Bottled up

Dear you,

The expression 'bottled up emotions' is such an expressive one.

I let out some today. It didn't turn out good. But at least I did, and I needed to do it.

--

I have another huge confession; I might change the form of how I write you. The meanings and purpose won't change. The look may, especially the Arabic one.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

The In-Betweenness of Everything

Dear you,

I realise why I haven't been writing a lot is because I have been in the 'okay' zone for too long by now. I feel good; don't get me wrong. I feel good about my life, and basically nothing in my life is that bad anyway. But,

I haven't felt extremely loved for too long. I haven't felt depressed for too long. I haven't had any strong, violent feelings for weeks and perhaps months on end. I feel fairly loved, but not in the extreme level. I haven't cried in a long time. Crying is healthy, and I feel like I have so many things bottled inside, but something keeps them from coming over to my conscious mind.

I think I am in a phase of living an extremely ordinary life. I don't do anything creative, except for my violin practice. I have been deprived of writing in Arabic for way more than I can even remember. And by that I do not mean my letters to you; I mean something publishable, something fairly beautiful. What I write you is merely who I am, and I do not want to show much of who I am in anything to the public. I haven't been doing anything new in my life. The only new thing is my getting more money than ever before. I get paid a lot these days, but it isn't buying me neither happiness nor anything else for that matter.

I need something extremely violent or powerful in my life, to impact me in some beautiful ways. By violent, I only mean the 'intense' feelings of anything. Of anything.

I am tired of this, but I am not even that tired. My life is between everything now. Everything.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

On the Verge of Fire

Dear you,

It's so cold tonight, and my heart is burning, or on the verge of fire. 

I love you.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

Void

Dear you,

I am not in my best days (obviously, since I haven't written to you in a while); I've been sick, well, a little sick, not that much, just sleeping +12 hours a day (I know!). I haven't been working that much. I'm just so tired of the project in hand and I'm honestly done working for money. And I don't write anything these days. I knew there was some kind of peak or high point for me and then everything would get back to normal.

The only thing I have been doing more than anything is trying to focus on a pattern for my life.

And this..



Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

I'm Afraid

Dear you,

Read this, please,

"I'm afraid of everything. I've been reading psychology books to try to figure out why. Logically, I know everything is fine. I know that I'm only twenty, and I have so many blessings and advantages. Yet, I'm afraid I haven't accomplished enough yet. I'm afraid of the future. Afraid of getting older. Afraid of being alone. Afraid of having a child. And afraid of the dark. I'm really, really afraid of the dark."

And this:

"I'm afraid of getting caught thinking of him. Afraid of socialising for more than one or two hours constantly. Afraid of getting married, of living with someone I will not love as deep as I thought and as intense as I wished. Afraid of myself, of becoming the daughter of failures and shame. Afraid of everything. And of death and how it will visit me. Afraid of being all alone in my grave. And of realising I have wasted my whole life doing things in vain. I'm very afraid."

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Dreams.

Dear you,

Last night I had a bad dream about one of my friends whom I do not even talk to that much. I woke up feeling tensed, afraid, and completely paralysed. I wanted to call the friend. So, I did. I found out that a great part of the dream came to reality.

This was the second time it happens to a friend of mine. I wish my amazing dreams would come true; only the bad ones do. I know you know why. I hope one day I will sit with you and ask you about the reason why, and what dreams really meant in our lives.

One day.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Butterflies

Dear you,

When I was a little kid, I used to cry to my Mom because I wanted to climb to the top of a mountain, believing that girls who reach the mountain top turn into butterflies, an influence of a cartoon I used to watch.

Now I get butterflies and they are not nice.


Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Two Knocks on the Door

Dear you,

Sometimes you will find me writing you short stories that will begin right after addressing you. I want you to know that, by this, I try to share everything with you; the good and the bad; the terrible writings and the potential I have, if I have any. And here is one.

The painting from the opposite side of my bed looked new to me. it seemed to me as if someone had reframed or changed its position, even though in reality nothing changed at all. I left my bed, accompanied by feelings of dizziness. I fell again, reminding myself, again, that I have to take it a little bit slower on my circulatory system, or was it my blood pressure? I don't know; they all sound the same to me. Doctors, and their boring diagnoses.

To give my body time to ease up, I decided to analyse that painting, infamous to all the people who see it.

