The Little Things

Dear you,

I always believed that it gets darkest before the dawn, and that, in the middle of myriad hardships, there will always be something to give us some hope, something good to cling to. And it so often happens. And I gratefully stand before The Maker to thank Him, for all the little things He showed me, to appreciate, to give me hope, and to assure me that He knows. Alhamdulellah.

I am starting to believe that soon will be the end of our letters. You of course know that I've got the letters I've been waiting for for so long, with someone who actually gets back to me, who writes to me and about me. I believe in him. And I believe everyone should believe in the ones they're waiting for, so He can make them come to life.
I also believe that I should get back to writing, as in, my actually writing. I've had this drop for so long now. It's enough.

After all, it wouldn't be fair not to be grateful.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Anxiety.

Dear you,

It's disorders like anxiety that make life much harder on the person than anything else. Nothing ever beats that feeling of fear, of not knowing when an attack would kick in, break you to pieces, mock all the brave moments you had in life, in just a few minutes, maybe even seconds.
You wake up, not knowing if it is going to be a good anxiety day or a bad one, but you hope for the best, and you say that you've had as many attacks as you can remember and still survived; you beat it. But what you don't know is, anxiety is changing you; it's making you want to stay away from people, even from those who love you the most; lovers and family. Anxiety makes you want to be alone during an attack's kick-in, because you do not want to embarrass anyone, and because, in reality, you don't believe anyone is ever going to be patient enough with you when you're going through the attack, because it comes slowly, but the impact remains for hours, or at least that's the case for me.

One day you wake up, feel stressed about going out because you know an attack will kick in, but you have to go because it's not something you can postpone for another day. You get out of bed, pray that whatever the intensity of the attack, you just get out safely, without experiencing the worst symptoms. You go out and face the world, and when you're about to close the house door, you start imagining things, but refuse to allow them to overcome your state of "I'm sure I can survive another attack." You might get to a point where going out seems so heavy a burden, so heavy you cannot bear.
When it's time for an attack to kick in, you start imagining all types of scenarios, from best to worst. Do I have to tell you how much it hurts physically? It literally hurts physically. Your muscles start to go tense, and it seems to you that it's the most intense they've gone. You cannot feel them enough to relax them bit by bit. Your hands start shaking, you start losing focus and distract yourself through conversations with people around you, but it never really works, because conversations with people do not easily defeat anxiety attacks. Then, your heartbeats go insane. You try another mechanism to calm yourself down through taking deep breaths; inhale counting to five and exhale counting to seven. It doesn't work, either. Your body is more tensed now. You're sure you'll mess up. You're lucky if your company is someone who knows about all of this. You tell them that you're having an attack, without knowing how you want them to help you. You just tell them so that they understand why you may sound so rude to them. You do not mean to be rude, and that's the worst part about anxiety. It makes you who you are not. You hurt the people around you but you just cannot be nice during these moments. It's hard to know that your mind is playing dirty tricks and games with your body and still feel and look firm. You want a moment of breaking down but you can't, because it will most probably feel trivial to the person accompanying you. At the most intense moments of every attack you end up having one thought in mind: "I want to die; I just cannot take this any longer. My body is collapsing and I'm so, so tired. It's too much." You want to disappear, to leave the person you're with. You want to be alone, completely alone, to shout at your brain to get its shit together and understand that this is not true. It's not true. It's all a trick. Your muscles start to go even more tensed. Your body refuses to act sober enough to let these thoughts go.

When you finally relax a little, you start crying. You cry because it hurts so much to be this weak. It hurts because your whole body was on an attack, at war. The outcome is a body so drenched in sweat and shivering, a heart so weak and trembling, and a mind that is just too drained to think of anything. You didn't die, but you wish this would be the last time.

Please don't leave me. It's out of my control. I'm sorry.

I'm so tired. I'm so tired. God..

Beyond Sanity

Dear you,

Let's take a moment, to think of life, to take a breath, to ponder. Let's think of who we are. Let's be easy on ourselves. Fuck the world. Fuck society.

