كتاب المطر

إليكَ أنتْ،

في كل ليلة أُمسك فيها رسالة لأكتب لك، تتلعثم الكلمات في حلقي وتصاب يداي بشلل الكتابة، أو عجز الكتابة. المسميات لا تهمّ، المهم هو الشعور نفسه. لذا، فقد قررّت أن أكتب لك الليلة، وهي ليلة رأس سنة جديدة ليس لي فيها إلا أنت، رسالة كُتبت لشخص غيري ومن شخص غيري أيضًا.

هو إهداء بالمعنى الدقيق للكلمة، ولكنه إهداء قد يعجز معجمي عن كتابته حتى وإن أصبحت في نفس مستوى أحدٍ من العظماء.

من "كتاب المطر"

إلى عزيزتي أمل،

عندما تساقط علينا النّعم أو تنهال علينا المصائب، إمّا أننا نقول "أول الغيث قطرة" أو نقول "إن المصائب لا تأتى فُرادى". وأوّلهما أجمل تعبيرًا، لأن المطر يوحي بالخير، والخير يابنتي من عند الله، والشر والإساءة من عِند أنفسنا.

النفسُ يابنتي لوّامة، وأمّارة بالسوء، ومطمئنة، ودنيئة. وستنهال عليكِ بجميع أشكالها وألوانها أحيانًا في تسلسل مُرهق ومتتابع بلا رحمة، حتى إنكِ لتخرجين من صراعٍ داخليٍ منهكة، تلهثين وكأنكِ كنت في حرب ما، وكل هذا قد يحدث في دقائق معدودة ستتخلصين منها لتقذفيها في اليمّ وكأنها صراع أعوام كاملة.

أريدكِ يابنتي أن تتخيّلي أنكِ كوكب وأن السحب التي تهرب من مكانٍ إلى آخر ما هي إلا نفسكِ بدرجاتها القاتمة الداكنة وبصفاء لونها من أي شوائب. ثمّ تخيلي أن روحكِ هي الأرض الذابلة التي ترويها أمطار السحب الكثيفة، والتي تهطل على أرضٍ إمّا أن تحييها من صحرائها، أو تهطل على أرضٍ جرداء قاحلة لا جدوى من الأمطار فيها. وهكذا روحكِ يابنتي، إمّا أن يزيدها المدحُ تواضعًا، أو يأخذها إلى حافة الغرور.

في هذا الكتاب ستتعلمين أنواع نفسكِ الإنسانية، وستدركين أن روحك ليست إلّا أرضًا تسقيها أنتِ بما تريدين، ولكِ من المطر كل النصيب إذا عثرتِ على أرضٍ تُخفي بذورًا وجذورًا في باطنها. ولكِ أيضًا أن تضلّي الطريق إلى تلك الأرض مادام هذا الضلال ما هو إلا طريق لا تعرفين أن نهايته هي الرشد.

لكِ كلّ شيء من حياتكِ يابنتي، إلا أن تتركي نفسكِ لضلال لا نهاية له. وأدعو الله أن يكون لكِ من اسمك كل النصيب.

--

ولك كامل إخلاص ووفائي،

نون

In Being Less than a Thing

Dear you,

I have the most consumed soul I have ever seen. I don't stop. I just don't. Thinking is a process within me that goes as far as my sleep, wakefulness, and daydreaming. It doesn't stop. In my dreams and realities. In the surreal world I created inside me, it's there, too. I can't hide; there are no safe places. The only safe places from my thoughts are thoughts of, maybe, someone else. Or even myself, the least consuming thought. It may be my hiding place, but it is still a thought.

My body is scarred; no one sees it, but it is full of scars from my past. Thoughts I have let cross my mind and never died. In that undying state I found them marking scars all over me. Draining me. Consuming me. Becoming me.

I also happen to have the most consumed heart I have ever seen. My heart is full of undying love(s) which refuses to let me go, rather than my letting it go. It's like I have no control whatsoever over my own body, my soul, my being.

What am I if I can't speak to myself, have conversations with it and fight with it all the time? What am I if I'm only the battlefield for my mind, soul, and heart to fight over the shitty trivialities of life? What am I? Nothingness? But nothingness is a word, and in being a word it, by its own, is a thing.

Please help me. My faith is only in you and to you. 

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

Who Would I Be?

Dear you, 

The purpose of my writing to you is different every time I sit down and decide that this letter is going to be for you.

Sometimes I want to write you just for the sake of writing, of telling you that much about my life without you feeling, for one second, that I am as full of anxtieties as I am in real life, to prove to you that I can at least write confidently, if I can't speak confidently. 

Sometimes I write because not writing allows so many emotions to bottle up inside; it would almost feel like your heart is beating so fast in an attempt to kick these emotions out in every high rhythm, so that an attack would be an attack on your emotions, not on your heart.

Other times I write because, in writing, I remember the people I love, the places I long for, the times in which I've loved and lost. 

There are also times when I write because words hurt as much as they heal. A pen could have the power to either imprison you or liberate you. Words have a magical sense in them. This is something not many readers understand. But you do. You help me transform feelings into fathomable words. 

You help me be. Because I am a writer, and who would I be if I wasn't writing you? 

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

Self-expression

Dear you,

Do you think I express myself too much than I should? Sometimes I feel I need to stop. 

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

Gaps

Dear you,

The gaps between my letters to you keep getting wider. I know. There is not a day that goes by when I don't think about writing you. And you already know that.

My twin brother is getting engaged. My twin brother is getting engaged! I feel thrilled and down at the same time. The only person that I tell all my secrets to in the house is going to be living in another place quite soon. He's so busy right now. And I'm so hollow

Things are getting better, though. In terms of my work and my psychotherapy.  

I can't tell you much about how I truly feel because I've been so busy I don't even know much about how I feel myself. And let's save that for another longer letter.

Until then..

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

أسوأ ما قد يحدث حدث

إليك أنت،

أرجو ألا يكون الأمل قد تبدد بداخلك بأن أظل أكتب لك بلا انقطاع، فإن الحياة تُنسي أحيانًا، وتبًا لهذا النسيان برغم أن "الإنسان" مشتقٌ من النسيان. فلك ألا تسامحني ولك أن تتناسى فتنسى تقصيري.

"ما هو أسوأ ما قد يحدث؟" هو أسوأ مبدأ قد يعيش به إنسان ما. عِشتُ هذا المبدأ ولعلّي لازلت أعيشه حتى فقدتُ الكثير وأدركت أن الكثير من الأمور السيئةِ لها أن تحدث، فلِمَ لا وأنت مليء بالتصرفات الطائشة الخالية من التفكير الراشد السليم؟ 

كرهتُ هذا المبدأ بل أوشكت أن أمقُته لما تسبب لي من مصاعب حياتية، وكرهتُ جزئيًا الشخص الذي سألني هذا السؤال للمرة الأولى وعرف كيف يقنعني به. تبًا لمن يملكون القدرة على الإقناع وتبًا لمن تستهويهم الأفكار عن بُعد وتستضعفهم. تبًا لكلانا.