- "Are you seriously admiring this painting again with these sleepy, drained eyes of yours?" His voice interrupted my thoughts, thinking that I am actually admiring it, while in reality I was just creating his existence within the painting, because I knew he existed somewhere in there. 

- "Don't you think it's time you took it down and hung a new one, worthy of gazing it?" He continued, without waiting for my answer.

- "Oh, I am merely giving the artist what he needs: some appreciation and pondering. Otherwise, there would be no point in his creation."

- "There is no point in this nonsense." In an attempt to attack art, like he always does, he almost shouted.

- "I don't understand how some tainted colours drawn in a completely random pattern could sell or even be displayed in galleries." I thought I heard him whisper to himself. But I told myself it was only in my head.

- "Tell me what you think of it, honestly speaking, what colours do you see, at least? Give me five colours."

That look, he gave me that look again, which I knew. It meant I'm crazy, or I have lost my mind. Or do both mean the same thing? I felt dizzy again, and I placed my fingers on the sides of my head and started to rub it. Trying to focus, because if I'm crazy, I should, at least, be open about it.

- "Okay, there is crimson, or a darker shade of it; I am not good with colours names. Your species have thousands of names for one colour we know. There is also black, not pitch black, though. And there is white, with splatters of yellow."

- "These are only four colours. Even so, let's take this in order: red is the colour of passion, the colour of determination. Black is the colour of mystery, the unknown, the secrets. White is the colour of purity, wholeness, splattered with cowardice; impatience, and that is yellow. This painting is life in short. We all think we're perfect, but our souls are distorted with the cowardice to admit we are not. And we're all determined to do the things we truly love, but are often scared of the unknown, the things that life hides from us, to test us, or attempt to destroy us." I took a deep breath and sealed my lips, waiting for something.

Nothing came out of him. I am not sure whether I left him speechless or whether he was trying to find a loophole to mock my spontaneous attempts to be a crazy artist.

- "What about love?" He shot an answer, as if to press violently and abruptly on my open wounds.

- "Love, in paintings, would never have a colour. Why? Because it is the colour of everything, and it is all the colours at once. Go ahead and be cynical; mock my clichés."

- "Oh, no I won't, at least not this time. For once, I think you are right. Art speaks of countless emotions, but it only gives us a glimpse of that emotion. the intensity and peak of these emotions will never be conveyed. Not a writer, a musician, or even a painter can do that."

- "Really? This is like the first time we ever agree to something!"

- "We do. Always. I just do not expose myself much to your dangerously insane thoughts."

- "Why? What do you mean?"

- "Because it would mean we have more things in common than you would think."

- "And what is wrong with that?"

I thought I heard a knock on the door. Two knocks. Oh, no. It was him.

- "You look so pale. Are you alright? Who were you talking to? Is it him again?"

- "I am sorry." I thought. But he never heard me.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

On Loneliness والكُتب

Dear you,

This may be a long letter, so I hope you do not mind my rambling.

The last pages of an amazing book are always the loneliest pages ever. They are the pages no one wants to read because they, too, will feel so lonely after they have finished it. Books are life companions; they are the carriers of words, and silence. They hold life within them, and get us attached to people that never exist, or perhaps exist in a similar way, or in a parallel world. The last pages of a book are the 'end' of a journey one has spent days discovering. They give us answers in a world full of many unanswered questions. They give us hope and tear our hopes to pieces at the same time.
The last lines of a beautiful book are the angel of death in disguise, in a form of empty pages. They tell us that all the things in life, even fiction in life, must end. They steal away the characters we loved, the places we have visited emotionally yet never physically, they allow us to accept pain, and accept that all the great things in life must come to an end, including books.
The last word of a book is the word we stare at the most throughout the book. It is the death itself, of words, of sentences, of pages, of fiction, and an indication that we must go on. It hurts, but we must do it. Because even too much fiction needs real life sometimes, just like when real life needs fiction sometimes.
And in this loneliness, I can relate to everything.

--

إليكَ أنتْ،

هل سبق لي أن حدّثتُك عن الوحدة؟ ليس تلك الوحدة التي تحيط بنا عندما ينشغل الآخرون، ولكن عن الوحدة التي تتواجد مع وجود الآخرين. وحدة الحضور، وليس وحدة الغياب. في ظني أن وحدة الحضور هي أعلى درجات الوحدة، حيث لا يُطفئ أي وجود من حرقة الوحدة بداخلنا،  كما أن تكون قد فقدت شيئًا بالداخل، ولا تستطيع العثور عليه، أو كأن شيئًا ما مات بداخلك، أو احترق، فأصبحت الوحدة هي الدخان الأسود الذي لا ينطفئئ بأي شيء. 