Let our insanity drive the world insane.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Closures and Letting Go

Dear you,

How terrible it is, to start something and never finish it! How terrible it is to never have closures in your life, to live and to wait for death as the only closure, to everything, because you cannot find the closures you need, or, at the least, a any closure for that matter. You live, in hopes that something is coming up soon, that someone someday is going to say something that will be the end of your misery. A magical word, for lack of a better word, a magical word. You have no idea whatsoever about how or when this is going to happen. Waiting kills. It kills us slowly and gradually, and it is the cruelest killer, a serial killer, that is. Waiting is everywhere. We wait for love, for marriage, for kids, for some comfort in life when we retire, for kids to grow up and for us to see them grow up beautifully. We wait for everything. We live on expectations, or at least on anticipation. If nothing else, anticipate, and you will be able to live a little happier, but not all happy.

We do not let go. We never really let go, we just forget, and try to make ourselves forget, because if we don’t, we will go insane.

Love me, because it’s insane, and I’ve tried every sane thing in this life and failed.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

Existing Is a Curse

Dear you,

Those who said that people do not change were wrong; life changes us. It makes us who we are not, forcing us to wear masks beneath masks, until the truth of us is concealed even from ourselves. We lie. We pretend. We say we’re OK when we are not. It is not lying, per se; it is just another way of telling the world “Leave me alone,” because nobody does. Nobody gets the idea that when we need to be alone, we really need to be alone. We need to detach, every once in a while, from the things we are so attached to, like technology, or friends, or family. We need times for ourselves, alone, to think of the world, and of how we’re doing, and why we’re doing it. We need to ask a complex question: What do we want from life, and what is it that would make our death a better death? Would it matter if we were remembered? Would it matter if we made a difference in a million living souls? Is it the numbers, or the impact itself? Do we even ever stop to think? No, we don’t.

We simply exist. We do not live. We simply exist, in the most boring, horrifyingly terrible and mediocre ways. We exist, and that’s that. 

May we never not be ourselves. May we go beyond existing, and way beyond living.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

Holding Back

Dear you,

Holding back is the most terrible attitude one can have towards anything in life. Holding back feelings, words, actions, everything.

You want to be angry but you can't. You want to say you're broken but won't, because saying something would reinforce the idea in your head and you would so much believe it more than ever. So holding back becomes your refuge. Your asylum.

Let's not talk. Lets hold back, because it is so much better than hurting people. And I'd rather hurt myself than hurt the people I love.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

Slowly and Gradually

Dear you,

I am slowly getting back on track. I believe that if pain manifests itself slowly, it would also vanish slowly and gradually, one step at a time. But I need to write every day, or at least every other day, because writing allows so much to be let out, and only my words can stand me. Writing itself is treatment, a medicine for the heart and soul.

I am yet to get back on track with my creative style, but all I know is that it’s the thing I miss the most in my life, and the thing that I have neglected all these months and put no effort in. I know I am constantly harsh on myself, and sometimes I enjoy being so tough, but sometimes it’s the only way I can move forward. Nothing in the world deserves to be fought for more than writing, the idea of letting things out to the world, and ensuring people that they are not alone in what they feel is what makes the journey of writing so worthwhile for me. 

———

I don’t want to lost touch with Arabic, but I can’t. I just can’t now.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

Resurrection

Dear you,

I'm here because I'm scared again. I'm scared of not feeling guilty, of forgetting my morals and beliefs. Everyone's going with the flow, so why on God's earth shouldn't we, too, go? We just keep drowning in vicious cycles and try to make ourselves forget. Sometimes we make it. Other times we don't. We get weak, and decide to go a little with the flow, little enough for us to notice, little enough for them to never see. We steal moments of ordinary lives, with extraordinary emotions. We run to the people we love, to help us make sure it doesn't last more than a few minutes, or perhaps days. So that we never fall short on hope, and so that we remain a little bit ordinary, instead of breaking all ties loose with our ordinary life.

Life shouldn't be lived to the fullest all the time. Sometimes all we need is a deep beath, a long, comforting and lasting hug from someone we really really love, and a few moments of endless silence. So we can live again. Like a resurrection. 

I love him.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

Anxieties in My Heart

Dear you,

Fear kills beautiful things. It makes the experiences we have untouched, even if we are fully living them; fear makes them imperfect, incomplete. It renders numb every enjoyment moment. Fear is a monster, and it lives inside of us. We're consumed by it every single day, whether we admit such a fact or deny it. Some facts stay there no matter how much and how hard we try to ignore them, or make ourselves forget them. It makes us unhappy because we are cautious about the next moment, and in this process we forget to enjoy the life we have now.