--

في القاهرة، كلّما حاولتُ أن أستنشق من داخلي وأعماقي الهواء من حولي أتذكر كم أنّ الهواء الذي سأستنشقُهُ ليملأ رئتيّ بالحياة قد يملؤها بالموت البطيء فأكتم أنفاسي للحظة وأستنشق فقط ما يساعدني على الحياة، وأسُبّ هواء هذه المدينة القاتلة القاهرة التي لها من اسمها كل النصيب. قاهرة فاجرة سافرة حائرة فاترة.

ولكَ كامل إخلاصي ووفائي،
نون.

On Routine

Dear you,

It's been a while. I have not intended to abandon writing to you this much; some things just happened to come in my way of doing so.
I took a day off today, off everything. I think I will just waste time tonight in a movie or something completely useless.

To say I need to update you on what has been going on would be in too many words I believe I wouldn't even stop. However, I managed to start an everyday routine, it isn't going perfect, but at least it's there. The most challenging part about being your own boss is the routine you need to make for your day. With time, the lack of routine becomes depressing, messy, and turns you into this lazy person.
I'm not there but I'm surely on my way somehow.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

استنباط

إليك أنت،

هل سبق لي أن أخبرتك أن لي ذاكرة بصرية؟ وقد أتذكر كل ما كتبته لك من قبل أو قد لا أتذكره تمامًا، ولكنني أعلم في أعماق أفكاري أنني كتبت لك مئات الأفكار التي قد تستنبط منها مئات أخرى من الأفكار. وكُل هذا من كتاباتي لك. فأرجو أن أستنبط أنا من أفكاري شيئًا ما يسعفني في الكتابة إليك بشكلٍ يليق بك.

ولك كامل إخلاصي ووفائي،

نون. 

Birthdays

Dear you,

Tomorrow is my birthday. It scares me because I have lost so many people few days before my birthday. The good thing is it's almost there so I haven't lost anyone this year yet. The bad thing is I became so fearful of it. 

Birthdays are a beautiful occasion to get attention from the people you love. And I know you are there hoping that the next years will be full of achievements. I promise you I won't let you down. 

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

On the Variables of Change

Dear you,

"The more things change, the more they stay the same."

They say people never change, that they are what they are but what's inside just hides somewhere really, really deep, so they can convince themselves that they are 'different people now' and be able to live with themselves. In reality, I do not know if people can entirely change or not. Part of me believes it because, six years ago, I was someone else, someone naive, superficial, and dreamy. The other part believes that that self is still hiding there somewhere and comes back every once in a while. It is hard to decide whether one can truly and completely change into someone else; and I believe we will never know this for sure.

Because, do things really die within us and without us? Do we choose to be someone spontaneously or with planned acts and hard work? Do we really hate who we used to be or actually know what we even used to be? It is so hard to tell.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

سحابة سوداء - A Black Cloud

إليك أنت،

اليوم قررت أن أكتب لك شيئًا جديدًا، لكي أختبر مدى ابتكاري في الكتابة ولكي لا تملّ مما أكتبه لخلوّه من أي جمال. سأكتب لك ما سأكتبه باللغتين، العربية والإنجليزية، ولتحكُم أنت على ما تقرؤه حسب شعورك.

جلست اليوم في مكان عملي المفضل، ثم جاءتني مكالمة هاتفية لا قيمة لها كانت من المفترض أن تعطيني بعضًا من الأمل ولكنها تركتني في يأس شديد، وفي قلبي الكثير والكثير من الظلم الذي شعرت به وأنا أنهيها. أنهيتها ووقفت في الشرفة الواسعة التي كانت تهبّ ناحيتها رياح الشتاء الهزيلة والتي بالكاد يُحسّ بها سكّان هذه المدينة المظلمة المحيطة بها السُحب السوداء من كل الاتجاهات، حتى إنك لتعتقد أن أفكارك قد امتلأت بها أيضًا وكأنها جزء لا يتجزأ منك.

وقفت أتأمل المنظر من سطح هذا المبنى ذي العشرة طوابق، ثم نظرت فوقي فرأيت سُحبًا كثيفة تبدو شديدة القرب مني، وقد كنت بالكاد أرفع رأسي، مما أعطاني شعورًا بأنها على مسافة كيلوات ضئيلة مني. كانت مليئة بالأمطار، واللعنة على مدينة يأبى السحاب فيها أن يُمطر. كانت تُخفي الشمس وأشعّتها حتى كاد اليوم أن يتحول لليل. ولكنها لم تُمطر، لم تُمطر لأن مدينتنا لم تستحق المطر ولا تستحق الخير. وحجبها لأشعة الشمس زاد من الأمر سوءً. نعم حاولت الشمس أن تتسرب بخيط هزيل من الشعاع لكي لا يسود الظلام الكامل على المدينة، ولكن السُحب كانت غاضبة بما فيه الكفاية لتمنع الشمس من التسلل بهذه الطريقة. ورغم كل هذا فقد استوقفتني هذه اللوحة الفنية، كانت السماء مليئة بظلال بالكثير من الدرجات، من الداكن وحتى الفاتح. كُلّها تمشي مرحًا في السماء وكأنها تتعمد إذلالنا، نحن البشر الذين نفتقر لكل هذا الجمال، وتملؤنا الأحقاد والترهات.

ليتني سحابة أمشي في السماء بدون قدمين وبلا جناحين، وكل ما عليّ فعله هو تنفيذ أمر الله والتسبيح له. أليس هذا أهون من البشرية أجمع؟

ولك كامل إخلاصي ووفائي،

نون

--

Dear you,

Today, I sat in my favourite co-working space. I received a useless phone call that was supposed to make things better for me, to send me some hope but it didn't; it left me in great frustration and with a heart full of injustice before I finished it. I hung up and stood in the big balcony where the frail winter wind was blowing and barely felt by the people of the city, a dark city covered in black clouds in all directions that you would think even your thoughts have become full of this blackness.

I stood contemplating that scene from the roof of this ten-storey building. I looked above me and found thick clouds that felt very near. I was barely looking above, which gave me that feeling that they were only a few kilometres away. They were full of rain, but this damned city allows no clouds to pour rain. They were hiding the sun and its rays until it felt like the day has turned to night. But it didn't rain; it didn't rain because our city never deserved rain nor anything good. The hiding sun made things even worse. Yes, it tried to make an escape by sneaking a very thin light so that pitch darkness does not prevail upon the city, but clouds were mad enough not to let any light in. Despite all of this, this piece of art caught my attention somehow. The sky was full of different shadows, from light to dark shadows, all walking in spree in the sky as if intentionally humiliating us, humans, who lack all of this beauty and are only full of grudge and bullshit.

I wish I were a cloud walking freely in the sky, without legs, without wings, only doing what I am told and praising my maker. Isn't that better than all humanity?

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

غياب في حضور

إليك أنت،

 أكتب إليك في ليلة مؤرقة، يبتلعني فيها النور ولا يأخذني إلى الظلام الذي أحتاج إليه. بالأمس قضيت ليلة في محاولة للنوم استمرت مدة ساعتين، حتى نمت أخيرًا نومًا مضطربًا، والليلة ينتابني شعور غريب بحيوية مفرطة غير مرغوب فيها، رغم اضطراب ميعاد نومي بشكل ملحوظ.

