rwa

“أعطني القدرة حتى ابتسم..

عندما ينغرس الخنجرُ في صدر المَرَحْ

ويدب الموت، كالقنفذ، في ظل الجِدار

حاملاً مبخرة الرعب لأحداق الصغار.

أعطني القدرة... حتى لا أموت.

منهكٌ قلبي من الطرق على كل البيوت

علّني في أعين الموتى أرى ظلَّ ندم!

فأرى الصمت.. كعصفورٍ صغير

ينقر العينين والقلبَ، ويعوى..

في ثنايا كل فم!”
― أمل دنقل, البكاء بين يدي زرقاء اليمامة

“What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid. I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones, and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited. Yet I am not a cretin: lame, blind and stupid. I am not a veteran, passing my legless, armless days in a wheelchair. I am not that mongoloidish old man shuffling out of the gates of the mental hospital. I have much to live for, yet unaccountably I am sick and sad. Perhaps you could trace my feeling back to my distaste at having to choose between alternatives. Perhaps that's why I want to be everyone - so no one can blame me for being I. So I won't have to take the responsibility for my own character development and philosophy. People are happy - - - if that means being content with your lot: feeling comfortable as the complacent round peg struggling in a round hole, with no awkward or painful edges - no space to wonder or question in. I am not content, because my lot is limiting, as are all others. People specialize; people become devoted to an idea; people "find themselves." But the very content that comes from finding yourself is overshadowed by the knowledge that by doing so you are admitting you are not only a grotesque, but a special kind of grotesque.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath