I received this by email from someone who knows someone who knows the author of these words. I wrote to him and asked about his story and his grandma - and I asked him if I could share it by posting it on my blog and by asking visitors to share with us stories of their own grandmas or grandpas - he was kind enough to agree Read and share .. I would love to hear your stories. 

Dear friends old and new , I am sharing the below with you because you witnessed or about to learn what I have experienced as a blessing from God.

This was written on the 21 June 09 on the international day of 42 million refugees . to narrate my a life experience .

I was born in Jaffa, Palestine on February 3^rd, 1940 to a Palestinian father and a Syrian mother. I have memories of my birth city; but a few short years later in 1948 catastrophe struck. I, along with my father, mother, sister and younger brother joined thousands of refugees who were forced to leave their homes.

Nothing can describe the feeling of helplessness and destitution when you leave everything that is familiar behind you, not knowing what to expect next. I can only imagine what my parents felt losing everything. But, we were among the few, who left the evils of war and the desolate Palestinians seeking a safe shelter. We were almost penniless and with barely enough means to sustain a family for a days shelter and food. Those were dark days like being in the abyss with hope of seeing the next day.

We were also luckier than the masses of stranded Palestinian refugees. We were blessed to move the day after with my grandmother Turkia Khanum, a great lady, whom we called Teta. She was as warm as the space of her home in lovely Damascus. To me it was like changing beds from Jaffa to Damascus,where my new life started good and well.

The Diaspora years started 62 years ago; and in that time I continuously to date still learn of the suffering, instability, hunger, and horrors others experienced. Teta, though, gave my family and I all means of a dignified, normal life. Teta and my parents made sure that we went to the best of schools within a week of our arrival.

I only appreciated many years later how much she truly gave us. She sacrificed her privacy and the space of her home; she didn’t allow us to be exposed to negative news and comments; she allowed my father the dignity of being a man by respecting his presence though the home was her own; she allowed us to live with dignity as Palestinians without losing our identity, sheltering us from resentment. And so much more. Teta with her loving smile and strong character gave us a normal childhood when so many of our compatriots lost many years of their lives ; and I learn to appreciate Teta more every day of my life. What she gave me still reverberate in my own daily life ,she was my bridge to a better liberal  life. 

I believe she was a Godsend. He gave her the serenity, patience and desire to take us in and give us a normal life; and had it not been for her contribution, we would have been forced to seek refuge in one of the many camps in host countries rather than in the home of our Teta. She gave us life her life ,may god bless her soul.

Nadim Abuljobain

Here’s the author’s name and email: Nadim Abuljobain <nadimsolo@hotmail.com> if you like, but you can simply share your stories here in the comments.

 

..it may be dangerous, but it is definately more rewarding

(just make sure you get out of the way of the speeding trains in time).

Finally, I have created and finished my “What’s in Your Handbag Right Now” ebook.  If you’d like to read it, or if you’re brave enough to add the contents of your bag, email me!

Click here to read or visit my inspirational blog and click the bag on the right. 

I’d love to hear what you think of this whole idea and the concept behind it. 

Thanks

ثبُت سياسيًّا أنّ الكلسون أبو خيط (السترينج) هو أفضل شعار للديمقراطية لأنه:

يفرّق اليمين عن اليسار
يُبرز الكُتلتَيْن
يهتمّ بالوسط
يوحّد أنظار الشعب

I’m thinking of making a for-fun ebook including all the responses I got for my posts What’s in Your Handbag - I trust everyone who joined in and published this info on my blog is OK with me creating an ebook to share for fun.

If you’re not OK with that, please let me know.