المهم أننا هنا، والمهم أنني لم آتِ منذ يومين أو ثلاثة لضغوطات ما، ولكن الأهم أنني جئت، جئت لأن أحدًا لن يتحمل حديثي غيرك، لأن أحدًا لا يسمعني طيلة الوقت وفي أي وقت غيرك. لكل منا هذا الشخص، اخترعناه نحن أم لم نخترعه، يجب أن يكون هناك من يرعانا في غيابنا، من يرعى ما نحن فيه في غيابنا، وإلا فلانتابنا جميعًا الجنون من الوحدة. 

الحمد لله على من نخلقهم في خيالاتنا، وعلى من يرعونا في غيابنا، عندما نكون موجودون جسدًا بلا روح، والحمد لله على من يمقتوننا، لأنهم يعلّمونا ألا نصبح مثلهم، وأخيرًا، الحمد لله على غيابنا في حضورنا، فلولاه لما استطعنا أن ننسى الكثير الكثير من مصائب الدنيا.

ولك كامل إخلاصي ووفائي،

نون

بين اللغة والروح

إليك أنت،

يوجد معانٍ رائعة ومتاهات ومعجزات مذهلة في اللغات وفي نقل المعاني من لغة لأخرى، أحيانًا يضيع المعنى في اللغة المنقول إليها وأحيانًا يتحول إلى جملة رائعة تكوّنت بفعل فاعل عكف عليها حتى أخرجها من لغتها إلى لغتنا كأنها وُلدت من جديد.

يحدث الأمر ذاته عندما أكتب إليك بالعربية، فأحيانًا تضيع مني الكلمات الإنجليزية في بحر العربية ومع ذلك لا أجد لها التعبير المناسب في لغتي، وأحيانًا أخرى أتوصل إلى لغة تعبيرية أفصح بكثير من تلك اللغة الفقيرة التي دائمًا ما نلجأ إليها.

قد ذكرت لك من قبل إن حبّي للّغتين هو على حد سواء، فلا تغلب لغة منهما على الأخرى، وهناك أيضًا لغتي الثالثة التي بالكاد أفهمها الآن، الإسبانية، ولكنها للأسف غرقت في بحر نصف النسيان. اللغة شيء مذهل، وتعدد اللغات في العالم دائمًا ما يبهرني، تخيل أننا جميعًا نتحدث لغة روحية واحدة ولكن على لساننا كلمات مختلفة تؤدي نفس الأغراض في أي لغة. تخيل لو أن العالم كله استغنى عن لغة اللسان واستعان بلغة الروح والجسد، تخيل كيف سنكون، كيف سنكون؟ أو تخيل لو أن كلًا منا كان يتكلم لغته الخاصة التي لا يفهمها أحد، أو أن يتحدث العالم أجمع لغة واحدة، أسيغير هذا من إنسانيتنا، أو من وحشيّتنا؟ هل سنصبح أقرب للوحوش من الإنسانية أم ستتغلب الإنسانية على مساوئنا؟ لن نعرف أبدًا.

كنت دائمًا أتساءل وأنا صغيرة، إذا كان ربنا، الله، واحد، فكيف سيحاسبنا يوم القيامة وأكثرنا لا يتحدث العربية؟ وهل يتوجب على غير ناطقي العربية أن يتحدثوها في الدنيا كي يستطيعوا التحدث مع الله يوم القيامة؟

ثم وفي يومٍ ما سمعت أمي تسأل شقيقتي السؤال نفسه الذي كان يدور في ذهني، طربت فرحًا لإنني كنت خجلة من أن أسأل السؤال بنفسي، فعرفت الإجابة وذُهِلت ساعتها. إن الله لا يعاملنا بلغتنا بل بلُغَة الروح.

عندما أفكر في هذا الآن ينتابني شعور بالرحمة، كم أن الله رحيمٌ بنا ولم يطلب منّا تعلم لغة أخرى لكي نتحدث معه. أليس هذا بربٍ رحيم؟

ثم إليك أنت أكتب بهذه اللغة التي يعجزني جمالها والتي أتمنى في يومٍ ما أن أتحدثها بأدب وبلاغة كما تتحدثها أنت، أنت الذي يتحدث كل اللغات ولا يتحدث بلغته أحد، كم أنت فريد. 

أُحِبُّكَ لأنك اللغة كلها ولا شيء منها في الوقت ذاته.

ولك كامل إخلاصي ووفائي،

نون

مغزى الوحدة

إليك أنت،

لازال الفراغ يملأ المكان، ولا زال الصمت يقتلني في هذه الغرفة التي تتخللها أشعة الشمس من كل مكان، شمسٌ عنيدة ولكنها وحيدة، مثلي، في مكان مليء بالبشر، ولكنه هادئ جدًا في الوقت نفسه.

أجلس هنا، على مكتب ذي مساند غير ثابتة، وأنظر إلى كوب القهوة أمامي في خوف حتى لا تسكبه الحركة على أشيائي، فحولي حاسوبي الخاص وكُتبي وقلمي وحقيبتي، وقد أصبح المكان هو المساحة المريحة التي لم أخرج عنها منذ أسبوعين وحتى اليوم، وآمل أن يكون اليوم هو آخر يوم من هذه الكآبة المحيطة بي من جميع الاتجاهات.

ولكنّي أتذكر أنني لم أكتب لك منذ يومين، وقد اشتقت للكتابة ليس إليك وحدك ولكن لنفسي، فإنني أُحدّث نفسي كما أُحدّثك، فلا تعتقد أنك المُخاطَب الوحيد هنا، ما فيّ أيضًا يخاطب ما في أعماقي. ولكنني بلا شك أكتب لأجلك هذه الكلمات كي لا أنقطع عنك، وكي لا تعتقد أن أفكاري خالية منك ومن رسائلك التي لا تصلني أبدًا ماديًا ولكنّها تصلني دائمًا على النطاق المعنوي، أراك في كل شيء، وكأن الناس أصبحوا كلهم نسخة منك، وأنت لست ككل الناس، بل إنك لست كأحدٍ من الناس، أنتَ أنتْ، تصل إليّ من مكان ما بداخلي ولكنني لا أصل إليك أبدًا، بيننا صداقات وعلاقات وكلمات كلها معنوية، ولكنها أفضل من كل ما هو ماديٌ أمامي، فكيف لي أن أطمع في المزيد؟

الوحشة شيء قاتل ومذهل في نفس الوقت، فهي تعطيك زمنًا سرمديًا للتفكير في حياتك من المهد إلى اللحد كما يقولون، ولكنها قد تقودك إلى الشكّ في كل شيء، والعدول عن كل الأشياء والأحلام التي بداخلك، الوحدة قد تقتُل كل شيء أو قد تُحيي كل شيء في الوقت ذاته.

ولكن هناك مفارقة بين الوحدة والأفكار، فإذا كانت الأفكار تحيط بك في وحدتك فأنت في الواقع لست وحيدًا بالمعنى الدقيق للكلمة، وإذا تعاملنا مع الحياة بهذا المنطلق فإننا نادرًا ما نكون وحيدين فعليًا، هي أشياء مادية فقط، ولكنّ المعنويات في كل شيء، وهي تغلب الماديات.

