I woke up as the light streamed through the shuttered window highlighting the pens and pencils on the desk. Before my eyes focused on the sight before me, I had a thought. It stayed awhile in my mind and lingered just enough to get my attention. As it seemed to leave it haunted me more and more as my eyes began to make sense of what I was seeing.

Write it all down Hillary, said the thought.

I smelled the coffee brewing in the other room. It offered no shelter from what I was feeling inside. What I had experienced only hours before inside the temple at Dendera was still alive on my skin. Images began to flash in my mind of what had happened. It all felt like a dream. A long dream that one can get trapped in from dreaming, because once you dream a dream long enough, it becomes your reality. You begin to live that reality and soon forget you are only dreaming. I looked back at the light bouncing off the pencils.

Write it down Hillary, said the thought … again.

I want to go home, I said to myself. I want to go back to New York where everything makes sense and I can forget what has happened. I laughed gently at myself. Knowing that was a lie. I could never forget what happened. I looked up at the nightstand next to my bed. It laid there in front of me persistent in what it meant. It would never let me forget, lifetimes and eternity awaited, I would never escape this truth. No matter what I told myself, or how far I threw the stone, it belonged to me and in owning it, I had claimed it. There was no taking it back this time. What had happened at Dendera had marked me.

The mattress sank a little to the left moving me to that side of the bed. Still the view didn’t change. The light streamed down onto the desk. Lingering on the pens and pencils.

Write it down Hillary, said the thought. Persistent in its message.

I looked back at the stone. It stared at me defiantly. I thought about throwing it into the Nile, or putting it back where it had come from. For a moment I entertained the thought of rejecting the responsibility that had been handed to me. I don’t want it, I’m not worthy of this, let someone else do it. I’m not the right person. These thoughts were like little pin pricks on crocodile skin. Useless in their whining.

The smell of breakfast drifted through my bedroom door. I didn’t care. I only wanted to feed on my misery and lack of self worth. The light through the window brightened. Highlighting the chair in front of the desk.

I am broken, I said to the thought. My wings are gone. Ripped out feather by feather by a cruel world.

Write it down Hillary, said the thought. Ignoring my self pity.

I picked up the rock next to my bed. It felt warm in my hand. I ran my fingers across its surface, feeling each grain and reading it like brail. I felt the flame inside me burning. No matter what I was thinking in this moment, no amount of rain would drown this flame. I felt something stir inside me. I don’t want to be strong right now. I don’t want to rise. I want to disappear and leave this god forsaken place. The rock continued to hold steady in my hands.

Here you go giving me a mission I am too weary to fulfill. Give it to someone who is younger, more energy, more hope and less pain in their heart, I thought loudly.

The rock got heavy in my hand. I turned it around and there it was. The symbol.

I have no help for this. This is too big. You have given this to the wrong person, I said to whatever was listening.

Write it down Hillary, said the thought again.

I laid there for several minutes thinking and feeling nothing in particular. The light kept shining through the window. Somehow this was more beautiful then even the light streaming through the temple windows as the pigeons flew from rock to rock, cooing their song. I could feel the sand in my hair. I needed a shower. No amount of distraction would stop the thought.

Fine. I’ll write it down.

The stubborn Aries in me agreed as if perhaps it would leave me alone once I did. I knew better. I knew there was no going back from this. It was a one way door. I had already walked through it.

I lifted the blanket and swung my swollen sandy feet to the side of the bed, and walked  towards the desk. Sat in the light, and picked a pen out of the jar. The light rested on the paper. Waiting.

Hillary Raimo
East Bank Luxor, Egypt
February 2016 New Moon Chinese New Year
Year of the Fire Monkey

















One thought on “A Morning on the East Bank of Luxor

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