Hiba

“It's not about life or death, the labyrinth."
"So what is it?"
"Suffering." she said. "Doing wrong and having wrong things happen to you. That's the problem. Bolivar was talking about the pain, not about living or dying. How do you get out of the labyrinth of suffering?”
― John Green

“تذكرتك يارب و أنا أمشي في هذا العالم فشعرت بالغربة و الانفصال و لم أجد أحدا أكلمه و يكلمني و أفهمه و يفهمني.. نبذوني كلهم و رفضوني كما نبذتهم و رفضتهم.. و أحسست بنفسي وحيدا غريبا مطرودا.. ملقى على رصيف أبكي كطفل يتيم بلا أم.
و سمعت في قلبي صراخا يناديك.
كانت كل خلية في بدني تتوب و تئوب و ترجع و سمعتك تقول في حنان.. لبيك عبدي..
و رأيت يدك التي ليس كمثلها شيء تلتقطني و تخرجني من نفسي إلى نفسك.
و اختفى ديكور القماش و الورق و ذاب مسرح الخدع الضوئية.
و عاد اللا شيء إلى اللا شيء.
و عدت أنا إليك.
لا إله إلا أنت.
سبحانك
و لا موجود سواك
القرب منك يضيف.
و البعد عنك يسلب.
لأنك وحدك الإيجاب المطلق.
و كل ما سواك سلب مطلق.”
― مصطفى محمود, أناشيد الإثم والبراءة

“There was terror in each and every one of the people on that beautiful beach and on that breathtakingly beautiful evening. Terror of being alone, terror of the darkness filling their imaginations with devils, terror of doing anything not in the manuals of good behavior, terror of God’s judgment, of what other people would say, of the law punishing any mistake, terror of trying and failing, terror of succeeding and having to live with the envy of o



ther people, terror of loving and being rejected, terror of asking for a rise in salary, of accepting an invitation, of going somewhere new, of not being able to speak a foreign language, of not making the right impression, of growing old, of dying, of being pointed on because of one’s defects, of not being pointed out because of one’s merits, of not being noticed either for one’s defects or one’s merits.
Terror, terror, terror. Life was a reign of terror, in the shadow of the guillotine. (the devil’s words)”
― Paulo Coelho

“I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.”
― Charles Bukowski