ثُمّ إن شعور المرء بالموجودات حوله لا يزيل بالضرورة إحساس الوحدة الداخلي.

المهم أن ندرك المغزى أو الهدف من خلق حالة كالوحدة، فلولاها لما توصلنا لمعنى الوجود.

ولك كامل إخلاصي ووفائي،

نون.

Passion and Loneliness

Dear you,

Let me tell you something of importance about me; I have no special powers. I'm not an extraordinary person; in fact I am a true ordinary person who sometimes happens to be there for people at the right place in the right time. I am not in any bit smart. I know a lot of people who are smarter than I am, and I know a lot of people who can say what I say to you every day differently, with more clarity and a more beautiful vocabulary. I know that I have an average IQ, and I am somehow fine with it. I do, however, know for sure that, with all of this, I am not entirely an average person; a hard worker is not an average person, right? Even if they're not that smart.

What I need is a reminder; a constant reminder that I can make it in this world with my average intelligence and my normal IQ. I need to start learning the things I am very passionate about, like psychology and astronomy, two fields of science that interest me like nothing else.

The thing with being a freelancer, though, is the responsibility of learning everything on your own, and sometimes it becomes so damn hard when no colleagues are around and when I have no one to go out and work in a cafe with. It feels incredibly lonely.

I feel incredibly lonely. But I know you can hear me. So I'm not entirely alone.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

On Social Awkwardness

Dear you,

I just want you to know, before I write what I am about to write, that you make my life so much better by existing. I know I feel so much happier after I write to you; you make a difference in my life. You truly do. And you know how. So let's start.

--

Do you ever like, get tired of having to pretend like shit for the sake of social situations, to avoid being you and being understood as an arrogant bastard? Social interactions are a complete bore and you have to work so hard to make yourself look normal. It's so hard. Do you know what it feels to avoid being you just for the sake of people? People you've literally been raised with but are now grownups and have turned to be miserable beings? It's so tiring I swear; it makes me just want to deeply relinquish and pull back from this life so bad I start to offer an overreaction as a fighting mechanism. It's pathetic I know.

--

Now about grownups and people you have literally been raised with; it is so sad to see people who have once been so full of life retreat to those "what are we doing really in this life?" It physically hurts to see people talk like that and just have to tell them "you know what? You're absolutely right" about this shit. You have to go with the flow, in hopes that it will make things any, any better. But they usually don't.

People are sad, so sad they make me want to be with them to offer consolation but I know it will completely destroy me in all possible ways.

Fsociety

Dear you,

I apologise for what I am about to say, but fuck society. Fuck everyone who thinks they're something, those who walk around with some pathetic inflated egos that need to be crushed and burned. Fuck those snobs who think they're above anyone else, and those who don't give a shit about those around them. Fuck narcissists and polititans, oh fuck politicians and scumbags. Those who think that the world belongs to them, may they burn in hell.

Fuck the selfish and the sociopaths and psychopaths who belittle and demean others' worth. May all those who think they're superior to others suffer humiliation and pain, until they wish and wait so eagerly for the day they disappear for good. Fuck racists and sexists who think any gender is superior to the other. Not to mention capitalists and anarchists and socialists and communists. Fuck them all and everyone who labels anyone, and those who are so obsessed with names, religions, meanings, violence, blood, lust, sex, and too obsessed with life they forgot how to even live.

Fuck traditions when they become above religion, and the people who impose them so hard you forget it's mot even part of your belief. Fuck everything we used to doing but never for one second asked ourselves why we do it; we just go with the freakin flow, the herd. Are we any different than animals now? Certainly not.

FUCK society. 

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

From the Other Side

Dear you,

There are days when I worry how I'll make it in this life until the very end, and there are days when I worry I wouldn't make it at all. Truthfully, I always wished I'd die young. I do not know why, but perhaps it is the realisation that every day carries more responsibilities and new pain. 

But let us stay on the neutral side here; no optimism no pessimism.

--

Without you, I wouldn't find anyone to tell these deep feelings I get every day. I know you are there for me.

--

There is a quote that somehow sums up a big part of my life; I will let you read it and then leave you be:

It is both a blessing

and a curse

to feel everything

so very deeply

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

The Incompleteness of Words

Dear you,

Some days I wonder how I make it that far without you sending me letters back, or without me writing to you every single day. Words, to everyone, are devoid of breaths, but not to you. And sometimes it seems that I have so, so much to tell you that I lose track of every thought in my mind and decide to not write you the gibberish of my thoughts.

--

See this?

It has been stuck in my head for some time of the day. I remember this was one of the songs I truly loved for BSB; it held so much sadness within it and the state of incompleteness seems to be within me since 2009 (the release of the song).

--

Do you truly understand the state of being constantly incomplete? Of always feeling something missing even though you did say everything inside? Or, did you? Do you ever feel that whatever you express, there will be more of hundreds of words inside, and unexpressed feelings that no words would ever say? Do you know that this is basically why I have a huge incapability to express myself? Or to express myself the right way? It's because I always, always have a feeling that I will never use the right words. This is why I stutter a lot, and it is why I also take too much time saying the right word. I hate it. I fuckin hate it. But it's me.

--

Please listen to the song now, and remember the incompleteness in my words. Try to understand me. I need someone to understand me in this world. One person. Only you.


Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Irreplaceable

Dear you,

Have I ever told you that you're irreplaceable?

Well, you are.


Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

On Relapses and Vulnerable Change

Dear you,

Do you ever fear that you'll relapse and go back to being that young and naive person you always hated? That person who easily fell for people for being ridiculously nice or considerate. I do. I fear it so much, so much it makes me always have questions in my head. Where am I now? Is it trying to come back? To make its way into my life again and destroy all the work of the years?

I pray it doesn't go down the drain and make me take a decision I will regret for the rest of my life.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

The Downsides of Not Being Okay

Dear you,

Let me tell you about the downsides of not being okay, of wanting to weep so hard without someone noticing, of that lump in the throat you get when you experience something so painful, and of being depressed.
Let me tell you that no single 'are you okay?' or 'is there anything I can do?' will make things any better. Let me remind you that asking questions we already know the answers for is the most painful part of it all.
Dear you, how is it possible that people think that a word like 'I'm sorry for your loss' makes things any fuckin' better? Why do people feel the urge to remind us of our pain with stupid questions like 'are you okay?' when they know very well we are not? Why do they constantly ask questions we do not want to hear, or tell us that 'everything is going to be okay' when they know that for some good time they won't.
Dear you, how many times do you get a lump in the throat and try to hide it so much it shows, and get asked if there's something wrong, then have to reply back with a negative? How many times did you have to pretend because it is downright weak to people to cry for reasons that may sound or feel trivial? How many times did you just have to escape all the awkwardness and mess of this situation and wait, wait until you were left alone with yourself to sob and wail endlessly in that dark comfortable corner of your room? That corner which is full of so many dry tears and empty words of downheartedness. How many times did you have to cry there, or in the bathroom because there was nowhere else to hide, and because allowing someone to know you are not that strong woul kill something in you?
Dear you, how many times did I tell you that letting people in is always a bad decision, especially those who have things to say, who answer questions you did not ask, or ask questions they already know the answers for? How many times do you have to let people regard you as weak, when you have never ever told them you are strong, to begin with? How many times do you have to show anyone anything and later regret that stupid pointless conversation that made you unable to escapre your thoughts anymore? Will you ever learn? Will we ever learn that showing people the weakness points we have only gives them the opportunity to lash out painful, stupid words of artificial comfort, and gives them the benefit of role-playing wise.