I'm tired of being scared of everything despite my seemingly courageous and brave leaps to every new experience. Tired of not being able to enjoy the moment and focus on the future, sometimes the far future. I'm tired of paying attention to my mind playing games with me in my anxiety attacks. Tired of the insane heartbeats I feel that seem to shake my whole body nonstop. The first moment after an attack cools down is the most comforting yet the scariest moment I have to feel. I feel both liberated and horrifyingly consumed, completely lost.

But, do we always have to feel the worst before we get better? Who knows.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Pt #4: Adapting and Killing Stereotypes

Dear you,

My hands are in pain, but yet I chose to come here even after going to bed and actually deciding to sleep. What I've been writing to you cannot be left unfinished. In other words, I can no longer escape the miserable reality I've been living inside of me for months.

In these past months, I've been failing to adapt to my new life, a life I no longer have alone but that has someone else, too, in it. It hasn't been easy to let this thought in, and to let other thoughts out to that person when I'm feeling down or not in my best states. I never realised the effort I have to exert and the energy I have to make in a relationship, and to be completely honest it's only fair that such effort should be exerted, because if we want something to last forever, with its ups and downs, we have to be perfectly realistic and strong and make the greatest efforts we can to make things work. I never realised that I have to change the list of priorities to make him on top of it and not feel the slightest bit of guilt because I'm building a life, a new and different life, and I so much want to start it right. Sometimes I think I'm being a perfectionist, and other times I feel too realistic and start to convince myself that I need to enjoy the now and not think too much of what's going to happen next. It makes me sleepless to think of what's going to happen 10 years from now, and I'm so tired of trying to imagine the future, the far future not even the near one. How could you possibly have the energy to exhaust it in such stupid thoughts?

I should kill the stereotypes that such fucked up society imposed upon my thinking without my knowing. Sometimes there are no black and white in life, and other times when there is, you should only listen to yourself, not anyone else. In fact, I'm so tired I have to even listen to people; sometimes I think thoughts of certain types should be said outspokenly, if at all. There has been a tendency in people to just talk, regardless of the impact of their words on the person on the receiving end. It's the most selfish act I've seen recently, and I'd rather not listen at all and not be there instead of having to hear all of these things that leave me with inexplicable feelings. I'd rather disappear than have them tell me this.

Please remember, regardless of anything, I love you.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Pt #3: The Long Wait for Hope

Dear you,

It's time I confess that I'm doing writing injustice. I'm using writing to vent, not to create something beautiful. But I'd like to think that, in the same way I created beautiful words for the sake of writing, it's time for writing to give me something. Some ease, some inner peace. I need peace, I terribly need peace of mind.

I came here without anything in mind in particular, but I knew that the feelings will come out once I start. A few months ago, I started watching a new series whose main character kept saying "fuck society." And my first trigger for watching the series was this scene where he talked to his therapist about how fucked up our societies are. But that was in the modern states, let alone a country in which I live.
Since June, I've been unable to acknowledge that I've been feeling this way. I know rebels and out-of-the-box people like myself will always resent society, but it's the society I live in, in particular, which I more than hate. I detest. I abhor. Nothing can ever describe the feeling of wanting out. I want out of everything, technically of everything I'm in and I've been doing for the past six months. I need to go back and look at the much bigger picture. I need to see how much I achieve in life to be able to understand and realise that what I've been doing hasn't gone completely in vain.
I have to admit that I left the manuscript of my book ready for over a year until I decided it was time to take a step forward. In reality, it was him who gave me that step forward and all the motivation to keep going, though I had no place, in particular, to go to. But he was there all the way.
I realised that I've been telling the wrong people about my life, and that nobody deserves even the highlights of my life, let alone the details. I've decided to hold back everything for only one person, while the other small, trivial parts of my life would be spared for those who only had the curiosity to know. If you are so curious about someone's life, how can you call yourself a friend, in the first place?

I've always said that I doubted my intentions, until my sheikh told me that whenever I did, I should renew them and start anew, and, at the end of the day, it's what we call jihad of the self, al nafs. It's hard, but the path to Allah is never easy. I believe we live in the societies which the prophet PBUH told about, in which keeping your faith would be like holding live coal. I truly believe that we live in this age. Everyone's being dishonest with themselves, and nobody understands why all these killings in the world take place. It's a messed up world!