I began my life within layers of perfume; inside intimate, warm, moist membranes immersed in scent. I cannot recall spending a single moment of my life without being surrounded by aroma.
It’s not true that we get so accustomed to a certain scent that it no longer has an effect on us; for whenever I feel that I may have become used to to the scent of Frangipani, it overwhelms me with its magnificence again every evening. I believe it must be the same with my own scent.
My scent is not governed by any law. It does not know fear, nor does it know death. It is excited by the rains, by imaginings and by memories. If you smell my scent once, I will nestle within the corridors of your memory forever; I will build legends, palaces and temples that will stay with you always.   
I don’t do that intentionally. My scent leads me to control this highly sensitive sense. It creates epic proportions of beautiful memories making them agonizingly more beautiful, and endows a distinctive beauty to painful memories making them more tolerable. My scent is what gives life its distinctive features and its deceptive, sharp boundaries. My scent tricks you, and you want it to trick you; like a dream which you believe to be real or a reality that feels like a dream. My scent makes life slither like a snake, gathering, twisting, weaving stories within its folds where the aroma lives.
All my beauty resides in my scent; my scent is my soul; for I am not considered beautiful by the usual standards, and there are many who are more beautiful than me. And because I have never been afraid of life’s impulsiveness, I didn’t hide and I didn’t avoid it, so my eagerness has caused some tears in my petals and in my leaves.  
This never bothered me. I never wanted to hide from the sun and I was never afraid of swaying under the melody of the rains .. and because I believed that imperfection is the essence of beauty, I felt that it this gave me something special that bears the hallmarks of my individuality.  Besides, the birds and butterflies didn’t come visit me because I am beautiful, but because I am aromatic.  
* * * Never for a second could I imagine going on with my life without aroma. This idea would not have even occurred to me had it not been for the fact that I started noticing that the aroma in my surroundings was diminishing. The scent of the Gardenia no longer greeted me strongly and excitedly in the mornings as it had always done before, and the Jasmines seemed much whiter, but… As for my beloved Frangipani, its scent was barely carried to me even on the strongest breeze.
I found myself the only one among my species to remain the same. Perhaps it was the tears that resulted from my passion for life that had saved me. Had it not been for the fact that I could still smell my own scent, I would have lost my mind completely. This drastic change in my surroundings caused great confusion for me. I felt as if someone had removed my sense of smell and I that I shall bleed to death. I could not distinguish between losing my sense of smell and losing whatever there was to smell; and in truth, I didn’t know which was worse.
* * *
Is being left alone the worst that can happen? 
So be it, let me be alone. I don’t want to tread this thorny path; I don’t care for trying to please the owners of vases. Day after day, the young flowers around me were being subjected to hybrid experimentation; they were being created and recreated, in order to become that which is believed to be the only face, the only measure of beauty, until finally they all become alike. Twins made up of thousands of siblings, all of them, I admit, far more beautiful than I.
So be it, let me be alone. I don’t yearn for this kind of beauty; a dead beauty that is created solely for the purpose of being cut and imprisoned inside a dead container that provides it with life’s minimum requirements. A lifeless container that neither shares its feelings and passion for life, nor does it allow it to grow or open its petals; and there, it stands alone, eventually abandoned by all except the webs of spiders.
Its splendor and perfection become tedious within days. It withers and dries, and is ignored, while another is cut to replace it, then another. There is not need to distinguish one from another. There is no need for joy or sorrow; its life is reduced to a short existence in exile away from its roots, away from the warmth of the sun and the song of the birds, and out of reach of the butterflies and the beautiful relationships it could have had with them.
Only I know that the butterflies will no longer accept these multitudes of twins, because they can’t engage their souls with crumbs, remnants of life that have not soul, no essence.
But I don’t know who else but the butterflies will weep for their kidnapped scent?

Fadwa

(have a look at the collage: http://fadwas-inspirational.blogspot.com/2009/06/kidnapped-perfume.html)

Art is exalted above religions and races. Not a single solitary soul these days believes in the religions of the Assyrians, the Egyptians, and the Greeks. And their races are exhausted, crossbred and spoiled. Only their art, whenever it was beautiful, stands proud and exalted, rising above all time. 

- Emil Nolde, 1911, quoted in Twentieth-Century Artists on Art

And I’m left with a handfull of yellow feathers - again.  

My second – and last son (thus far) – graduated from high school today. As soon as I entered the ceremony hall, tears welled up in my eyes. I had not even seen him yet. Didn’t I already go through this three years ago with my eldest? It’s all so beautiful, but it’s also so heart-wrenching.  