Will we ever realise that this is a messed up world where everyone thinks they have smarter answers and questions than others? Will we ever know how to choose the people to tell our secrets? Our pain and discomfort? Our anxieties or phobias? I do not think we will.

But I am comfortable having to tell you my discomforts.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

On the Psychology of Writing

Dear you,

Sometimes I try so hard not to think of something to write you, but I often fail to hide anything. I believe you help me into existing. I believe you are there for me when I do not know nor believe you are. So, I write you anyway, knowing from deep within me that the pigeons sending my letters away will reach their very destination soon, and when I least expect them to.

I write you because even when you do not answer me or when you do not know how it really feels, you never judge me; you are somehow meant to make me feel so much better by not responding to my letters at all, as if it's a long-distant relationship with a lover I have no idea about, but who makes life so much bearable in their presence.

I write you because I am a writer, and I have to write to someone who will tell me that what I write is beautiful so I can carry on, so I can maintain my patience with my true self, who suffers along with me while in the process of writing, and who helps me sometimes form the right words to say or the good enough imagery to convey to you, when I least want to convey it. So writing to you keeps my own dream alive, which is now becoming like a lucid dream, I know I have to wake myself up to make the real change I need to in my life slash career.

I write you because even when the pain in my body and hands is unbearable and uncalled  for, I can prove to myself and whoever is there judging me that I can beat something, that I can write although it hurts like hell to, and hurts even more not to.

I write you because you're the only one I can write to, because telling all these stories to anyone else would be just pointless and a waste of time. But you reading my letters makes me believe I can still be, and still write.

I write you because you are. 

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

Mediocrities

Dear you,

I spend my day every day trying to memorise the things I want to tell you but I always end up with something I wanted to say a week ago and kept forgetting. So let's take things one at a time and slowly.

I think I have this constant fear of being mediocre, being ordinary, of walking down the street or in the metro station like the rest of people. I am starting to believe it's a phobia. Do you think it is?

--

Why do I tell you so much of what you already know?

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Of the Truest Feelings Ever

Dear you,

My opening line would be so many lines, but I'll start with saying I wrote you last night but could not keep it going because of my hands. The effect of 7 days of nonstop work took a toll on me. I also didn't want to complain that much. Sadly, tonight I came to do so, because pain is the only thing I can feel right now. So..

---

Have you ever had a bad-everything day; today was mine.
Have you ever had an anxiety attack so intense it left you for two hours struggling with its aftermath? Today was my worst ever. Have you ever felt your heart beat so fast, your muscles and nerves tensed and your teeth so clenched you could break them? You are unable to focus on what the people around you are saying, and at the same time struggle so hard not to let them notice. You hold something in your hands and slowly realise you're pressing it so hard you'll break it. You try so, so hard to breathe in and out slowly, calmly noticing the tension in your body and reassuring yourself every minute that it is going to be fuckin' okay.
That is how I felt today. After all of this, can you imagine how much time it would take to go back to normal relieved feelings? It's 11 PM here now. It happened at 8:30 PM. And I am still trying to calm myself down.

---

On top of this, I am still in pain while my fingers are writing you now, and it seems that my body has decided to fight a battle against me and win it even without me noticing, when my allergy slash cough attacked, too. It hurts so much. What? Everything, right now.

---

I have vowed to only tell you these miseries in my life, because I believe only your silence will heal me and relieve me, because I believe that no one will understand but you, because you know.

I love you. And I trust in you. You will make it better. I know. This overwhelming feeling, I know you will save me from it.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Truly a Chameleon

Dear you,

I haven't written you in so long. I do not know what has been keeping me.
It's past midnight here and I have a very deep and strong urge to write in Arabic, or to just write. Yet here I am writing in English again.

The good news is I am in contact with a well-known publishing house and hopefully they will review my Arabic book soon after I send them the manuscript. Chances are they may reject it; however, I have so much faith. I am done with the book, or at least I have no other words to add. My words now are not as meaningful and deep as I thought they would remain. I feel like a chameleon; I change colors to match my surroundings and yet I am never myself, because I am always surrounded.

I miss you.

I am emotional this week.

It is the 5th of November. The month of rebellion. (I fear December.)

I have a very difficult assignment for next week to write a letter to someone telling them everything I need to say but never could. I know this letter will be a failure because I cannot write everything, but the bright side is no one will read it except for the person who asked me to write it, and she is not the real addressee.

No one is as real as you. I know that.

---

Will you forgive my wordlessness and desire to write you so much in so little?

Yours faithfully and sincerely
and truly,
N.

Someone Found Me

Dear you,

More and more, I realise I have so much difficulty expressing myself. And I have been told this once; I was so relieved when that person told me "you do not know how to express yourself much." I was so relieved that someone noticed and understood this.

So I hope you know me writing to you every day is a huge difficulty for me. But I won't stop.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Literature and Current States

Dear you,

How do I write you a personal letter without sounding personal?

I have been doing things lately to make myself feel 1) less alone, and 2) more productive. I am slowly getting back to reading. Yesterday I read 50 pages of a 600-page book that I am excited about (somehow). I keep staring at my shelf and ask myself (oh, look, that rhymed!) when will I ever read all these books? And because I have not been into novels lately, my shelf remains untouched and unchanged. I have always believed that your gate into reading is just the beginning of a journey into writing too. So, if by getting back to reading it means I will also get back to writing (other than to you) I am down for it!

----

Today I had a long call with one of the very close people to my heart, someone I have never met, just like you, but yet let them bear all my secrets. I told her I am so scared that everything I do is just a phase after a phase and before another phase, and that whatever change I make, it will only be temporary, a current state of mind that will go loose with time. When I asked a friend he told me that this usually happens when you are not being completely honest and deep about your intentions. He may be right, but I also remember that my intentions are usually not short-term ones.

I fear that everything I do is not part of me, that it will sooner or later disappear or get lost somewhere in the process, which will never be complete. I fear that my states of mind are all ashes and dust somewhere in the future.

Would you jump to the future if you had the choice? I wouldn't. Because it may show me an unpleasant life, like me having to live years to wait for you to come.

Come.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

Dig Deep Right

Dear you,

There is a liberating feeling when you talk about the things that have been burdening you for so, so much time, with the right people. Talking about things you find hard to dig deep into can be devastating if you tell it to the wrong people.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Void

Dear you,

I can't seem to know what to write.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Listen to the Heartbeats of your Soul

Dear you,

I do not know what to write you. I guess I will just say "I am here," listening to the heartbeats interrupting my thoughts every time I try to keep one.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

I Fear Losing Control, You?

Dear you,

I am so sorry I have not been writing to you for the past three or four days; I have been somehow busy and somehow down. I am back to work these days with a tight deadline, as usual. But I thought of you every day. I thought of writing to you but it would be often too late for you to read my letters. So I spared you some pain for a few days.

