I run and I don’t know where I’m going. I write and I don’t recognise my writings. I sleep and I dream of things I have never seen. I see myself as another person in my dreams. And when I run, I feel like I’m running away from a self that would cease to patronise me only if I kept running, because with running I feel as if the air takes what’s inside, tosses it away, and gifts me with a new self.

I don’t get tired of running, and whenever I dream of myself as another person, I run.

The times when I write words I don’t recognise, I run.

I have been looking for a self that would suit me best. And I wish, like clothes, there were fitting rooms for souls, so that whenever I felt mine in decay, I’d go get a new, younger one. Or whenever I felt this wasn’t me, I’d leave it in the fitting room and wear myself. Yes, wear myself, my truest self. But then again, will the world ever be any less cruel? Will the tepidness of life leave my enthusiastic soul be? I doubt it.

I run because the air around me slaps my face and wakes me up to reality, a reality that the world will always try to change me. It will come with full power to crush me. It will work day and night to destroy every true dream I had, and every real dream I dreamt of, of myself being truly myself. The world will keep me company, but not in a good way. It will enjoy being a guilty bystander, and it will always claim to be just a bystander.

And this is why I run.

When I write words that only the world wants me to write, I will toss the papers aside, burn my words to the very tiny ashes of their being, and start anew. I will invent a new vocabulary, hell, even a new language, and I will hope that the world will not recognise it, will not understand it. It will be the language of only those who have true souls. I will put words like unconquerable and invincible and insurgent. I will write stories that resonate so much with the truth, that the world will die of its own falseness. And when the world spies on me, I will run again.

I will run until I can no longer catch my breath and the air can no longer carry me. I will run until I have exhausted every self I have worn and until my legs cannot move me . I will fly if I have to, until I lose the last breath in my soul and fall on a land that will bear my bones and my skin and my war. I will run until I find the place in which my soul will be buried with dignity, and the earth will recognise me.

But then I will run some more.

Artwork by Agnes-cecile

I stand there, solo, pale as a soldier in defeat, though I feel as big as the world. But I’m choking with the loneliness I breathe in the air. I see a part of me close by, but I fear embracing it so as not to give loneliness all the space there is, and die in my own worthlessness, after being on top of the world.

Before me, I see that I’m on a stage in a theatre where no one is watching. And my keys, I find no one to touch them anyway. So I remain there, hoping that a strong wave of wind would move my keys, or my pedals, and a sound would break out of me and people would wish they’d been the audience in the hall, whose audience is sheer emptiness.

But I’ve lived in this old, desolate building for so long I can’t remember how people looked or how it felt to have fingers touch my soul or feet push passionately against those magical pedals of mine.

I’ve been here for so long I’ve borne witness to the breaking and cracking of the walls, I’ve seen lights being shut forever, and I’ve seen the void and emptiness fill the room until there was but a crowd of nothingness.

I wish I had a span of my life instead of this excruciating immortality, because I, despite every death I’ve witnessed and every breath I’ve seen be taken away forever, still manage to bring out the life in me and stand still, not as a defeated soldier but as the last man standing, who awaits nothing but death, and the mysterious longing for the afterlife, the mortality.

I, whose keys have grown obsolete since God knows when, still with the eagerness to die, yearn for the last two hands that would play my death piece, so that I can die there knowing I left to the world the most abysmal music of loss, avenging for the loneliness it has put me through. To die with relief, embracing a solo trip to a new audience.

He told me that the world was so eager to see my dreams crushed and thrown into the river with all the crushed dreams of those we pass by every day, and that the world couldn’t care less if I came up with a beautiful poem or a mesmerising piece of memoir or prose that tells the deepest stories in our lives. All the world needed was another prematurely dead ambition killed right by the words, “I can’t do it.”

I often get lost between the “can’t” and the “won’t,” between believing so much in an ordinary, mediocre dream that the extraordinary becomes impossible in a split of a second. Or, is it a decade? Do we really nurture our dreams or do we allow them to fade with time, if all that we do is let go of one dream after another, day in day out, as if we’re detoxing, and as though the older we grow the less we’re allowed to dream? I’m not sure, because some of us, like myself, get so carried away by the dreams of those around them, watching their dreams come true and doing nothing to give life to their own dreams. It’s like some people are born in this world just to clap for and applaud the dreams of those living around them that they forget, truly forget, they, too, can dream.

He told me this and paused, as if getting ready for the gist, and then went on saying that “if you don’t want to give the world something, give yourself the pleasure of writing, of telling so many people how much you can relate to their pain, their feelings, their fights, and their imprisoned words.” And then he cursed the world, and I don’t need to tell you how he cursed it, because we all do it the same way.

But he should have cursed the world first, before he said the words “dreams crushed,” because how crueller can a world be, crushing the one thing we live for? And why exactly is it eager to see such destruction?

I don’t remember the first time I felt crushed, and I’m not sure your realisation to a crushed dream is instant. It doesn’t happen all of a sudden, but slowly and painfully, until the whole f**king world sees it, as if you needed any attention. Then, you curl yourself in bed, sleep for as many hours as there is in a day, to forget about the world and try to pull yourself together to fight another fight, praying that the world has lost its enthusiasm to see another destruction.

And then he told me that every writer writes for one reader in his head, a reader that could as well be nonexistent, but, like musical notes not knowing who will play them next, a book doesn’t know whose eyes will fall in love with it tomorrow, and neither does a writer.

We write because words are the colours to an artist’s painting, the musical symbols to a pianist’s note, the dance floor to a ballerina, and the hat to a magician. Let us fold the world up in our sleep so that we can crush it with our dreams when we wake up.

And, finally, he told me, “the world can’t crush you if you have the words.”

Growing up made writing an immense effort that I evaded because it took a huge toll on me, making every inch of my skin shudder, and then stopping my fingers on the last letters I wrote, giving up. 

Reality can be monstrous, causing the tips of your fingers to freeze, as if losing all the vocabulary you once had to a storm of silence, or worse, passivity. You live a year or a few months full of life, with all its ups and downs, and you literally can not write a single word about any up or down days. A couple of lines of yours are scattered everywhere on your computer, your notebook, and your phone, trying to say what’s inside but nothing comes out more than old, perhaps archaic, words you’ve used a thousand times before, and a couple of lines is all it takes for you to throw your papers and just give up; give up to what? I’m not sure. Sometimes what’s eating at you is fear of words, other times it’s lack of self-confidence, but the end result is one: not writing.

Writing was once my refuge, my home; a place, or rather a paper and pen, I went to when I felt a couple of lines swim in my head, wanting to get out to the sun; to light. The words I feel are thrown in every corner of my being unable to gather themselves, take a deep breath, and come out to the light. Sometimes I feel a storm in me about to hit my fingertips and release all those bleak seasons inside. Or perhaps, unbeknownst to me, there is a prison for words within that won’t let my words out to the fresh air remaining in my soul, if it is still there, that is. 

Dear words,  I don’t know how much longer will I hold on, and how often will life throw its experiences at me, experiences that render me even more speechless by the day. I wish it were easy, to find the place where one once was and return to. But it isn’t. 

I stopped tens of times during this flow of reflections, in one sitting. I stopped once out of fear, once out of hesitation, and ten times out of un-wordiness, sometimes combined.

Silence has already made a point in letting me know how deep it is, deeper than words, deeper than life itself. But so long as I’m breathing, words add life to my life; let silence take the lead in my funeral.

Liesel Meminger once said, “I want words at my funeral, but I guess that means you need life in your life.”

عدوان

لا أعلم من أين أتيت، وإلى أين سأذهب. أريد أن أهرب من كل شيء لا أعرفه ويعرفني، أريد أن أهرب من كل الكلمات التي قيلت وتُقال وسوف تُقال، أريد أن أُزيح همومها من على أكتافي، وأتحرر من قيود لا تنتهي. أريد أن أعدو.

أعدو حتى أنسى كل شيء حولي .. أعدو حتى ينساني كل شيء، ينساني الجميع، ويهرب مني كل شيء .. أعدو حتى تنقطع أنفاسي وأفقد القدرة على الحديث حتى أهدأ .. ولكنني لا أنتظر أن أهدأ.

أعدو لأتناسى، لأفرّ مما بداخلي، لأفرّ من أفكاري .. أعدو لكي لا يظنّ العالم أنّي أتكاسل يومًا عن النسيان، وأقبع في ذكريات الماضي .. أعدو لكي لا يظنّ العالم شيئًا ما، تبًا لهذا العالم الذي يظنّ أنه يعرف كل شيء.

أريد أن أعدو حتى يعجز الأكسجين عن الوصول إلى أفكاري، حتى أتوقف عن التفكير في كل شيء، حتى لا أكون .. أعدو حتى أصبح شتاتًا من الذكريات في الهواء اللامتناهي، حتى أكون في كل مكان وفي كل زمان، حتى أتحرر من أي قيد .. أعدو حتى أصبح أنا المكان والزمان، لأخلق مفهومًا جديدًا لن يستوعبه العقلاء. فما قيمة العقل؟ الجنون.

أعدو إلى أن أسبح في فضاء الكون، إلى أن تتلاشى المسافات وتنتهي الطرق على كوكبي .. فأعدو في الفضاء السحيق، وأظل أعدو  إلى اللانهاية.