Nonetheless, facing the realities of life, as depressing as they are, forces us to come to one realisation: there's only one God that we can turn to when everything is going wrong, not people, not anyone, only the urge to speak to the creator. I've always liked people who  encouraged us to tell God about everything trivial we go through, and I've always loved the idea that God already knows, but He chooses to listen to us, because He loves when we turn to him, and he never turns us down. It's so beautiful.

I've come to let these thoughts out to read them whenever I needed to, because I've always believed that when you rethink and rethink ideas in your head, they become your reality, and I need this reality in my life. Because I'm so drained, consumed, and terrifyingly exhausted. And as much as I feel so, there's comfort in knowing that nothing lasts forever, and there is so, so much comfort in knowing that it only gets worse before it gets better, and it's darkest before dawn.

I love you, or him, more than the words I've written ever since I became a writer.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

The letter Pt #2

Dear you,

Here I write again, on the same thoughts, because hell, they won't leave me.

Today I read a book summary that pretty much told how I felt. Lost, unable to find my way back, feeling too much in the box and not feeling that there is a killing routine that needs to be changed.

Today I was thinking of him, of why I haven't been able to feel this relationship as much as I thought I'd feel. I thought of my therapist, who said that being rational and evoking your mind in the relationship is actually the healthy start for it, meaning that what I feel is in actuality how all people should feel when starting a real commitment. But I don't like how I feel. Maybe I'm rushing things, but I know that he deserves more than this.

Sometimes I drown in the miseries of life and start to believe what everyone says, that this is just the peak of the relationship, these crazy emotions you have for each other, and that these emotions will fade with time, that making love won't feel as exciting as before, and that, once you have kids, it will all turn so boring. I believe them so much that I hate myself when I confess these things to him. And although he doesn't resent me and hw doesn't throw back at me, I feel terrible. I feel like shit. I shouldn't deal with happiness this way.

I also have one killing fear that terrifies me to death. In this generation, so many young people are dying a sudden death, whether in accidents or just deadly heart attacks. I'm afraid. I'm so afraid I'll lose him one day without notice, particularly because I have seen this happen to my sister, who is now a widow with two crazy kids that I cannot stand their presence in the house. I'm so afraid this will happen to me, to him, at a young age that it will hurt like nothing has ever hurt before. Oh, God, I'm so scared. I. am. so. scared.

These feelings are unbearable. And they do not allow me to enjoy the moment. I would kill to enjoy the life I have now, which is the life I had always wanted.

Why? Why do I not feel pleasure in the job I do and the love I give and receive? When did this unfeeling take place in my heart? When did I become so numb?

What is it that happened in the process. I need answers. I need God, so so so much. 

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N. 

A Letter of Everything

Dear you,

I’ve refused to let things out for months now, and it’s been eating at me that I can no longer say it in words but in tears. I don’t know how to begin, but for a starter I should tell you that this is not a literary letter. This is a letter. Period.

I’ve let things in for so much time I forgot how much it felt in the first place. I have had this numbness feeling since maybe May or June of this year. It’s been a rough yet a fun year for me. I’ve made so many decisions that I’m so proud of, the most important of which was choosing my fiancé, the love of my life, and deciding that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. The problem is, even then, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to. What I was sure of was that I wanted so much to give him a shot, to take a shot with him, and see how I feel. What I felt, by time, was a feeling of really knowing that I will never find anyone like him, even in the way he gets angry then comes back to me later an hour or two at the maximum, to say he’s sorry and that he didn’t mean for it to hurt me. I felt that I’ll never meet someone with his enthusiasm and excitement, for reading, books, writing, and stories, for history, literature, languages, politics, and the world. 

Then I had to ask myself again, am I choosing to be with him only because I will not find anyone like him, or because I really cannot and do not want to live with anyone but him? This question was the hardest. Until one day he disappeared for hours and hours that I lost count, and started to go crazy. Where is he? Is he safe? I don’t even know any of his friends’ contacts so I can make sure he’s doing fine. I was horribly worried. I started to imagine my life without him, and I couldn’t stand this idea. He’s turning into everything and everyone to me. A friend, a lover, a best friend, a father, a brother, a soulmate, a husband. Everything.