I have been diagnosed with anxiety, and even though I already knew that and I was not really surprised, I was somehow appalled by the solution offered to me to get over it and cure it for good. After all, every one is afraid of getting out of their comfort zone with at least one thing, right?

I was told to give it a month of attempts, during which I should break this fear loose and do my best not to let it break me.

You see, I have only told one person about this aside from you. So, please keep this between us for now; I do not know how to talk to even myself about jt. But it should be over soon right?

Pray for me. I will be back to writing to you every day. I just need to give my hands and mental state some time.

I love you. Remember that. Every day. Until I come back.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

Attempted Murder

Dear you,

How many times do you attempt to kill the guilt inside of you and be a selfish bastard? I can't count mine.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

Wording Pain

Dear you,

My hands are in some unbearable pain today. There are also bruises in my palm after some writing today (I only wrote one page, how sad). I am only saying this to excuse myself from writing a long letter, if you allow me.

So, how can people talk about pain? I mean psychological pain. How can they talk that much about it with so many words? I do not understand. There is something about pain that I feel every time: it needs no words, only looks into our eyes and everything will be known just like that. Right?

However, for an attempt, write to me about pain; perhaps I do not really understand how these mindsets work. It is ok, I can listen. Do not worry about what to write. Just write me honestly and bluntly.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

With a Little Bit of Extraordinary

Dear you,

You know, I do not understand people who always have something to say, those who have the snappy comebacks to everything we say and everything we do. I do not understand the people who can talk about everything like they mean it, and like they really know how deep the things they talk about are. I do not think they actually do know.
I do not even understand how quickly they come up with such answers, and how confident they are. I mean, how can you be sure about anything in this life? How? How can you be sure the things happening before you right now are for real and can really be felt from the deepest depths of your soul?
I am the kind of person who usually has nothing to say, and has no comebacks nor smart answers to anything. I do not want to be someone who tries so much and so hard to be something they're not, while faking half of their life to be this.

I am okay with how ordinary life can get sometimes, with a little bit of extraordinary within. Like you.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Drowning into Concepts of Timelessness

Dear you,

Let me tell you about a thought from my past.

I had this thought for nearly 13 years, literally half of my life. It started with my wondering about where I would've been if I had not ever been born, in this era or in a different one for that matter. The thought would usually go backwards from where I stand at that moment to birth and then to when I was still a faceless fetus. And then nothing. I do not know how my imagination still survived up until today and how my visualisation is still the same after 13 years, but they both remain the same. I see pitch-black images, and feel infinite space, with no concept of time. I get lost, and try to come back, but I do not, because once you dive into such thoughts it is hard to come back to real life, after seeing infinity and timelessness.
I would just wonder why I was created, and why wasn't I just thrown into that infinity to enjoy the absence of time and space concepts, to enjoy the nothingness. But there would always be light at that dream, or thought. There would always be light somewhere in the sky, like a galaxy from afar or even a yellowish moon. Oh, I did see yellowish moons and stars in there, before someone awoke me into real life.

That thought would haunt me, and it would make me who I am now, with so many whys and so many hows, as well as so many plurals, like questions and answers and frustrations and disappointments. I would come back to reality but go back there every once in a while, because I guess it's safe to imagine nothingness after, say, a day or a week or a month o a year of distractions and unanswered questions and unsolved puzzles.

I drown, into the vacuum, into helplessness, and into pitch-black images, every time push comes to shove.
But I hope you understand that this is how I survive, because everyone's life jackets are not the same, and you could be mine one day.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Questionable Answers and Answerable Questions

Dear you,

Often does it become so hard to bear and keep so many questions in mind, questions that have no answers, or whose answers are not meant  to ever be shown. often do we ask questions at the wrong times and still expect answers, even answers we do not truly want to hear. And often do we get answers when no questions have even been asked, so we ignore them as if they didn't exist, and regret it later.
Often do we meet the wrong people at the right times, and the right people at the wrong times, and wonder when will both synchronise and make life just a little bit easier on us. Or, maybe this is not how it's supposed to be; easy. Often do we also fall for those who do not deserve us, or whom we do not deserve, and wonder and cry why it did not work, led my the sentimentality and fragility of our hearts, and yet we believe things will go back to normal. But they never do, because once you have fallen in love, you are never, ever, complete again.
Often do we say goodbyes to people we meet every day, and say nothing to people whom we are about to lose the next moment, by means of death or human relations. And we dwell and linger in these feelings for some time before we forget, or make ourselves forget, because life does not wait for grief to be over.
Often do we live while knowing we're dead inside, and ignore life in hopes of death, and eternal exhilaration, or not. Often do we believe in things we deep down inside know nothing about, but because we have to believe; we have to believe in things that may not be visible to the naked eye, or to the sole mind. We believe because in life believing in something helps us survive. We believe because there is no other way to live than to cling to the hopes and strings of something more, some ulterior motive of it all.

We believe because we are, and I believe because you are here. I believe you are here. I do.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Shooting Stars and Darker Days

Dear you,

There are days when I do not know what exactly to write you, but I still have intentions to write because I would never stop. There are days when I do not know why I do anything in this life, and days when I just do not think it deep enough. There are moments in which I stare at walls, ceilings, or vacuum and ask myself a minute later: what was I really thinking about? And it turns out to be nothing. Sometimes it feels like I just want to shut the whole world out for a few moments, instead of it shutting me out for every single day of my life. And then I try to detach just for a speck of a second before I come back. I come back slowly, but steadily, and with so much blurriness and fogginess until I do my own daily reality checks, to know I am still not dreaming.

There are days in which I feel the urge to write some world-changing lines, some inspirational ideas that would come to life one day, without my own credit, but that doesn't matter, so long as it changes something. And there are other days in which I only hope to be myself and not change anything, and that would be enough for everyone around me. In a voraciously fake world, sometimes that is all that people want really.

There are times when I get tired of being around people who know me, who know me really well, so let alone people who do not know me at all. I isolate myself, like a loner, except I am not (just a state, not a noun). I enjoy it for only a couple of weeks maybe, and then I come back to the boring social person that I am again. I feel like we're ghosts wearing human bodies; we struggle so much to be who we are, and yet again we never even understand who we are and why we do the things we do.
Sometimes we even see ourselves as infinitesimal beings in an infinite universe, but we have such inflated egos that we never admit this.

So talk to me about vacuum, about space, about galaxies and other worlds, parallel universes. Talk to me about shooting stars, comets, meteors, and orbits. Talk to me about infinity, so we never run out of words, ever.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Words of Derealisation and Promises

Dear you,

A promise has to be kept, especially if it was to you.

