Shaghaf Oud Abyad Swiss Arabian

I'm traveling through the smoky alleyways of Amman in the early evening hours. I am alone. I am accompanied only by the intense scents of local spices, fiery pepper and fresh oregano. Completely enchanted by the historic backdrop, I stroll deep into the heart of the dreamy city. Merchants in long robes come towards me. Full of expectation, they show me their wares. They speak Arabic. The syllables flow melodically out of them and past me. Suddenly an elderly gentleman appears. He, too, is wearing a robe, but one of superior elegance. He quickly approaches me, pulls out a wooden instrument and, before I know it, the fine smoke shot from the instrument reaches my nasal cavities and transports me to a spiritual level of metaphysical dreams, where foggy steam knocks reality off its throne and a surreal fusion of fantasy and reality unfolds. Dark paths open up to me, while the fragrant veil of ambiguity envelops my senses. Where am I? Does it matter? Hesitantly, I decide to take the middle path where a being interwoven with frankincense and myrrh appears floating in the air and presses an ancient leather scroll into my hand. The parchment is glowing and refuses to be unrolled. It puts up fierce resistance and throws me to the ground. I don't land, but fall through it, straight into the depths of the insidious darkness, where even the shadows retreat. The uneasy nothingness reigns here. Not everyone manages to untangle the unrecognizable threads of emptiness and find refuge in the warm light of safety.