And even though the time I met him was nearly the time I started having these feelings of numbness, it would be utterly unfair to blame anyone but myself, for the misery I’m putting myself into.

I’ve lost interest in so many things that I used to be so excited about. I cannot get rid of the question of “What’s the end of this anyway?” in anything I’ve been doing. And I am starting to realise that I am thinking too far ahead. Too, too far that I am no longer able to enjoy the things of now, of this moment. I am failing to make myself as well as others happy. Maybe I still do make others happy, but even so, I never feel I do. The impact I make on people and myself is no longer defeating numbness. Everything has turned into something I just do, in hopes that I would regain my enthusiasm for it.

I know that the solution to all of this lies within me. I know that there is an attitude I need to get rid of, and a greater part in my brain needs to kill that pessimism and instead focus of the now, to be able to enjoy things the way I used to.

I realise that I have to sit with myself more often, to write you (him) more often, and to let it out to him (you)more than I do now. I realise that I have to write more, to not allow any type of depression or mood to come in the way of my writing. I truly miss writing, and I have been so miserable ever since I almost forgot I have huge potential.

I am sorry. I am sorry for everything I held back. Every feeling I suppressed and every emotion I refused to let go. This is a letter of promises. I promise myself more than anyone to fight more, and to not give up to such moods, for the sake of the people around me more than for myself.

I love you. This is a letter of love and hope. I love you.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

The Magic of the Universe of Writing

Dear you,

"We resemble a sky full of stars, depending on the thoughts we fill our minds with, the stars, that is. They defeat us like meteorites sometimes, striping us of every other thought. We become starless, like myself, and like how I came to you now. Sir, are you listening to me? You’re full of stars you don’t notice me. Lend me something. A thought. Just one. I’m hollow. Sir? Hello?"

I believe that writing changes who we are. It makes us so careful with words, that, instead of saying specific adjectives, we use whole expressions. Let me exemplify this; instead of saying someone was alone, writing allows us to say that someone's heart had the company of loneliness. This is how writing changes us. The words the mediocre uses to describe normal daily-life situations, writers throw on the ground and replace with other words, expressions, that is. Writing never leaves us empty of words; it's us that never make enough effort.

I wrote this quoted paragraph 4 years ago when I was, I suppose, practicing how good I was with prose. Reading it now, I never realised the potential I had in descriptions and in imagination. We are indeed infinitesimal beings of the universe, like infinite stars, and we form thoughts for our minds which come and go like how the stars burn and vanish. We are the stars and the universe of stars. But if we think of it that way, we can be anything and everything, if we choose to put our souls and heart to it. And writing makes anything out of us.

It's magic we never truly take a moment to appreciate.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Forgotten Umbrellas

Dear you,

The first morning for him in the new city was rather a rough one. The city's streets were drenched with rain, and, as he stood under a tree seeking refuge, his chemise was starting to get wet from the drops of rain that fell from the tree. Those drops also carried some mud as the tree's branches were a little dusty before it rained. It was, in its entirety, a gloomy morning, a not-so-hopeful morning without the sun shining.
He loved the sun, and he believed that its rays were the reason we were able to survive all these years, given the nonstop rainy days of winter, for no less than two months in a row. Winter, he believed, was a season for the depressed to get more depressed.
He stood under that tree waiting for the rain to go a little easier on the streets, looking at his replica Swatch watch, which looked exactly like the original Swatch but cost him much less money, and hoping that he could catch the interview on time.
From an instant glare, he looked like someone who wanted so much to fit in, to be a replica of everyone else, who are also not originals. However, he was more miserable than anyone, because he knew this wasn't the life he hoped for, nor the life he always wanted to live. When you look at him from the first instance, you will see a tall man in his late twenties, with black hair and pale white skin. He gave no impression of an extrovert, but rather a loner who wanted to fit in without being noticed at the same time. He was full of flaws, yet everyone seemed to want to open up to him. No wonder, as the people who talk the least are often the ones who end up being the carriers of everyone's secrets. And so was he.
This morning, he woke up and wore what he had set ready in his drawer the night before (the night when he arrived at the city), ironed and perfect, and ate a quick breakfast which consisted of corn flakes with milk and some fruits. He was a healthy eater. When he received a phone call during his breakfast time confirming his interview time, he realised that it was time to go and went hurriedly to the door. Having no one to say goodbye to at the door, he took on his shoes and quickly left, forgetting his umbrellas as he went out.