ثم أفنى من الوجود بدون قيود أخرى، فقط بقيد العودة بنفس الروح إلى عالم آخر .. عالم لن أعرف عنه شيئًا إلا عند فنائي .. فأتلاشى في صمت .. وبنشوة لم أعهدها من قبل .. وبقلب صافٍ من كل ما هو قبيح في هذا العالم.

أتلاشى .. حتى يتلاشى العالم معي.

ولا أعدو بعدها ما حييت، أو ما متّ.

فأعلم حينئذٍ من أين أتيت.

رقصة في قاع الخيال

تصدح الموسيقى من جسدها دون توقف، فأتشبّث بها؛ من أنتِ؟ أقول. (تُذهِب موسيقاها عقلي دون إجابة)

تتوقف الموسيقى فجأة ويبدأ الحديث. لا أفهم الكلمات ولكني أحس بموسيقاها خلف كل مقطع، وكأنها لغة مألوفة ولكني فقدت معجمها في مكانٍ ما بداخلي، أو ربما قد سرقته هذه الفتاة التي كادت تهوي بي من حافة العقلانية في لمح البصر.

أحاول أن أفهم ما يحدث من حولي، ولكنني أغرق في محيطات اللاإدراك التي تسحبني كلّما رأيت وجوهًا جديدة في أماكنٍ جديدة، وبلغة لا أعرفها تحت شمسٍ لامتناهية الأشعة. فأُفاجأ بي أتقوقع مرة أخرى إلى الداخل وأرفض التفكير في ما ومن حولي. تنظر الفتاة إليّ كأنها تراني للمرة الأولى، ترى وجهي هادئًا شديد الهدوء بعد أن أذهبتْ عقلي في ثوانٍ معدودة.

"لا أريد هذا. لا أريد هذا. ليس هذا عالمي". أتمتم دون توقف. أتراجع قليلًا. ليس هذا حقيقيًا وإن كان. لا يجب أن أفكّر لحظة أخرى في ما حدث توًا. لا أريد.

لا أريد أن أتخيل للحظة أخرى  أنها تعرفني، أنها تبادلت معي الحديث في تلك اللحظات التي تمايلتُ فيها وتمايل الجميع من حولنا كسرب الطيور، في سماء موسيقاها نسمات الربيع.

أريد أن أظل في قوقعتي، ألا يعكّر أحدٌ عليّ صفائي من الداخل، ألا يصيبني أحدٌ بهشاشة فلا أستطيع العودة إلى عزلتي.

كنت أتمنى ألا يزعجني كل هذا. كنتُ أتمنى ألا تكوني في خيالاتي، حتى أهرب منك في أي وقتٍ أريد.

أو حتى ألجأ إليكِ في أوقات وحشتي.

الصورة صفحة من رواية "قمر على سمرقند" لمحمد المنسي قنديل، أخذت منها بعض الكلمات علّها تعطيني من الإلهام ما يكفي لأكتب..

قطعة أُحجية

أصبحتُ كقِطع من الأحجية تُحرّكها يدٌ وتُعيدها أخرى، أتردد بين إصبعين لا أدري أين سأوضع ولا أعلم مآلي، وكأن وجودي لا يُكمل في شيئًا ولكنه يضيف للقصة فصلًا أو بابًا بدونه ينقص القصة حبكة ما، أو ينقص الصورة لونًا ما.

أهوي من قمة إلى قاع ثم أسقط على قطعة أخرى، أحاول الثبات في مكانٍ واحد لدقيقتين، ولكن مسار القصة يجب أن يكتمل عند نقطة ما، عندما يصبح غيابي عاملًا مؤثرًا بعدما يكون الأمل بداخلي قد بدأ يتبدد وتشحب الألوان على جسدي، لأصبح قطعة مهترئة رمادية كالهرِم الذي يلتقط أنفاسه الأخيرة ويحاول التشبث بالحياة قبل أن تبرق عيناه مرة أخيرة لحظة الزوال.

أمكث قليلًا بين يدي صاحبي ثم أنظر من مكاني فأدرك أنه لم يعد إلا أنا، وأرى أن الجميع اتّخذ مكانه فتحوّلت الصورة من أشلاء إلى تحفة فنية ما، وأصبح مكاني فيها هو ما سيُعطيها رونقها. ولكنني أشعر أنني بمجرد أن أُكملها سأفقد نفسي من الداخل، وكأن كمالها نقصاني وجمالها قبحي.

وكأنّ دوري سينتهي عند هذا التشابك مع بقية القطع من حولي.

وكأنني لاشيء.

وكأنّ الرحلة انتهت هاهنا.

فانتهيتُ معها.