Omar Khaled

“تحرك. السجن هنا. وهناك. لا مفر.. أنت ولدت له. كأنفك. كأذنك.
هذا هو منتهى القدرة، وكل ما وصلت إليه الأحلام.. إنها النهاية. السور الأسود الذي كنت تخشى الارتطام به، إنه يقترب.. عشت طول حياتك والسجن قائم والعجز قائم. الأسوار هنا مغروزة في اللحم.. نصف الأحلام في الخارج ونصفها تمزق على السور الشائك.. نصف ما أريد هنا. والصف الآخر أكله القطار السريع.. الفضيحة قادمة.. وكل التماثيل تتكسر.”
― علاء الديب, القاهرة

“Intelligence is quickness to apprehend as distinct from ability, which is capacity to act wisely on the thing apprehended.”
― Alfred North Whitehead

“There was another life that I might have had, but I am having this one.”
― Kazuo Ishiguro

“I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, Eyes;
I wonder if It weighs like Mine,
Or has an Easier size.

I wonder if They bore it long,
Or did it just begin?
I could not tell the Date of Mine,
It feels so old a pain.

I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if They have to try,
And whether, could They choose between,
It would not be, to die.

I note that Some --
gone patient long --
At length, renew their smile.
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil.

I wonder if when Years have piled,
Some Thousands -- on the Harm
Of early hurt -- if such a lapse
Could give them any Balm;

Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger Pain
By Contrast with the Love.

The Grieved are many,
I am told;
The reason deeper lies, --
Death is but one
and comes but once,
And only nails the eyes.

There's Grief of Want
and Grief of Cold, --
A sort they call "Despair";
There's Banishment from native Eyes,
In sight of Native Air.

And though I may not guess the kind
Correctly, yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary,

To note the fashions of the Cross,
And how they're mostly worn,
Still fascinated to presume
That Some are like My Own.”
― Emily Dickinson, I'm Nobody! Who Are You?