TBC.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Throw up Your Heart

Dear you,

I feel like writing feverishly, even though I have nothing to say; but it's the desire to let anything out. Today I was told to let the pen touch the paper and it will flow. And this was the advice I never wanted to hear, because pens don't flow; it's people, writers, who fight a hard battle to bring the words out to life. Nothing in life flows unless you make some effort. Nothing is as easy as it seems. Everything requires effort, strength, willingness, and so, so much hope and enthusiasm to keep on going.
I have not given up, but I find it hard to feel my words; mind you, I've stopped feeling my words so long ago, but it's rather surprising that I find people who still find those words, that I cannot relate to, relatable. Is this what happens when you advance in writing? Because, honestly, I do not know. I just wanted to come here and let my fingers do the talking. I need to pour my heart out.
Once, I was sitting with a friend who has recently had her heart broken. She told me the most heartbreaking words ever.
"It's like I wanted to throw up my heart and couldn't.."

How do you throw up your heart? But I guess pain can do a lot worse than that. These were her words, and I do not think any writer could've described the feeling of a broken heart the way she described it. Throwing up your heart, this is what a heartbreak feels like. The saddest thing in the world, because no one is able to heal you, not even your own soul, because it would also be carried away in that wave.

No one can fix a broken heart. It has to fix itself. Time makes us forget, but we never really kill the memories.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Blankness

Dear,

Blankness is one of the feelings one can never describe nor write down in words. A feeling of emptiness, a feeling that, whichever is happening in your life, nothing feels anything, not a single bit, at all. I cannot even begin to describe how painful it is to be unable to speak, to let the words out, the right words, that would ease this burden, this heaviness on the chest, this blankness. 

Nothing feels right; nothing feels, in the first place. You wake up every day with the same thoughts, the same suppressed feelings, and a pile of emotions that are on the ground taking their last breaths, yet trying so, so hard to survive, to make it through another day. Why do you feel like this? What hurts the most is not knowing the reason why, when it started, or for how long it is going to remain with this same intensity.

I’ve been trying to tell you, to cry to you, how much it kills to be speechless when you want so many words out, and worse, more than words: a scream, a way of letting out that has not been resorted to before. Something different, infinitesimally different to save the soul and give the heart a last pump to breathe.

Breathe. I need to breathe and let go, while holding on to the things I value the most. What value is there in life? Tell me.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

Feels Anything

Dear,

I don't like myself lately. At all. I don't understand what's happening to me. Nothing feels good. Nothing feels anything, at all.

I don't know.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

أَلهُ كلّ ما فيّ؟

إليهْ،

تتساقط الكلمات الواحدة تلو الأخرى، تقعُ بين يديّ وتهرب من ذلك الحبس الانفرادي الذي فرضته عليها وحشة القلب وقسوته. تخرج وكأنّها تنزف، قطرة قطرة، كلمة كلمة، وكأنّ اللسان لا يقوى على أن يتركها تنزلق دفعة واحدة حتى لا تودي بحياة ذلك القلب التعيس.

تخرج للحياة، دامية ولكنها تصارع للبقاء. تودُّ أن ترى النور حتى يبعث فيها الروح وتبقى. وتحيا. تدخل قلبًا آخر. قلبًا يحنو عليها ويعطيها ما لا يعطيها قلبٌ حكم عليها بالسجن مدى حروفها، وهي كثيرة الحروف، قد تأخذ الأبجدية كلها. تخرج إلى قلبٍ يعلم أين يضعها، بل إنه خصص لها مكانًا في ركنٍ ما من قلبه النقي، بلا شائبة ولا تملُق. 

تشعر أن الحياة قد دبّت فيها من جديد. وتودّ ألا تعود إلى ذلك القلب، قلبي، مرة أخرى. تتمنى أن  تبقى معه، قلبُك، لأنه يعطيها ما لا يعطيها قلبٌ اعتاد الكتمان. اعتاد ألا يُخرِج أحرفًا قد تؤول في النهاية إلى كلمات لا يقوى على تحمّل عواقبها. قلبٌ اعتاد أن يبني السجون ويعزل كلماته فيها خوفًا عليها من بني آدم، من البشرية والبشر. قلبٌ لم يدرِ في يومٍ أن له نصفٌ آخر سيُعطي لهذه الكلمات ما تحتاج من السكينة والأمن، حتى لا تفقد حياة كانت ستُصبح ذات معنى.

