! What will I be viewing? What will I see with that new vision of yours?

-You certainly won’t be seeing what we see, but something else altogether.

K: Which is what exactly?

-You’re going to tell me…

Kareem was born in 1817. At an early age, he was diagnosed with Kaleidoscopic vision (yes yes, it does exist in my story, don’t interrupt). Kareem saw things no one else could see.

P.S. Kareem was an idea, immortal. He lived in hyperbole. He even said it was sweet once, though I could never understand his logic. His ego was brutal, his thoughts succulent, his mind brilliant. Simply, he was every novelist’s pride. But there remains the argument that Kareem might have been nothing but a lie. His every move mirrored by tiny transparent beads, pebbles of thread and color. Kareem became a phenomenon. He lived in every image that moved.

Kareem did not appreciate the new label I threw upon him. But he was enjoying his new type of vision without any doubt. He became bolder, more eloquent, more insistent on breaking free, away from lines, page borders, and the color white. He hated my wall, since he can only be a shadow on it. I tried to reason with him. Shadows are cool, i said. They can be terrifying, amusing, solitude’s companion, or the drunk’s for that matter, but a companion nonetheless. He wanted more. He wanted me and him to switch places. He wanted to bind me to paper while he takes hold of the pen, or the keyboard actually. He challenged my technique, my style and the way I write. I threw him into Plath’s “Soliloquy of the Solipsist:”  “I/ know you appear/ vivid at my side./ Denying you sparng out of my head/ claiming you feel/love fiery enough to keep the flesh real/though it’s quite clear,/ all your beauty, all your wit,/ is a gift, my dear,/ from me.”

He drew a smile on his face, shook the bit of words still hanging on his shirt and his boots, jumped out of the book and scampered away. I lost him for four long agonizing days.

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