Let me admit something!
I don't have any temptation to stay with me... exhausted enough sadness, to the point that you make me write in my diary in bolder ways, so no one else understands it.
Then I have the curse of silence, the one that has kept me quiet all the time, even in the most stubborn attitude.
Silence attracts me strong, where there is no point in words.
So I was choosing silence about his conviction, while around me thought it was an alternate plan... or a trick.
I don't have enough money anymore, except to buy a piece of bread.
You kill me with depression spells and my fear, because I'm one of the victims of sudden loss.
And if they knew what a sudden loss would do to us!
It's what makes us homeless, groundless, hopeless, homeless.
In the middle of the road, when I tried to extend my hand to the light, I found out I was holding the void, screaming inside a deep well, no echoing.
We were told that the unit was the absence of others, and they did not realize that it might be their intense presence, and that they could all be unable to see you; live between them as a shadow over the wall, or a broken tone in a sad symphony.
Watching my face in the mirror, I see a convoy of women who crossed me and into me: a girl who hides surprise in her pocket, a girl who believes all promises, and a woman who touches the shrapnel of her soul as a man with bare hands.
Sometimes I'm afraid to turn into a memory before I leave, into a two-foot scarf, trying to prove to the world that it's still beating.
Times are small lives that break inside us, the longer we fall, the more we add to the spirit archives a new document of loss.
In the depth of meditation, I had a question that I never found:
Are we the only effect of being through us?
And does time really go, or are we the ones falling one after another?
Is it the absence that makes sense, or does things become real only after we lose them?
And if the yard is the end of everything, and if everything is going to fade, is the silence itself merely a testimony to what it was?
Then I found myself, standing on the edge of this abyss, holding the pen just as one catches the last survivor's collar.
I rearrange the letters, redo the night and day, and I know writing is the last resort that won't let me down.
I throw my weights in the letters, sadness is an immigrant, if he doesn't find a page he lives in, he stays in the heart forever.
That brings us from the top of happiness and security to the deepest of fear and grief.
Uh...
And I forgot to tell you something else...
I also have a unique musical. You're bound to have someday.
Then I can write...
I'll write every morning and evening, and if I'm tired one day, I'll learn to write again.
I will rephrase my letters to my land.
And now...
I put this page in the stairwell of the world, and go ahead.
فإن عثر أحد عليها يومًا، فلن يجد نصًا، سيجد بصمات روح أرهقها الطريق، وحاولت طويلًا أن تهزم الصمت بالصمت.