قلبُكَ سكنٌ لكلماتي، وروحي ملاذٌ لصمتك.

وله كلّ ما فيّ،

نون

خيالات الواقع

إليهْ،

يبعث الله لنا أُناسًا يشعرون بكل كلمة نقولها، ولا أعلم من أين يأتي الله بهؤلاء الأشخاص الذين نعتبرهم جزءًا من خيالاتنا.

“من أين أتيت؟ من أين أتى الله بك؟” كلمات نرددها ولا نعلم لها ردًا ولا إجابة. ربما من الأجمل أن نترك بعض الأسئلة لله، وربما لأنه الله، فهو يرزقنا بكل جميل في أقسى أوقات شقائنا. لأنه الله، فإن كل شيء جائز ولا شيء مستحيل.

ولأنه الله، فقد بعث بك إليّ، في أقسى وأحلك أوقات بؤسي وشقائي. جئتَ عندما غابت الشمس وأبت أن تعاود الشروق، وعندما نقم القمر على النجوم وعلى سواد السماء، فقرر أن يثور، أو أن يختفي من الساحة حتى تعود السماء لزرقتها الداكنة، قبل أن يقتلها هذا السواد القاتم الكئيب.

جِئتْ.

جِئتَ لأنك كنت تعلم أنه الوقت المناسب، ويعلمُ الله أنني كنت في أمسّ الحاجة لهذا التوقيت، حتى تظهر، ليعود معك كل شيء. الشمس بإشراقتها حتى وإن كانت تحرق بوهجها، والقمر بضيّه الأبيض الزاهي، حتى وإن غلب عليه الخسوف أحيانًا. والنجوم التي استعانت ببعضٍ من ضوء القمر فباتت أكثر لمعانًا. وكأن مجرّة بأكملها عادت عندما أتيتْ. وكأن سحابتي انكشفت، وحُزني ترك السماء وأعاد إليها لونها الأزرق الذي اعتدتُه. وكأن الحياة أصبحت حياة فقط عندما أتيت.

جِئتْ.

جِئتَ وتُهت أنا في خيالات الواقع، أو في وقائع الخيال، أصبحت شريدة من كل شيء عداك، ولا يهمّني إلى أين أذهب طالما أن يدك في يدي، بل وأحيانًا يداك في يدي. التيه ليس تيهًا معك، بل إنه معنى الوجود، معنى العثور على كل شيء.

جِئتَ لأنك كنت تعلم أنك في حاجة إليّ، وأنني في حاجة إليكْ. جِئتَ لأنني سأُحِبّك.

وقد أحببتُك.

ولهُ كل ما فيّ،

نون

على حافة النسيان

إليهْ،

إنه النسيان. التقوقع في غيابات التناسي حتى يأتي النسيان بطيّاته. من أين يأتي؟ وما هي تلك الطيّات؟ ألا يسأم النسيان من هذه الطيّات ويمزّق أوراقه لنبدأ من جديد؟ ألا يكون لنا أبدًا أن تُفتح لنا صفحات جديدة حتى نتوب عن حياة أولى، ألا تُكتب لنا حياة أخرى إلا عند الموت؟ ثم ما هو الموت؟ أليس إلا فرصة أخرى للنسيان؟

إلى أين نهرب من الموت إذا كنا سنهرب بالنسيان؟ ذلك الشعور الخدّاع الذي يتلاعب بالذاكرة. الذاكرة طوع القلب. يُباغتها ببعض الحُزن والشوق فتأتي، تأتي بذكريات أمضينا دهرًا ننساها، تأتي بكلّ ما لا نحتاجه في تلك اللحظات. لحظات الضعف. الهروب من الواقع. التقوقع في ما قد يحدث وما قد كان سيحدث لو كُنّا. لو كُنا ماذا؟ لو كُنا فعلنا كذا وكذا. 

ولكن حاشا للقلبِ أن يترك الـ”ماذا لو” تطغى على مشاعر الحزن تلك. إنما يُريد القلب أن يحزن ليعاود المسيرة من جديد بشيء من الصبر، وبشيء من الأمل. أملٌ أن ينسى يومًا ما. أملٌ ألا يجتمع الموت والنسيان والوجع في لحظة واحدة ليقضي عليه. أمل في البقاء على صوابه وألّا ينجرف إلى حافة الجنون.