وتنسى أن عكس الوحدة هو الأنس، تنسى ما هو، وتعتاد هذه الفجوة بالداخل التي لا يوجد لها علاج بشري. قد تكون جزءًا من النضوج، عند استيعابنا لأن وجود البشر في ذاته قد يكون هو مصدر الوحدة وسببها. لذا نتراجع ونتقهقر بداخلنا حتى نصبح لهؤلاء البشر كالسراب، يروننا من بعيد ولكن ما بداخلنا لا يُكشف أبدًا.  وهو جانب من ضياع الاطمئنان.

ومع الوقت تتضارب الكثير من المشاعر بالداخل، الوحدة مع الأنس والاطمئنان وغيابه وحضورنا في غيابنا عن من حولنا ومعهم. تتشتت داخلنا المفاهيم ولا نبذل أي جهد في العثور عليها، فنتعايش مع هذا التضارب الذي قد يولّد لنا تعاسة لا تظهر أحيانًا إلا عندما يكون الأوان قد فات.

أرجو أن تغفر لي تكرار زلّاتي في الحديث عمّا لا يجلب إلا ألمًا في الرأس، ولكن الوحدة تقتلني كثيرًا هذه الأيام ولا يخففها إلا أنت.

ولك كامل إخلاصي ووفائي،

نون

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

The (Non-)human(e) Race

Dear you,

Let me ask you something: why are we running? Why does our life seem to be like a race in which we must score something, make a kind of a record to feel significant, to feel alive? What are we running from? And what is the worse that could happen, positive thinking this time, if we stopped, to take a breath and just ease up?

This is me, my life. I wish I could slow down, but it seems I have automatically adjusted my speed to the maximum and cannot put it down through the manual. My brain is rushing from this idea to that, and it is constantly fighting with my heart over the stupidest things, like whether I should buy an expensive watch or save the money, or whether I should join a nice gym or do yoga at home. Stupid, stupid stuff, but they never leave me.

On the other hand, I learn the toughest things so slowly, and it feels like the faster I adjust my speed the slower I will learn that this is fucked up, an inverse relation.

How much of your life can you fix when it's already close to the end of the race?

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

Two-Layered Letter

Dear you,

Last night, after writing you, I came across a desolate letter, abandoned within the pages of a book I am yet to read. A letter that rested for years on my bookshelf and which seemed to be the only one remaining from a chain of letters between two people who, by the look of it, seemed like lovers, but who could only be lovers in novels.
The letter reads as follows, and I will leave you to it.

“Dear Bea,

I received your last letter with so many words on my lips, words that I have once wished to write delicately. I felt exactly like a writer who was in a frenzy to write what was on his mind and bleeding pen as fast as he could, as if in fear of losing what he longed for in so many years, now that it has come again: words.
For nights on end I wondered if I should write you back with an answer to your question, knowing that no mysteries or vague answers could convince you nor alleviate your desire to know. I knew you always spoke of me as a writer, but I had always been full of anxieties to disappoint you should you ever show up as a character in the books I write. But knowing you, and how you were always faithfully mesmerized with words yet feared them (perhaps a stronger word exists, like a word-phobia), it would only be fair to give you what could sooth your urge, or create an even more burning desire with words.

This is how you, my real Bea, would be in my fiction:

‘She sat in a corner of an old café, which smelled of old books, perhaps because the bookshop that had once been there decades in the past always remained there somehow. And she believed it, because, as she would put it, books never die; once they are placed in a shelf somewhere, they always retain their place for years and years to come. Their smell would never go away, because it was the smell of words, characters, and real life simply put into fiction. Everything about books was real to her. Books were pieces of reality put together, and these pieces would always be real to someone.
She rested there, hunched up and lifting her legs on the chair next to her, unaware of life passing by her and time going somewhere else. Her clocks were ticking anti-clockwise, because she believed reading gives you life on your life. Time, to her, only existed when she finished the last pages of a book and stared at the world around her, realising that nothing changed, that the world passed a book’s shattered ending without looking it in the eye and feeling its broken pieces.
While reading, she would forget her coffee on the table until it was cold, fixing her eyes only on words and her lips on the way words were let out of her, like magic. She would gasp in a low voice, almost a whisper, if a character dies without a warning, or when misery casts its shadows on a once peaceful life. She would feel her hands and body shiver when she reads about her favourite character being soaked under the rain, without a shelter to find. And she would, always silently, sob tears alone in that café corner while reading the very last line of her books. Unknowingly, she would sometimes embrace that book, close her eyes which are full of words, and rest for a few minutes, as if trying to catch her breath to be able to go back to reality.
But, above all, she wouldn’t stop reading. She was okay with being alone, and her idea of alone was different than those who did not read. With that, she never felt alone, ever in her life. And I was there, like one character in all her books, watching her, knowing that my gaze would not stir her, because, after all, I wasn’t her favourite character. I wished I could be, but I never was. I was in the shadows and she was in the light. She sometimes spoke to me but merely as a stranger in the novel not as a friend, let alone a lover.
I was fine with this, as long as she kept reading. Her readings were my own refuge, to be in her thoughts, if I am not ever going to be in her life. I was her fiction, and she was my reality. But alas, like two parallel worlds, we would never cross paths.’

You, Bea, have always been there, in my books, and if you ever look closely, you will find me, too, there, looking at you from a corner in the street or from behind the windowpanes of old shops. But there will always be only one chance for us to meet in every book, and that chance will never be real.
Yours truly,
D”


TBC

Half a Solo Dance

Dear you,

I have danced so much in your space until my feet felt numb and my body lost its balance under the constant moves you made. I have taken a floor that was not mine, and thus receded to where I belonged, far from the spotlights of the dance songs.

I left you there, unaware of my absence and immersed magically in your own moves. You danced alone and enjoyed it more than a dance in my company, so I retreated humbly to let you dance until the last move of your soul. When I started to feel my body again, I sat on a chair close by to be able to see you. You moved as if the earth were underneath you and the air was moving you, not your own body. You let your hands sway and your legs carry your whole body at once and drop it on the floor the next moment without thumping a bit, like a butterfly, or a bird.

The whole audience fixed its gaze on you, like a dance show. They would clap and gasp with every sway you made. But no one knew you swayed better alone. You danced better alone. The floor was always yours, and when I appeared, I would only be the partner of the lead dancer. I would be nothing more. You led my steps and I followed your pace, however fast it was. I was always able to follow your lead and pace, without questioning how or why. I would then withdraw myself slowly so that you can make your final moves. My hands would gradually let go of yours, finger by finger, slowly and reluctantly. Because I always wanted to dance with you until the very last move, until that moment we abruptly finish our dance, stare joyfully at each other, and kiss one another in a blink.

I had always wanted to leave the floor with you, not alone. But you were destined to have the floor for yourself at the end of every dance. It felt like I would never make any endings with you. And while you chose to be alone, you left me always, always with void, incomplete dances, abruptly ending when they are close to their climax. Like now.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

Letter within a Letter

Dear you,

This is a letter within a letter.

"She, she held the world within the contours of her lips. When she spoke, she let out words so confidently that it felt like the world was under her reign, and that, when she sealed her lips, the world has  fallen into momentary peace. 

He, he looked at her, visualising the words, lines, and unintentional rhythms coming out of her lips like some sort of a poet, or the remains of a poet. She wasn't trying to be poetic, and he wasn't trying to look for poems inside her; she had always been good with words, with describing how the universe worked, or at least her idea of how the universe worked. She believed in making wishes upon shooting stars in the darker days, and in days when no single star would be seen up in the sky. She saw constellations no one could see, because, as she says, there are only so many wishes you could make so that you can look up and always see stars no one could see. It was, according to her, her universe inside our own. And that was her. She spoke in the simplest words but which produced a cyclone of ideas in the minds of those listening to her.

He listened with all his senses, body, heart, and soul, wishing to catch one word of hers to put it in a sentence of his own, as musical as hers. He could see in her eyes every comet, and a galaxy of wishes she has made in every single day of her life. But he never spoke as witty as her. He always had the concise answers to every question, and that answer was within his lips like a marshamallow anyone could swallow easily. He thought that, with his words as marshamallows within his lips, and with her words like the whole world within hers, they could kiss the world away with their marshamallow dreams. They would heal the world with sealed lips, and allow dreams to free them from whatever their words will carry. Because within words lie realities, and within silence lies imagination. And no one needs words in love."