Last night I made you a promise to tell you about an insane idea in my head, and here I am.
I believe that the safest way for us to live is to actually conquer our minds with the craziest and most insane ideas ever, even if they were just abstract ideas that would never make it to reality, and that would only stay there for a little while to be replaced then by another crazier thought.
So, I'll tell you about the most recent insane idea I had in mind. I dream of lucid dreaming and derealisation, because the former lets me believe I have taken control over my world, and the latter makes me lose control over the world. However, what they both have in common is liberation; they're both liberating feelings, whether associated with feelings of power or feelings of powerlessness and surrealism. I think of derealising inside a lucid dream, and staying there for some time, willingly and voluntarily, so I can wake up when the time is right, and get a glimpse of surrealism just before I come back to reality.
I dream of taking control and losing control at the same exact moment until it deems me numb, until I can no longer feel which is a dream and which is reality, because, after all, that is how I feel every single day anyway.
And sometimes I dream of undreaming, I daydream of undreaming, of that vacuum in my brain when my whole body is semi-dead, so that, for only once, I can really know how it feels to be as close to death as possible. So that, in life, I have experienced death, or an NDE - near death experience.

And then when all these insane ideas go to their own demise, I dream of you, an ordinary yet insanely extraordinary thought in my head, and imagine you exist in this world, in my real world, where I'd be talking to you, telling you all these stories and examining how your eyes look at me, how crazy they see me. But once again, if it wasn't for my insanity and imagination you would've been a totally different person in a totally different place now, wouldn't you?

I love you, is an extraordinarily insane idea in an insanely ordinary world. And that's the last bit of insanity in me for the night.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Mind-Blowing Vs Soul-Killing Ideas

Dear you,

How amazing is it to listen to someone you love talk for hours without getting the slightest feelings of boredom? It's because of their insane ideas. Because the sanity and mediocrity of ideas in our world have become so goddamn soul-killing that no one wants to live anymore.

Write me an insane idea, and I'll tell you one in tomorrow's letter to you. Promise.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Injuries inside out

Dear you,

I feel the need to apologise for bringing old relationships in the previous letter I sent you. It is because I am merely over my past, and I have already been putting too much pressure on you with all my stories. So I am sorry. However, for a minute I want you to imagine how sometimes we all need attention, like me sending you all these letters is attention seeking, so when someone gives you that, it's hard to turn a blind eye.

Today I will tell you something that should make this letter very brief. I have a hand injury that prevents me from writing too much, and the pain increases whenever I write more than 100 words. Can you imagine this? I was first told I had neuritis, but then I knew it was just an injury that should go away with time and care. I am telling you this because, like everything else, I want you to know. I want you also to know that I will never stop writing to you even if my hands turned numb and were burning with pain. I want you to know that I am willing to write you these letters until you notice me in that crowd you walk into every single day. I want you to know that I know you will be there someday, and that I will be there for you one day.

I want you to know me. And I want to know you. But first let me get these confessions over with, and you will read letters you will never again read in your life. And they will be yours and to you.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

With Love

Dear you,

I am sorry I haven't written any letters in the past few days; it's just that I had two big weddings coming and I had to help the family and friends. Yes, a wedding; you read this correct. I know you probably think by now that I am such a miserable lady whose career goals in life is just to whine up for a living, right? But I'll give you the benefit of doubt and assume you didn't.
It was a hectic week, and yet I spent a night over at my cousin's a day before the wedding. I was so tired that I felt like I was hung over or something in the morning. Anyways.

I don't know what to write you, but I'll try. I have a friend, who may be more than a friend at times. We have this relationship where we sometimes just cut all ties loose, maybe for two months, and then go back to those long, long phone calls to talk about almost anything and everything. I don't get us, and I pray to God I remain like this and not think it something of any seriousness, because most of the time I am so fragile when it comes to him.
I don't know why I'm telling you this, you being the carrier and keeper of my letters, to you, but I guess I want more than letters to you; perhaps honesty. I won't deny that I have never ceased to like the guy, but I also won't deny that getting attached to people has never made me happier, at least people other than you.

But they say that the more you talk about someone you like, the more you'll get attached and find it harder to let go of the idea itself. So I promise you this is the first and last time I am talking about him. Just so you know, and for the sake of honesty. And for the sake of plain and naked honesty, this is Mohammed Donia we're talking about. Now let's end this here forever.

There is a reason why some feelings are better left inside, because they remain beautiful there.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Dissociating realities away

Dear you,

I have been escaping reality and hard work way too much than normal recently, not to mention the letters I write you, which are also a coping mechanism through escape, or the other way round, not sure really.

I have been better, in terms of dealing with pain or accepting it. It just feels like I am no longer accepting it in the first place. I don't cry; I only dossociate from reality, or detach, willingly and voluntarily. I realise it's not the right thing to do when faced with too many realities, but it's just too much.

However, let me mention something a bit normal tonight for a change of tone; I had a good day today. There is this slight feeling that I want to read again like before, or that I at least want to take my mind off life using a sane and wise method or hobby. And I really need to stop making my hand injury an excuse for all this laziness, right? Oh, by the way, did I even tell you before about the injury? If I didn't then I am sorry; sometimes you just seem to be an inseparable part of my life or that you live inside of me, that way I don't have to tell you about everything per se, because you're already part of it.

But remember; I still wait for you. I am still waiting for you and I have faith in you more than anyone in this world. And no matter how much it takes or how many years it will take me to finally find you, or for you to find me, I will be ready to be head over heels for you, because, after all, why am I writing all of this?

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

To You

Dear you,

I was thinking all day today about you; how I am so ungrateful to your presence in my life, and how I only let it out on you when I am so disappointed, down, or angry. So, this letter is dedicated to you and only you, to thank you, for being there for me, for reading all these sad and lonely words with so much patience and faith. I want you to know that I am happy with you in my life.

Just until you come. Please, come.

I love you.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Until You Are My Hero

Dear you,

I am sorry I left you a sad and abrupt letter last time; it's just that sometimes life is hard enough, and words are so devoid of meaning. So you just write as little and as meaningful a sentence as possible, hoping for no judgments, no filler words, nor unnecessary consolations. You just need silence, a pure and deep silence with an "I understand" and nothing more.

I am sorry because I never told you before how much getting personal about a terrible dad can be very tough and challenging. This is why most of those who go through the same shit I have rarely speak about it, because who the hell will ever understand something they've never been through. And while girls are all about "my dad is my hero" pictures all over media, i just sit there and wait for this shit to be over so I can live normally accepting the fact that I will never have a hero dad, or even a dad I never wish to bid farewell to.

I am sorry if this is getting too personal even for you. This is why I am taking things very slowly, so that by the time you really know me you will have grasped everything about my life without rushing. So that everything will be said at the right times. And so that, when you come to me for good I will tell you you are my hero, my first hero, and I want no other heroes but you in my story, in my life.

I love you, until you are my hero; I will give myself to you.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

Full Truth

Dear you,

I have an impossible-to-like dad.

I am sorry.


Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Prayers

Dear you,

I am writing to you today to let you know that I really need your prayers for the coming time, how much time exactly? You just keep me in your prayers please. Nothing is certain. Nothing is for sure.

These next few months are going to be very decisive for me.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Characters of the Past

Dear you,

Do you think it possible to love someone whom you knew, but is now a totally different person? Do you think you'd be in love with the character of the past? Or the idea of the character of now?

Tell me.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Half a Life

Dear you,

Do you ever get this feeling that you're living half a life? Everything is cut in half. When you smile, you're smiling but the corner of our lips is sad, when you're crying, you cry but know that everything's going to be okay, when you hate, something inside of you fights back to not hold grudge and let go, and when you love, God when you're in love, you're just too scared, too scared to lose, too scared to stay, too scared to caress, to hold on, and way too, too scared to let go.