When the graduates started to enter the hall with the music bellowing through from the speakers, I started to cry unashamedly – I had not even seen him yet. I rushed from my seat, as I had done three years before, and I searched the faces. I could not see him. I was surprised, his initials are AA, he should be among the first to appear. I thought there was something wrong with my eyes. I searched the faces one by one again. The first row was already in; the second row was coming in. By the time the third row was complete, I gathered that he had received a distinction and therefore will be coming into the hall a little later.  

Finally, I saw him and the

Niagara Falls that usually hides behind my eyes let loose. There he was, yellow distinction sash and curly hair. (His dad had called the teacher a month earlier to tell him that we were not going to cut his hair and that they should not be making such a big deal about it with school almost over – and besides, he had very good grades. Let him have his hair). Just before he went up to receive his diploma, I asked one of the youngsters sitting on the stairs behind me to help me make a lot of noise for my son as he received his diploma – and he did!  

I was crying so much, I could hardly focus the camera. My mind was racing as fast as the tears streaming down my face: I’m so proud; I can’t believe he’s graduating; Oh my God, he’s going away to collage in September; I’m going to miss him so much; seems like only yesterday he was straddling my waist;  … Did I do everything right? I had 17 years, was that enough? Did I do enough? I won’t have this chance again; did I mess it up? Should I have done something different? Should I have done more?  … I thought I was clever being an artist, an author, running my own business, but now all I feel is that I am a mother, and I am no longer needed. I’m left with a handful of yellow feathers again; in their place were long, flight feathers.  

We have worked so hard to teach them to dare to dream; to fly, and to fly high, to soar – and yet, I hold on to the yellow feathers, and I cry. 

Fadwa

They just don’t let me be. And so, I’m ever alone; they’re always with me.
If I try to forget, to be oblivious to their presence, I don’t succeed. For the slightest movement causes them to wriggle, shake, and quiver. And with the yawning of every new crescent, I feel them grow, mature, hurt a little and become more sensitive.My relationship with them is a mixture of confusion, tenderness, wildness; they tantalize me with their presence, their weight, and the way in which they seem to be always in the way. My breasts and I. 

Since my first moment of awareness, I have dreamt of them.Just a little girl watching those women with magnificent, large, firm peaks.I used to dream that I would have what they had; that I would wake up one morning to find two beautiful, firm mountains in this flat valley between my neck and my waist.
I used to love clinging to my mother. Morning visits, shopping, going to tailor shops, crouching in changing rooms, devising ingenious ways to steal glances filled with curiosity. How much boredom I put up with to be able to search for these details; what I saw was not much, but what I saw was beautiful and it was enough to fuel my dream. 

Women around me used to draw curtains and lock doors. They used to wrap their bodies in towels, cautiously, timidly, embarrassed even of themselves. I understood that when I got older and started growing my own little mounds. At first they were just tiny swellings; no one could see them but me, and no one noticed their transformations but me. Their ever so small size used to bother me ever so much. I thought that this was it, that’s all I’m getting, just two silly little mounds; and I wanted to join the realm of women.
I still don’t know where that defining moment disappeared. When did I wake up from sleep with a body exuding womanhood and a spirit still exuding childhood? I woke up and found that my breasts have exploded without my permission. They became the first to greet the warmth of the morning sun, and the last peaks off of which dew drops slid each evening.
They challenged my shirts, my dresses, my bed, my mirror.Their shadow, during the many sunny days, always exposed my secret as it spilt over walls, pavements and passers-by.
They would storm the space before me and they would always arrive before I did. Nothing stands in their way; they drag me behind them. They reach forever towards the skies, lunging forward like an invitation, and an obvious, loud and rebellious sign of my femininity.
They attract attention against my will.They hold conversations with people me against my will.They give rise to jealousy, hatred, desire, and sometimes even disgust.An open button became the cause of flushed and red faces, both men’s and women’s; while a closed button provoked a state of anticipation, of hope, of waiting.
My breasts opened doors, destroyed barriers, built bridges; they shortened paths, reduced effort and time .. and reduced me to a few pounds of rounded flesh.
There was no longer a need for me to be.Many have forgotten my name, and many did not know my name in the first place. One question kept jumping to mind: Is she the one with the big breasts? All my features ceased to exist and became engulfed in that warm place between them; that deep and narrow gap between my breasts which was sufficient for everyone to turn a blind eye on any shortcomings, any irresponsibility, any faults.   

