Mohamed Saad

“He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. By early afternoon he was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone. By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness. I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others--the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by the midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad.”
― Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated

“بنلف في دواير والدنيا تلف بينا
ودايماً ننتهي لمطرح ما إبتدينا
طيور الفجر تايهة في عتمة المدينة .. بتدور

مابنكتبش الرسايل مابننتظرش رد
...لا حد في يوم سمعنا ولا بنسمع حد
طيور العمر تايهة في عتمة المدينة .. بتدور

ساكنين في عالم يعشق الخطر
فيه الطيور تهرب من الشجر
وتهرب النجوم من القمر
وتهرب الوجوه من الصور

بنلف في دواير ندور ع الأمان
ونلاقينا رجعنا تاني لنفس المكان
ندور .. ندور .. ندور

نحلم ونحلم بالحياة المُفرحة
وأتاري أحلامنا بلا أجنحة
ندور ندور ندور بجناح حزين مكسور
ساعات نشوف في العتمة
وساعات نتوه في النور
ساعات عيوننا بالأسى تفرح
وساعات في ساعة الفرح ننوح

ولا حاضر ولا ماضي
تروس بتلف ع الفاضي
ولا فينا شباب زعلان
ولا فينا شباب راضي

مفيش غير إننا بندووور ..
ندووووور .. ندووووور”
― عبد الرحمن الأبنودي

“It wasn’t my day. My week. My month. My year. My life. God damn it.”
― Charles Bukowski, Pulp

“أعليتُ دموعي
كي تبصرها يا اللـه
وقلت أعيد لك الأمطار
فلتنشر غيمك حيث تشاء
فإن الغوث يعود إليك
والحزن يعود إليّ”
― محمد علي شمس الدين, ينام على الشجر الأخضر الطير