All your emotions are halved in two opposite sides. No wonder you're always feeling more blank than emotional. No wonder you don't care too much about anything nor entirely uninterested in something. You're living and yet you're somehow asleep, dead from the inside.

Do you live half a life? Please tell me. Console me. Am I the only half life I know?

Write to me, please.


Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

It Demands to Be Felt

Dear you,

I have come from a very lonely place. I do not know what's stronger than lonely; lonesome? Solitary? You name it. I live in a world where you're surrounded by so many people, yet you feel on your own more than ever, every single day of your life. No exaggerations. No bullshit. No lies. This is the truth.

And here is some more bold truths.

I don't know if I've ever told you before, but I am a member of a big family (like eight members in total), living in one medium-spaced apartment where privacy is not always an option, sometimes rarely is. I, however, grew up to be lonelier than most people who have a family of three or four; I escape to some corner that no one cares to see whenever I get the chance to.
Now I want you to imagine this: lots of people in one place, a lonely person in a corner all the time, people talking there and isolation is here, where would you want to be? Please consider that whenever people are there, clashes and misunderstandings and disagreements always arise.

No, forget this. We've taken it to the very personal level. Let's be more general now.

I'll tell you about pain. Pain is so magical. Yes, magical. It can linger for years and years inside of you, and it can eat at you without you noticing at all, like a tumor that you never notice grows. Pain is felt only when it aggravates, but it's always there. It's like the oxygen we breathe, and like the joy in life; it is always there. You just have to find it inside, look for it, and what comes next is up to you. You can dwell, for as long as you want, and you can let go. But hey, my advice is, dwell, fight it and let it fight you back. Consume it, and let it consume you. You know what? exhaust it and drain it. But don't leave a fight in the middle. Let it deem you depressed, diagnose you with severe disorders like chronic depression. Just make sure you get out, and here is where hope comes.
But pain, pain demands to be felt so much more than you think. It demands to dwell there and stay for a while, a while longer, and for as long as you'll be okay to fight it. Pain is everything, and it is nothing. It is feelings like pain that I am grateful for in my life, because when there is pain I know I am somehow alive. And sometimes I slightly enjoy it and imagine that it's just a movie, a fictional scene that will go away with its drama; I just have to keep my head out of the water.

Pain demands to be felt, so you can demand to be left. Alone.

Loneliness. Pain. Exhaustion. You. Forgive me. I love you.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Anger Is Like Love

Dear you,

Hi, I do hope you are doing great today, because why not? Let's be sarcastic for a living, and as long as we have that, we can be great, no?
So, let me tell you about anger. Let me tell you about how it can creep up inside you and consume you (like the song says). So, what is anger? How do you define it? I'll tell you; anger is a foggy air that comes in between your sanity and insanity, between you being wise and you being stupid. Anger is a temporary feeling that has a permanent effect if you react stupidly enough. Anger is blind, just like love. Ironic huh?
And it can be a result of something so trivial, yet it could be just an accumulation of so many bottled up feelings of frustration, disappointment, and pain. Anger is so many emotions at once. It's crazy.

Now, me. Allow me to be a little bit self-centered here, my love, because after all these are my letters, to you, about me. I do not know how to deal with anger. The good part is, I do know that it makes you blind and attacks your brain and sane thinking with a fog that makes it so hard to see. But during an episode of rage (from inside of me) I have no idea how to react in a good way, in order not to make things worse for both of us (whoever that other person might be). I don't. I unseal my lips as if I'm gonna say something but then hold back, because, fear again consumes me more than ever. I shut down all my emotions at the same time whenever anger attacks me with its episodes. Nonetheless, I go back to wondering if I should've said so much more, out loud, rather than just a sigh and unsealed lips.

Anger, my friend, is a dangerous thing, like love, and like hope.

Now this letter is only a prelude to what's coming next. Don't worry; there will be no wave of rage, just a few heart-to-heart words in letters that will, again, only be addressed to you. Only you, my love.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

The Title

Dear you,

Entry II. Did you really think I'll be telling you whole truths? That's the beauty of life; everything we tell to each other  is just half truths, and sometimes even white lies.

So try to believe me.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

The First Words

Dear you,

To you, and only you; you who strive to understand me with words, while knowing that only silence works with me, you who know that my silence makes my words so devoid of life, of breaths, of everything, that they simply mean nothing.

I will dedicate these entries to you, and even though you may not know me, get to meet me, or even see me as I am, as I truly am and truly deserve to be, you will be here with me, right on the road to being, not me, but just..someone I can stand being with. I write this all to you in hopes that one day, soon or too far away, you will know that you are not alone in this universe, that someone, somewhere, somehow dives as deep as you do, even when they're completely out of their own depth. It is Ok; or at least I do believe and think it will be, someday, for both of us, even if we stay this far away. Knowing I had you in the first place is enough, will be enough.

Thank you.

Now as I start telling you my story, I must introduce you to some oriental music for the thrill of this ride. Do listen to some; music in the background always gives a dramatic sense to words, scenes, conversations, and feelings.

Let me just say that my name is N, and that I have a very tough fight with words every day of my life. I do talk, but I'm an extroverted introvert, and if you don't know what that means, just imagine from the sound of it. I have my own people around me, but I'm also happy so many times to just shut the whole world and watch something unreal, so I can escape everything, even my family (well, specifically my family), to live in a fictional character, or inside a drama show, because isn't real life enough of a drama to lead us all to escape to something that is at least not real? Yeah.

But let me tell you something of utmost importance about me; I do not do surprises, and I sure as hell do not appreciate them. I may look and sound calm, and this is because I hate to sound too surprised or excited, and I hate to react in ways I shouldn't. I hate reactions and I hate surprises. This is probably why I hardly get impressed with anything. Some people wish they can kill me during my long pauses of 'unimpressed'; and it is why I am telling you this, so that you won't kill me when, or shall I say if, we meet up someday. Nothing surprises me in this world; every evil act or devilish shit (excuse my language, but I am not sorry) is just another 'whatever' to me or 'I kind of saw it coming so why bother.' 

I do not know, however, if this is the same reason why I do not get impressed easily. Is it because human beings, generally speaking, lack the creativity to impress? Or is it because I am such an arrogant snob who refuses to feed people's egos? Perhaps. It doesn't matter.

Now listen to me, from this moment on, try to get me right, or wrong, but just try to get me, at least so I don't feel lonesome and down as I feel now. Please do not be upset if I only write you in moments of downheartedness, or even in another language (my mother tongue is Arabic by the way); it is only because I tend to write about depression more than I write about happiness, and isn't this what most prize-winning authors master at?

I'll talk about anger, depression, disappointment, frustration, pain, failure, even suicide. I'll tell you about everything that could make you feel sorry for me, but it'll only be because I cannot talk to anyone about it but you. You. Because I know you'd understand how everybody's who they really are when they write words that no one would care to read, or talk when there is no one there to listen, or sing when there is no one there to listen to their awful voice.

But I do want honesty in return; I want something in return. Doesn't matter what. Just give me something. Please do. Even a violin string so I can bow.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.