My whole life was overwhelmed by their presence, so much so that I could hardly breathe. Even my heart, whose reactions I could see behind my thin, transparent skin, was no longer mine. For it, too, sat in that place between them and I could not reach it except through them. It beats for them, it beats behind them, so a light shines from within them, kisses them and calls out to life, against my will.
I tried. I tried to reclaim myself back. I tried to capture myself, and to place myself before them, in front of them. I tried to be bigger than they are. I exploded bombs with my mind, my intellect, my thoughts, my tongue. I exaggerated, I rebelled, I went wild. I demanded attention for my views, my thoughts, or even my eyes, my lips, my hair, my waist, my legs, my hands. I called out, I raised my voice .. but their voice was always louder.
I wished that someone would beat me at this game, or that someone would tell me off, or that I would provoke someone’s anger with this behavior. But my breasts were always my book of forgiveness from all sins.
Isn’t it said that the hand will speak of its secrets one day? As for me, it is my breasts that reveal everyone else’s secrets: their soft voices; their prayers; their weaknesses; their deprivation.
There was this moment, a single moment, when I thought of reducing them surgically. But I did not do so, for I, like everyone else, love my breasts. I love because I wished for them, because they’re mine, they’re my breasts, they’re part of who I am – I will not say they’re part of my beauty, but they’re part of my feeling of beauty. I love them. Isn’t unjust for them to be defeated by the feelings of defeat in others? 

I won’t hide them under words of precept, phrases of shame, and yards of thick black fabric.
I won’t apologize for their presence, for their prominence.
I won’t apologize for the time spent praying that I would get them.I won’t apologize for my right to dream of my femininity; especially after my lover kissed them, and reached beyond them to the deepest depth of the little girl that is me. Fadwa

 

قصة سندريلا باللهجة الفلسطينية  

لبست الفسطان وراحت جري عالكصر وشافها الأمير وحبها وركضوا سوا وفجأة دكت الساعة طنعش وجراي وصارت ترمح و ترمح ووكعت ببوجها عالدرج.

سندريلا راحت عالبيت واتمنت لو انو الساعة ما دكتش على الطنعش، بس شو تسوي بحظها المشحر مثل حظ هاظا الشعب.

 الأمير حط فردة البابوج على مخدة يمكن لونها زركة أو نهدي، المهم صار ينادي بالصوت على كل البنات عشان يكسن البابوج، كسن كل البنات إلا سندريلا ….. 

سندريلا نزلت على الساحة ومعها فردة البابوج، وحطتها على المخدة الي عليها الفردة الثانية، ولما كربت عشان تكيسها ظربها الأمير شف، وحكالها: وين جاي ياما، حكتلو: يقطع وجهك ما أزنخك، مش شايفني بدي أكيس البابوج هاجم علي زي كباظ لرواح.  

 حكالها: وحدة مثلك كيف بدها تكون فلكة الكمر هديك، حكتلو: هسا بفرجيك وأحط على عينك ولما اجت تكيسها، ما طلعت كد اجرها، لأنها كانت ورمانه من كثر الشغل، ويا حرام ما حدا صدكها، وانجنت المشحرة ودارت في الشوارع، والأمير اتزوج غيرها وحكى: لوينتا بدي أظل ادور عليها الله لا يردها هي الخسرانة.

 وعاش مع مرتو الجديدة حياة مكلعطة خطية المسخمة سندريللا اللي كسر خاطرها كدام الناس.  

From the pages of childhood … 

I shrink inside my hiding place

It is narrow
Dark
Low
Putrid
 

That is why I loved this hiding place where the details of my body disintegrate into the tolerance of darkness

I realized that I’m alone within its walls, and within its walls I can release all that I have withheld in the light; for here no one can hear me, especially not God.

Read this in Arabic

بينما اعتبر القمص ساويرس أنه من حق أي إنسان أن يبدع ما دام لا يقترب من القيم الدينية والمجتمعية والثقافية والموروث الثقافي

London fog bothers many, but it doesn’t bother me; it’s just a dreamer like me, and I’m just a little hazy like the fog. 

