Write. Write because the more you cower the less you will ever be able to write. Write because no word is ever going to give the same meanings and feelings inside of you, so the least you could do is get some of this intensity out, for the sake of your own survival. Write because people need to read what you have to say when you think of the words to pen down. Sometimes it only requires one person to know we're not alone, and to know that someone, somewhere, somehow is sharing a feeling you keep within.
What you write does not have to be a wonderful prose piece; it does no even have to be by any means poetic. Poetry needs contemplation anyway and you need a simple and straightforward reassurance that you're there, you're alive, you feel like everyone else, and you carry the same sufferings as everyone else. You don't have to fight to be different in that too. At the end of the day we all experience the same feelings of guilt, reconsideration, and over-thinking. It is those minutes before sleep that also truly define us and who we are, and who we also want to be. It is these moments that let us discover ourselves within, and maybe, just maybe, do something about it someday.
Write, and I don't have to tell you about what you can write, because if you believe in Sylvia Plath's quote, you will know that everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it and the imagination to improvise; the worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt. But I am not asking you to be creative here nor am I asking you to be a writer per se; I am just asking you to write. Writing and being a writer are two different things.
It is okay if you do not find yourself in writing, and it is okay if you cannot even make it to the third line. Leave it. Move to doing something else. Get back to it later. Just do not let it rust out forever.
Write, because I need you to write, so badly. I need you to tell me the words in your mind and I need to know your stream of thoughts perhaps we will find some things in common, anything in common. And I am not just saying this to make myself feel better; I am saying this as a mutual benefit to both of us. Because I need to read your thoughts if I will never hear them.
I need you to write because your words will work like sun rays to the morning, because they will shine in my soul like a magic of inspiration from an unknown source and in a sudden moment.
I need you, all of you, to exist, in the same way that you are, with a few more words to write. And you will complete me, with your words, and some of my silence. And it will be my turn soon and I will write to you. I will write for you. I will write with you and I will write about you. And then you can set yourself free, and set me free with you.
Just write.

Words of your mother tongue always, somehow, sound far intense than a foreign language like this, for example. Writing about everyone suddenly seems almost impossible, writing about ordinary people and strangers seems to be like a battle you have to fight, let alone writing about the ones that trigger moments of insane heartbeats and endless stuttering of every word you used to know by heart. These people rest within the words of a foreign language only, not your own, because penning them down and releasing their being from inside of you is just as if someone were tearing at your soul, robbing your insides and leaving you empty, horribly hollow and weak and panicked and .. and everything. Insanity.

So you, then, start to write things down slowly, about something else, about life, only the life of other people, not yours, the lives of things, the lives of the ones you never even met. Your own language becomes a threat to you, and once you start losing your way it all crawls back at you back to the road of panic attacks and unknown phobias. Could you ever be phobic to your own language? I guess it happens with writers; we only need words that dig too deep and yet they kill us, then we choose silence that also kills us. You see, writers die either way, because both words and silence kill. They creep once they get the chance to, without the slightest bit of tenderness, without a bit of pity. They take everything along their conquering, like sweeping your mind and heart enjoyably. Defeat.

Then comes the foreign language, like now, like how I’m writing this without really wanting to but without any other choice not to. To write about you is my own little and poor hideout, in my own world and with my lonely words that could never transform themselves into Arabic to let you know that you, and you alone, led me to falling in love with my language yet not ever having the courage to write about you using its words and its beauty and its holy magic. I would have my hands shivering and my chest rising up and down in a pace, and I’d pant and pant as if I were about to meet you the next moment. Then I stop because it hurts, or it hurts so much that it doesn’t hurt anymore; and it’s crazy and cold at once.

I hope I can never write you in my own language. Don’t let me release you so that I wouldn’t imprison myself unwillingly. Please.

حنين

أحنّ إلى القليل من الحنين في كلمات وعبارات ماتت منذ زمن، وفي زمن لم تعد تصلح له الكلمات والتعازي والتهنئات، لم تعد تنفع له جميع الأوصاف، قبل أن تنتحر وتتلاشى الكلمات من قواميسنا. أحن إلى قلم وورقة أقترب منهما دون أن تنهال عليّ موجة وصفعة من آلام الرأس والصداع الذي لا ينتهي إلا بانتهائي من آخر كلمة أو بفقداني الأمل وانسحابي التام من كلماتي ومن نفسي ومن قلمي. أشتاق كل الاشتياق لخيط من خيوط شمس الصباح الذي يتخلل نافذتي دون أي إذن مني وبرغم هذا أستقبله بتفاؤل لا أعلم من أين يأتي. أحنّ إلى كلمات تأتي بعواصف في جسدي وروحي، إلى درويش ومطر ودنقل وجويدة والرافعي، إلى كل من لمست كلماته قلبي بشيء من الرقة والعذوبة التي لم أرِد أن تنتهي أبدًا. آه كم أحن إلى عبارة واحدة من عبارات الرافعي كـ" أيتها الحقيقة لا يظفر بكِ إلا سعداء الفطرة ، وما الطبيعة كلها إلا إيمان بك ودليل عليك". كلمات ربما لن تهُز البشرية يومًا كما هزّتني لحظة قراءتها. أحن إلى حنين درويش في:

"أحنّ إلى خبز أمي                        

و قهوة أمي

و لمسة أمي

و تكبر في الطفولة

يوما على صدر يوم

و أعشق عمري لأني

إذا متّ،

أخجل من دمع أمي!"

ربما في يومٍ ما، ربما، ستهتز البشرية والإنسانية بعبارات مثل عبارات الرافعي وبجدارية قريبة من جدارية درويش وتعتزم ألا تصالح ظالمًا أيًا كان على نهج دنقل.. ربما لست أدري، أقصد مؤكد أنني لست أدري ما تخبؤه لنا عقارب الساعة التي نكاد لا نشعر بصوتها. عجيب أن أكثر الأشياء التي لا تشعر بوجودها هي نفسها الأشياء التي تحتاجها أمس الحاجة إذا فُقدت دون أن تدري. أنانية إنسانية.

أتوق إلى ابتسامة عفوية من غريب من غرباء الشارع في صباح من صباحات العمل المتكدسة والمنشغلة حين يكون الناس في رحلة واحدة وبهدف واحد ونفس واحدة. إنها وحدة الروح، بدون أي آلام تُحكى دون ضحكات. غريب هو شعبنا الذي يضحك ضحكات هستيرية على أكثر الحكايات بؤسًا؛ ولكن من يدري ألا يمكن أن يكون الضحك هو السلاح الأمثل لمنع الإجهاش بالبكاء في لحظة صدق؟

صدّقني يا من تقرأ كلماتي أننا أُناس نعلم كيف نتغلب على صعوباتنا وآلامنا مع الغرباء، ولكننا لا نعلم كيف نواجهها مع الأقرباء لنا، والأصعب من ذلك.. من منّا استطاع بجرأته أن يتغلب على آلامه أمام نفسه؟ من منّا ضحك لنفسه ساعة كان يحكي لها على آلامه؟ كلنا جربنا هذه التجربة في الشوارع العمومية وأخذ المارة يحملقون فينا كأننا فقدنا عقولنا، ثم خفنا ولم نعد نتحدث لأنفسنا حتى تناسينا آلامنا، ولكنها ستظل هناك. ستظل حتى نقدر على عجزنا ونتمكن من السير في شوارع مدينتنا كالمجانين، ولكن فرحين.. أليس المجانين في نعيم؟