I love you.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.

أسرار الغرباء

إليكَ أنت،

أحيانًا أنثر أمنيةً في الهواء بأن نشارك الغرباء أسرارنا أكثر، بأن نحكي لهم عمّا لن نتمكن من البوح به لمن نعرفهم. الغرباء وإن امتلأت رؤوسهم بالأحكام علينا فإننا لن نراهم ثانية، أمّا من نعرفهم فقد نخاف أن يملأهم الحكم علينا ولا يتلاشى مع الزمن. الخوف يتملّك جميع علاقاتنا مع من حولنا، وعدم الأمان بداخلنا. الخوف يولّد الكثير من الأشياء غير العقلانية والواقعية والمنطقية. ولكنه لا يذهب.

ما المانع إذن؟

ولك كامل إخلاصي ووفائي،

نون.

دائرة مُفرَغة

إليكَ أنت،

ما هو التعبير الأمثل لمن يخاف الذكريات؟ وما هو المصطلح المعبّر لمن تلاحقه الذكريات؟ لا تقل لي إنه ليس في اللغة العربية أجمع وعلى مرّ تاريخها من انضم إلى علماء المجمع اللغوي ولم تصِبه الذكريات بشيء من الغصة في الحلق، أو بشيء من الوخز المفاجئ الذي لا يترك لك شيئًا من الرحمة لتتنفس قليلًا. لا تقل لي إن أحدًا منهم لم يجئ بلفظٍ يبعث لنا بشيئٍ من الطمأنينة ويعبّر لنا عمّا تبوح به أنفسنا الفقيرة. ولكن الذنب ليس ذنب اللغة، فهي بريئة من أحاسيسنا، وإنما الذنبُ ذنبنا، نحن الذين نخاف مما ولّى ولن يعود، ومما يحمله لنا الغير من الذكريات التي لم نكد ننساها لتطاردنا في هيئة أشخاص يذكّرونا بأشياء لم ننسها بعد.

ما هي الذاكرة؟ ولِمَ تتتحايل ضدنا في أغلب الأوقات لتذكّرنا بأيام لن تعود، والأفضل لها ألّا تعود؟ وما هو الوقت؟ ذلك الشيء الذي لولاه لفقدنا الإحساس بمئات الوقائع ولتركنا كل شيء ينسحب إلى خيالاتنا. ماذا إذا توقفت عقارب الساعة عن الدوران وتركتنا في هدوء الغرفة من حولنا، تركتنا مع الحوائط الأربعة وبين أفكارنا، أليس هذا بسجنٍ كافٍ لنا؟ أيجب على العقارب أن تدور محدثةً صوتًا يذكّرنا بأن العمر يمضي، وبأن حاضرنا ليس إلًا ماضيًا ينتظر التكوين؟ ولكن الذنب ليس ذنب الوقت بل ذنبنا، علينا التخلص من ساعات العالم أجمع، لكي نضيع في واقعنا ولا نبحث عن ماضٍ أو نخاف مستقبلًا لا ندري كُنهه. علينا أن نضلّ لنعرف الطريق.

ما هي الكلمات؟ ومن أين جاءت بالسحر الذي ساعة يقتلنا وساعة يعيد إحياءنا؟ ما هو السر وراء هذه الحروف اللغوية التي تكوّن معانٍ مختلفة مع كل إنسان يستخدمها؟ اللغة ما هي إلّا شيء من السحر، ولكنّه سحر يملكه جميع البشر، ومنهم من لديه القدرة على استخدامه كسحر ذلك الذي نشاهده في المسارح وعلى التلفاز. اللغة عالم لا ينتهي، ولكل لغة سحر خاص بها، ولكل سحر سحرته الخاصة. فكيف لي ألّا أنتهز جمال اللغة وأدبها لأكتب لك، لأعبّر لك عن أفكاري التي ما هي إلّا نتاج للّغة واللغة نتاج لها. كيف لي ألا أكتب لك وأنت من يصمت دون رسائل لي، لأنك تعلم أن اللغة وحدها أحيانًا لا تكفي للتعبير، ونحتاج إلى لغة أخرى هي لغة الجسد. 

كيف وأنت تعلم كل شيء؟

ولك كامل إخلاصي ووفائي،

نون. 