Enveloped by fog, I danced with the trees. I let my dress slide off my body as it caught on a branch.  I felt my body’s thirst quenched by the dew; gently, softly, transparently, its delicate spray flirted with me.
I love it. I love rain and all its moods; its tender dew, its warm droplets, its temper when it pours, the way it makes the skies thunder. I journeyed across its waters, naked in body and spirit, seeking harmony with the music of my being.
At that moment I understood why we were naked in paradise.

Nothing compares to touching someone’s skin and feeling their soul; and when we were expelled from paradise, our greatest punishment was having to wear clothes.

Click to read this in Arabic.

The candle

I am a candle, flaming, blazing with passion, with fervor, with delight. Your senses lured by my scent. My light hovers restlessly, giving birth to a myriad of dancing shadows on the walls of your soul. The melting wax slips off my smoldering shoulders; no one hears my soft dress fall. My wistful, whimsical whispers yearning in silence, so soundless, so slight, for one who can understand my soothing music or any of its notes serene. How to resist the urge to slay the flickering spirit as rays of daylight seep through tiny cracks of your consciousness … How to sit still, quietly watching the ballet, desiring neither to possess the dancer nor the dance?

Which of you has the courage to savor the burning of touch? 

Do I glow too faintly or is it too fast that I burn? Perhaps it is true! Perhaps, perhaps both I do, but what else would my existence be, were it not to endure and shine so incessantly?

Read this in Arabic

I have not yet resigned myself to the fact that I may indeed amount to nothing at all in the end, and that everything I have done so far has been but a useless attempt at gaining something which I cannot even pinpoint or name.

That I have spent my life acting, pretending, trying to live more than one life.

And, in the end, it shall all be all in vain.

A Response to Fadwa’s voyeristic experiment: I Wanna know … what’s in your bag?

 

Here is my big juicy bag from Poppies. It’s a french inspired market bag. It’s huge and I bought it for exactly that reason. Also because I’m a librarian and an artist I must carry books, journals and a big wad of coloured pens around with me. I also have a bag within a bag to carry all my toiletries, wallet and other small bits and pieces.

 

Ok, so this is what’s on the floor - the contents of my bloody big bag - from left, in an anti-clockwise direction:

1) A screwed up NZ post receipt ( I sold something on Trade Me the other day so need to keep this receipt for a track and trace jobby).
2)My Book Club Journal
3) My art journal
4) My friends poetry ready for publishing (now awaiting me to do the illustrations…I’m getting there!)
5) Underneath my mate’s poetry, a Cloth Shop and Quilter’s newsletter and my Book Reviewers Kit from CMIS - I do young adult book reviews for these guys.
6) One of numerous art pens…but interestingly, the only art pen in my handbag at the moment??
7) A folded up note from my library advisor friend Jan that reads: www.teacher’s treasures.co.nz - because I saw some really colourful stick up lettering on her office wall that I really must get for my office!!!
My Nokia (all time favourite) cellphone!
9) My Drawing and Painting reference book
10) My power bill - only $120 this month (WOW!)
11) A random, blank piece of paper
12) My goddess talisman, handmade by my gorgeous mate Storm in the

US.
13) My Skinfood, SPF 15 moisturiser for protecting my face from the harsh NZ sun. We all end up looking like wrinkled prunes before we’re 50 in this country if we don’t use it.
14) My digital alarm clock (I always forget it’s in there and then it goes off at the most inopportune times - like at a really important staff meeting with 120 people sitting around me)
15) My green, floral bag within a bag!
16) A child resuscitation check card - my 10 month old is into EVERYTHING at the moment and I’m paranoid he might choke on something!!
17) My asthma inhaler when my hayfever gets out of control…
18) Make-up compact
19) Smints
20) Lipstick case from Xmas ‘06 (thanks mummy! I love it, it’s gorgeous!)
21) A pink clothes peg (?)
22) My wallet with a massive long Woolworth’s receipt hanging out of it.
23) A NZ post rate checker pamphlet
24) My vitamin B12 vial for the shot I’m going to get on Thursday (ouch!) - but pernicious anaemia sucks even worse!
25) A zip file case protecting a teeny memory stick for my camera
26) My keys and my compact hairbrush are in the middle

PUZZLE: Find the random items (a bit like Where’s Wally or Osama Bin Ladin?): my eye drops, my driving glasses case, and a roll of sellotape! 

