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.

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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.

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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.

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

Yours faithfully and sincerely
and truly,
N.