ولهُ كلّ ما فيّ،

نون

Escape Route

Dear,

As it happens,  as I write to you, I imagine myself sitting in a serene place, writing a piece of prose that would later turn into a good start of a collection of short stories. I imagine myself fighting with words and with my writing flow. I see the battles and the fights and I see myself trying so hard to resist what they call writers' block. Who are they? Why did they come up with such an expression? Wasn't it hard already for a writer to feel it? Did they have to come up with an official expression of how terrible it feels to not be able to write. Block. Writer's block. What kind of words is 'block' anyway? It's cruel and it's so stiff to the ears that you already feel the heavy silence inside you, along with a wave that takes every thought, every feeling, everything.

I apologise to the words, and I apologise to myself, for being so weak in handling writing. Writing used to be my escape. Now it's nothing less than a burden, an assignment I procrastinate writing for as long as I can. I feel terrible. Having said this, I truly miss when writing was an escape route, a shortcut to better days when everything hurt. Everything.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

كل شيء

إليه،

ليس عندي ما يُقال. قلتُ له كل شيء. عرف عنّي كل شيء، حتى الأشياء التي لا أعرفها أنا عن نفسي. عرفها هو. ولا أزال أضارع بين هذا الشعور باللانتماء وشعور آخر بأنني لا أدري. لا أدري وأدري أنني لا أدري، ولكن ما العمل؟ إلى أين أفرّ من نفسي؟

ولهُ كلّ ما فيّ،

نون

Writing Dilemma

Dear,

My life's been on a stop. I'm standing at crossroads not knowing where to go with writing. I am not even sure if I have a passion for writing anymore. It seems that something in me needs to be revived, to be resurrected from the dead, and come back to a different me. I feel that I must change something in me in order for writing to come back to me. Other times I feel like I should work harder and stop being a lazy writer like this.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

لأنهُ هنا

إليه،

لم أنسَ، ولكنّ الحياة تبتلعني. والأرجح أنها تنساني لا تبتلعني. أغوص في دوامة من اللاشيء، لا أدري إلى أين أذهب، وإلى أين تنتهي هذه الدوامة ومتى. أشعر بدوّار شديد وبغثيان. أتحدث ولكنّ الحياة تقاطعني بأمور تُجبرني على ابتلاعها كلما تحدّثت, كما لو كنتُ تحت الماء وسأبلتع المزيد منه إذا نبست ببنت شفة. وحتى لا أغرق أو أبتلع الأمور الحياتية فتدمّرني كما يدمّر الماء الرئة إذا دخل فيها، أصمُتْ. أصمتُ ليس خوفًا ولكن حفاظًا على حياتي. وأتنظر اللحظة المناسبة للظهور مرة أخرى، للانطلاق من جديد. إلى أين سأنطلق هذه المرة؟ لا أدري. ولكنني بلا شك سأنطلق معه هو، وسيدلّني في منتصف الطريق على طريق لي وحدي لن يسلكه معي، سيرشدني إليه ثم يتركني، وسيقول لي “هناك طرق لا أستطيع أن أسلكها معكِ، حتى تستمدّي القوة وحدك ودون أحد، حتى أنا، لأنني فانٍ ولا أريد لكِ أن تُفني ما فيك في حياتي، ثُم أموت فلا يوجد لكِ من الحياة شيء”.

تتردد كلماته كالصدى في رأسي وتتخلل أفكاري الواحدة تلو الأخرى. أعلم أنه مُحقّ وأعلم أنني قادرة على هذا، ولكنني أحبّ صُحبته، فأقرر أن أخبأه في أفكاري. ثم أتركه هناك وأمضي، أمضي إلى حيث لا أدري. وأمضي إلى حيث لن أدري إلا عندما تُلهمني الأفكار بعضًا من الشجاعة.

أمضي لأنه يريدني وحدي، ولأنه يريدني معه أقوى مما مضى. أمضي لأنني أحبّه، ولأن الحياة لن تُغرقَني في دواماتها.

لأنني أستطيع الوصول إلى السطح من أعماق القاع، أمضي.

ولهُ كلّ ما فيّ،

نون