The End

I’m feeling disappointed - only one woman, excluding me, had the courage to say what was in her bag. And I was planning to publish a big fat book about the things women stuff into their handbags. I thought it would be fun and interesting to compare: do women from different cultures have similar things in their bags? What do younger and older women have in common in their bags? Is there no female bonding in the bag?

Another failed experiment? Come on ladies, tell me .. what’s in your handbag right now?

In My Handbag Right Now..

• 2 Moleskine tiny notepads
• 3 USB sticks with beaded “tails”
• Black pouch with colours, scissors + glue
• Book I’m reading now
• Earl grey tea bags
• Four different pens (blue, red, green, black)
• iPod shuffle
• Kaleidoscope which I bought from Florence, Italy
• Large journal
• Sun glasses
• The other usual stuff: make-up, keys, wallet, 2 mobiles
• What’s in yours? email me, if you dare, at fadwa-wm@fadwa.com

Alone, reading the morning papers at night.

The sea is dark and treacherous.

You want to hide your loneliness but you can’t, the lamp lights are too overpowering.

You bury your face in the papers. You don’t want to turn the pages; you don’t know why you pretend not to care when the rustling of the paper pierces your ears.

(I took this photo at the open beach in Jumierah, Dubai)

I was trying to take the picture at an angle that makes it look like I was sitting in a field of velvety red roses.

Happy Valentine’s!

كنت أراقبهم.
كانوا هنا في اجازة، وكانوا يتحدثون بالاسبانية.
كان والدها يحاول أن يلتقط لها صورة باستخدام الكميرا الرقمية التي تملكها هي، لكنه لا يجيد استخدامها.
كانت ترتدى ابتسامتها المثيرة، مثل المايوه الصغير الذي بالكاد يغلف جسدها النحيل. تتململ وتعدل وقفتها: عنقها إلى الأمام قليلاً، ظهرها مقوس قليلاً (لتظهر استدارة مؤخرتها الصغيرة)، تدفع بصدرها إلى الأمام.. وتنتظر.
والدها الذي لا يجيد استخدام الكميرا، يقف أمامها وينظر إلى ابنته في الشاشة الرقمية. ووالدتها، التي أيضاً لا تجيد استخدام الكميرا، تقف خلفه لتعطى الأوامر، وهي تنظر من فوق كتفه إلى شاشة الكميرا أيضاً.
يرتبك الوالد من حصار الانثيين، فيضغط الزر بدون تركيز، فتهتز الكميرا.
تتصاعد الأوامر من الأم والتعليمات وتردد عليه الأخطاء التي ارتكبها.
تتبخر الابتسامة عن وجه الفتاة، ينخفض الصدر، تختفي مؤخرتها كأنها لم تكن. تتحرك بغضب وعصبية باتجاه والدها لتشرح له للمرة المليون كيفية استخدام الكميرا. ثم تعود إلى مكانها، لترسم ابتسامتها، وترفع صدرها، وتدفع مؤخرتها.. وقبل أن تنتهي من تهيئة جسدها يكون والدها قد ضغط على الزر بالخطأ، فتلتقط الصورة. هذه المرة الصورة واضحة، لكنها لا تعجب الانثيين.
تعيد الكرة مرة أخرى، شرح بعصبية، تهيئة الجسد، والوجه، الابتسامة ونظرة العيون. تفعل كل ذلك وهي تظن أنها تبدو طبيعية، غير مكترثة، لا تنظر إلى الكميرا.
يلتقط الصورة، ويبدو أنها هذه المرة نالت رضا الإبنة والزوجة.
تخطف الكميرا من والدها، تفرح بالصورة الأخيرة. تلغى باقي الصور.
يخيل إلي أن الصورة ستظهرها رائعة الجمال، ذات جسد جميل مُغْرٍٍ، وابتسامة عذبة.
أتخيل أنها يوماً ما، عندما تعود، ستعرض هذه الصورة على صديق ما، وسيسألها بنبرة لا تخلو من الغيرة واللهفة، من التقط لك هذه الصورة الجميلة؟ وستقول له باستهتار: آه، هذه الصورة؟ نسيت!.