Who Needs Pictures #1

Dear you,

"Who needs pictures, with a memory like mine?" was an old song from 1999 by Brad Paisley, whose lyrics and music I can still hear in my head up to this day. So, I decided to just listen to it and write you what I am about to write right now.

--

What if we had no way of recalling our memories other than our minds, souls, and hearts? What if black and white pictures were never developed to be coloured? What if they had stayed this way? Would it have helped our imagination to stay wild? Would it have helped us imagine colors that didn't exist and places that never made it to maps?
What if we decided to let things be as simple as one picture for a memory of years and years to come? What if this one picture had the power, the magic, allowing us to visualise everything about the events of the memory without having to look at the rest of the albums? And what if, by simplistic styles of living, we accepted the fact that memories are in the hearts and souls of humanity, not in the albums of pictures of it? Would all of this have made anything any better, any simpler, for any of us?

What if we chose simplicity rather than having to spend time photographing what could be the best memories of our lives, and only realising that we have already missed half of them by taking pictures.

What if, by merely believing you exist, I could imagine you right here, right now, without having to see you? What if we simply believed in the best memories rather than having to record them to prove they existed?

Who needs pictures, in a world full of them?

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.

حتّى تأتي، أُحبُّك

إليكَ أنتْ،

منذ سبتمبر الماضي وأنا أكتب لك، ولا أدري ما إذا كنتُ سأتلقى منك ردًا يومًا ما، أم أن ما أكتبه هذا ما هو إلا تنفيس عن النفس لشخصٍ قد لا يكون له وجود، على هذه الأرض الجرداء البائسة.

وفي هذه الأشهر المعدودة، تعلّمتُ أن الكتابة لا تتطلبُ وحيًا أو إلهامًا ما، ينهال على الكاتب دون وعيٍ، وإذا بالكلمات تتناثر على الورق وتكتب نفسها دون أقلام أو أفكار منتظمة، فالأفكار ستتشكّل مع انتهاء هذه النوبة أو الحالة الهستيرية التي نسمّيها وحي الكاتب، أو وحي خيال الكاتب.

دعك من كل هذا، فهو ليس إلا ترهات لا وجود لها في حياة الكاتب الحق، ذلك الذي يقضي ليالٍ غير منقطعة تتزاحم الكلماتفي أحلامه، وتذبل وتختفي إلى عوالم غير مرئية وخيالات لا تنتمي إلى أوراقه. كله كذب.

خُدعتُ عندما ظننتُ أنني سأكتب إليك بلا انقطاع، لأن وجودك في مدوناتي، ووجود رسائلي إليك، سيبعث إليّ بسحرٍ ما يلهمني أن أكتب لك بشكل يومي، كلمات لن ترَ لها مثيلًا. ظننتُ أن ذكرك في رسائلي وحده سيوحي إليّ أن الكلمات موجودة، ولكن فقط عليّ أن أعثر عليها بداخلي.

كله كذب، كلها أوهام، خُدعنا وظننّا أن الحياة عبارة عن وحي ضائع يبحث عمّن يعثر عليه في كتاب ما.

الكتابة مثلها مثل العزف على آلة موسيقية ما، ستأتي المقطوعة الساحرة فقط بعد ساعات غير منقطعة من العزف والنغمات الشاذة والأوتار غير المنسجمة مع بعضها البعض. كذلك الكتابة، لن تأتي القصة أو الرواية أو الرسالة المبدعة إلا مع عشرات بل مئات الكلمات المبتذلة الركيكة والمكررة.

ولعلّ كتاباتي لك بالأخص لن أتلقّى منها ردًا إلا عندما أكتب ما يُنطق معاجمك فتعتزم الرد برسالة تكون هي ما سيؤول إليه مصيري إما بالسعادة الأبدية أو بالبؤس السرمدي.

وسأظل أكتب باللغتين حتى أعرف لغتك التي تفهمني بها أكثر، وسأظلّ أصارع مع الفشل حتى يتمكن أحدٌ منّا من الآخر. المهم أن أؤمن، وأظل أؤمن، أن العبرة بالخواتيم. والبدايات ما هي إلاّ تحدٍ.

وأحبّكَ حتى تأتي، بكل ما في الكلمة من ابتذال، وبكل ما فيها من خيال.

ولكَ كامل إخلاصي ووفائي،

نون.