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

“I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small kingdoms
breathing around me, the insects,
and the birds who do their work in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
grappling with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.”
― Mary Oliver

“People who wade into discomfort and vulnerability and tell the truth about their stories are the real badasses.”
― Brené Brown, Rising Strong: The Reckoning. The Rumble. The Revolution.

“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?