أمس حلمت بأنني صفحة بيضاء، تسقط إلى السماء، وليس منها.
حلمت بأنني أحمل أقلاما ملونة كثيرة، وعلبة ألوان الشمع، ولم يكن لدى ممحاة.
حلمت بأنني شكوت وتملكتني نوبة غضب لأنني لا أجيد الرسم.
“هذا ليس عدلا!” اخترق صوتي الغيوم فأمطرها.
“هذا ليس عدلا!” اخترق صوتي اللاشيئ ولا أحد يسمع.
ثم قررت التحلى بالعبوس. وقررت أن أحاول شيئا آخر، أن لا أفعل شيئاً. سأستمر في السقوط باتجاه السماء. سقطت عبر طبقة فطبقة فطبقة. ولم يتغير شيء.
“أشعر بالملل!” شكوت للا أحد، ولا أحد يرد.
لا أحد يراقب. أم هل أعتقد أن لا أحد يراقب؟ لم أهتم، فكنت أشعر بالملل، والزهق.
فتحت علبة الطباشير بلامبالاة فوقعت منها ثلاثة ألوان. لم تصرخ الألوان، لكنني شعرت بأنه بامكاني أن أسمع صرخات عيونهم.. لم تكن هناك دموع، ولا ألم، ولا غضب. فقط استمرت الألوان في السقوط بعيداً، بعيداً، ولم يعد بامكاني تخمين مصيرها.
لم يبق معي سوى تسعة ألوان فقط. وبدت لي حزينة، تعيسة، باهتة في علبتها. وأنا كنت أشتهي ألوانا مشرقة، وراقصة، وفرحة!
تسألت إن كانت هناك صفحات بيضاء أخرى تطوف في هذه السموات، فربما تمكنت من استبدال أو اقتراض الألوان؟
لم يجبني أحد بالنفي!
لم يجبني أحد!
لكن الشعور بالاختناق لم يفارقني.
قررت أخيراً أن أرسم، بالرغم من خوفي من الرسم، وبسببه.
ولكنني عندما باشرت، حدث شيئ غريب، فكلما رسمت خطاً، ظهر خطً أخر. أحياناً كانت الخطوط متشابهه، وأحياناً كانت متفاوتة، أحياناً جميلة وأحياناً قبيحة.
وعندما انتهيت، لم تشبه لوحتى الفكرة التي تصورتها في ذهني إلا قليلاً.

أتعبتني علامات الاستفهام المتساقطة أرضاً بيننا، فلا تسألني.. وأنا سأسحق أسئلتي
وكم أرهقتني الإجابات، فلا تجيب حتى عيني إن غافلتني فسألتك
ولا تضحك إن مازحتك، ولا تبتسم.. لا تحادثني
وليتك، ليتك لا تلقي علي تحية جافة
تجعلني أبوح لك فيما بعد “ليتك ما ألقيت
دعك منه، ذلك الحزن في عيني، لا تخاطبه.. فلا حل له لديك، ولا أنت خالقه
ودعك منها، تلك الوحدة التي يشكو منها لساني.. فشفتي تغلي شوقاً غصباً عنها وعنه
“هل من داعي أن أقول.. ؟” بحبك، اشتقت لك، أريدك.. ؟؟
 لا، لا تسألني، ولا تقول، ولا تخف علي
فقد بدأت أتعلم منك كيف أُنشئُ مئة مستودع، داخل عقلي (الذي طالما شكوت من صغره) وفي منحنيات قلبي وبخار روحي
، وفي ثنايا تفاصيل جسدي، وأن أخزن وأدخر وأوفر وأودع
 لكنني، يا حبيبي، غدوت أخشى مصير مستودعاتي من حجم إيداعاتي

اليوم اقتحمت وجداني حقيقة

أن كل منزل سكنت فيه على مر السنوات، وفي أية دولة كان، قد هدم