Eman Murshed, “The Eerily Unfamiliar”

The Eerily Unfamiliar

And there was something eerily unfamiliar about it all:

The only light spilling across the mountainside was the sun; slowly, certainly rising from it’s deep slumber — every hue from dull orange to burnt umber.

The only sound came from the quiet crunch of the ground under our feet; the lethargic cracks and clangs as we rid the desert of our existence. Tents collapsed here (then there) — a blanket of dust settled around us. Inhale, exhale. In and out it went, lingering in our lungs.

The buildings — well, there weren’t any. Only the stretched ranges of earth, sand and rock unfolding across the horizon. Dominos waiting to be toppled over with our conquering steps

For an unassuming bunch of city kids — the kind that savoured everyday at the mall, at the beach, at a fancy restaurant with ingredients we couldn’t always pronounce — it was all a glaring reminder of the foreign land we had found ourselves in one February morning.

Crisp, morning air puffed from our lips, eyes watching the smoke rise until it disappeared between the stagnant purples and blues of the clouds.

We ached. We stumbled. At one point, I’m certain I even wept.

Yet for whatever reason, the light, the sound, the buildings that weren’t there — They have been permanently tattooed to the flesh of my mind, the flame of my heart, the entirety of my soul.

I might be an unassuming city kid, but you’ll always find me hunting for the eerily unfamiliar.

The Arts at