Bsma

“فقدت الكثير من الأشياء.. فقدت الكثير من الأشياء الثمينة، ليس بسبب خطأ من أحد ولكن في كل مرة تفتقد شيئا تفقد معه حزمة كاملة من الأشياء”
― هاروكي موراكامي, رقص... رقص... رقص...

“So what can I do now?" she spoke up a minute later.
"Nothing," I said. "Just think about what comes before words. You owe that to the dead. As time goes on, you'll understand. What lasts, lasts; what doesn't, doesn't. Time solves most things. And what time can't solve, you have to solve yourself. Is that too much to ask?"
"A little," she said, trying to smile.
"Well, of course it is," I said, trying to smile too.
"I doubt that this makes sense to most people. But I think I'm right. People die all the time. Life is a lot more fragile than we think. So you should treat others in a way that leaves no regrets. Fairly, and if posible, sincerely. It's too easy not to make the effort, then weep and wring your hands after the person dies. Personally, I don't buy it."
Yuki leaned against the car door. "But that's real hard, isn't it?" she said.
"Real hard," I said. "But it's worth trying for.”
― Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance

“You know what I think?" she says. "That people's memories are maybe the fuel they burn to stay alive. Whether those memories have any actual importance or not, it doesn't matter as far as the maintenance of life is concerned. They're all just fuel. Advertising fillers in the newspaper, philosophy books, dirty pictures in a magazine, a bundle of ten-thousand-yen bills: when you feed 'em to the fire, they're all just paper. The fire isn't thinking 'Oh, this is Kant,' or 'Oh, this is the Yomiuri evening edition,' or 'Nice tits,' while it burns. To the fire, they're nothing but scraps of paper. It's the exact same thing. Important memories, not-so-important memories, totally useless memories: there's no distinction--they're all just fuel.”
― Haruki Murakami, After Dark

“و من حسن حظي أني أنام وحيداً
فأصغي إلى جسدي
و أصدّق موهبتي في اكتشاف الألم
فأنادي الطبيب، قبيل الوفاة، بعشر دقائق
عشر دقائق تكفي لأحيا مصادفة
و أخيّب ظنّ العدم
مَنْ أنا لأخيّب ظنّ العدم؟”
― محمود درويش, لا أريد لهذي القصيدة أن تنتهي