We arrived

A man’s shadowed profile, creased in its eating of the oncoming traffic, is concentrated as if deep inside a journey already started. Shot of boys staring over the ledge of the long large bridge above him. The lights bleed. It is Damascus in spring, just after sunset. People walk soldier like, their figures miniature against the crane like on sore of bridges and the dusty incline of the city’s large iconic hill left in a shrug above, illustrating the unplanned nature of order. She looks out large eyed, we see the moist rims of it, the laced lashes, at the moving streets outside. Her pace is echoed  by the large emptiness, the graffiti hanging on the walls of the military compounds, all the suggestiveness of empty symbols, the faces and long thin grins that tell you not to ask. Hijab is only an idea, inside it lie thousands of competing windows. The girl slouches, recoiling from the inner material that brushes her skin, recoiling from all that touches her from the outside. There is none of the shy neurosis that suspects each shift, each un watched corner to produce a blameable kind of shame.

She is walking through a field of her own memory. She remembers the canal and its waterside musings, the nature of reality discussed inside it. She is walking and she enters in on the stares of a few others.