ألوان النفس الإنسانية

من السهل أن تسأل الآخرين "هل صُدمت في من تعرفهم من قبل؟"، من السهل أن تجد الإجابة بالإيماء أو بنعم قبل أن يتسنى لهم أن يفكروا بقدر ضئيل، فالصدمات الخارجية سهلة التذكر ويسهل علينا أن نتحدث عنها بكل استفاضة، وإن كان منها ما يستحضر  ألمًا نفسيًا رهيبًا، ومع هذا كله فهي سهلة التذكر، واحدة منها على الأقل.

إنما السؤال الآخر المرعب هو: كم مرة صُدمت وأُحبِطت من نفسك؟ كم مرة أردت من نفسك شيئُا فلَم تُطِعك فيما تمنيت ولم تعبأ بما في عقلك من أحلام ومن أوامر. أتذكر كتاب "الضوء الأزرق" لحسين البرغوثي، والذي حدث في لحظة لا أعلم متى كانت، أن انضم إلى قائمة الكتب المحببة إلى قلبي حبًا جنونيًا. يصف حسين النفس في كتابه فيقول: " تعتقد طائفة الصوفية ( النقشبندية ) أن في الإنسان عدة أنفُس ، و لكل نفس هالة و ضوء خاص بها. الأزرق لون النفس الأماره بالسوء، أما الأحمر فهو لون النفس الملهمة و الأبيض لون النفس المطمئنة و الأخضر لون النفس الراضية و الأسود لون المرضية ( أرضاها الله ) أما الأصفر فلون النفس اللوامة ." أذهلتني الفكرة..للنفس ألوان؟ وصف عبقري للتعبير عن خبايا النفس، إذ أن الألوان كالثورة، منها ما يهدأ ومنها ما يثور على مراحل (في هذه الحالة درجات) ليفاجئنا بعاصفة وثورة داخلية لا يدري بها أحد، وقد يجهلها الـ"مُثار" عليه أيضًا.

ثم إن هذه الكلمات تدفعني للتفكير، يا ترى أي نفس تغلب عليّ؟ هل هي النفس الزرقاء؟ ولمَ لا؟ فكُل منّا له نفسه الأمارة بالسوء والتي يتصارع معها ليل نهار؟ ولكن من يهزِم ومن يُهزم في النهاية؟ من يثور ومن يصمد ومن يتحمل ومن يُثابر ويعافر؟ في هذه الحال تكون العبرة في المعركة بنفس قدر عبرة النهاية. من يأتي على عجل ومن يأتي متكاسلًا متثاقلًا كمن تسحبه قدماه من نوم عميق؟ من يأتي على الموعد.

ثُم أتذكر عبقرية من عبقريات درويش..

"فكمّ من مرة

جئتُ إلى نفسي على الموعد

لكن.. لم أجِدني!"

إن أردت أن أعطي لنفسي لونًا، فقد أعطيها اللون البنفسجي، فهو قد يرمز إلى الغرور والقسوة. الغرور لأنها لا تأتي على الموعد والقسوة لأنها تتلذذ بمشاهدة صدماتي المتكررة والمتتالية دون توقف ودون إرهاق ودون كلل أو ملل.

ولكن ألا يمكن أن تكون أنفسنا عبارة عن قوس قزح؟ إذ أنها ليست دائمة القسوة والغرور أو التكبر؟ لا لا، فألوان قوس القزح مشرقة، فلنقل.. لونًا واحدًا متدرجًا؟ كلما ازدادت حدّته (أي مالت درجته إلى الداكن) كلّما ازداد الوهن والألم؟ أي أن النفس هي التي تغلب وأنت تُغلب؟ ألا يمكننا أن ننظر إلى المعركة بهذه الطريقة حتى نتغلب بطريقة ما على درجات من هذا اللون لتظل لنا الدرجة الأفتح فالأفتح حتى نصل إلى الأبيض لننال صفاء النفس الإنسانية ونستحق لقب "إنسان"؟ فلنجرّب.

I’d like to dedicate this story to you. Yes, you. I’d like you to forget who you are and be a fictional character. See how you make fictional characters real in your mind? Do the opposite now. Make yourself fictional. Fictionalize yourself. Forget that you’re real. You’re part of my imagination now, okay? I’ll host you cross-legged with the thoughts that keep roaming inside me endlessly. You can get a book and read too, or warm up my mind with a hot cup of tea in an early morning. Wake me up, it’s ok I don’t mind, I wouldn’t mind a fictional cup of tea too. Listen, you can do anything you want in there and I won’t sulk or resent you, free yourself. You’d think by freeing you inside of me that I’m, on the contrary, caging you, but have you ever thought about that when you visualized or fantasized about a fictional character too? No.

Walk me outside and let the fresh air of 5 A.M smoothly waken every feeling I can only get in early mornings, like serenity and purity and soul-repose and the calmness within. Take me down the stairs gently and hold my hand through the sunlight, don’t let me walk with morning shadows for I wouldn’t know who to walk with at night time. Now breathe in me and give me time to breathe you out so we can no longer know who’s fictional and who’s real. I bet you won’t want to be real again and I won’t want not to be fictional the next moment you breathe me out. Talk to me about the most ridiculous things ever, believe me in novels they are always beautiful than how they really are in real life; everything always seems more dazzling in books than in the verbal words of our life. You’ll see me laughing like those lonesome people you see down the streets- but it’s ok, people no longer think insanity is actually not being sane, it’s like digging your soul out, one true and real feeling inside of you, out of the few left.

Now sing to me, please please do, and when you start never stop, keep your voice the background in the beautiful empty streets we’ll pass by, let us not just be random passers-by, let us linger like deep people do. Let me also take you near the beaches of people’s memories and soul-purging, will you cast some spell so that the ocean never ceases to send its memories to people’s hearts, so that even the night won’t leave the loved and the loner scared of the abysmal darkness?

Will you free your soul each time you felt caged in reality, and transform yourself again in someone else’s thoughts, but never stop to enjoy being fictional in someone’s core? Will you never give up on the beauty of being unreal, of being fictional whenever you needed to?

Will you be my real fictional character forever?

1:32 AM 16th march 2013.

You remember how we sat with chairs across of each other and opened our unfinished books to read them like finishing a chapter of our lives? You know how you comforted yourself and sat cross-legged, holding your book too tight and giving the impression that you'd cry your heart out if someone stole it, like a precious diamond? You had some kind of a dazzling smile that I had never seen before, and I wondered that day, I wondered too much that I thought I asked myself aloud, do books do this? Do books make us this beautiful? I can see you like I'm seeing a character I'm reading that has suddenly come to life, incarnated with all your beautiful features and smiles and laughter, only with a different name. I get back to my book so fast I think you see my failed attempt at sneaking. Every two minutes I finish a paragraph I think it has you in it somehow, the smile or the words maybe. Sometimes I come across a word you love like "infinity" or your favorite purple color or even your favorite flower. I once read that the universe conspires to make everything you really want, happen, only now I do believe it does.

Is it books that made me believe? Or loving you that made my heart biased to you? Is it just a smile or a word or a favorite color that makes me think this is for me? Or am I only being a fool by seeing you without seeing you? You'd think I'm too tugged in my book that I forget you, but instead I'm reading this book for you, to you, about you, and with you.

Source

In reply to the previous prose. This is all in my head so don't worry :)

I need to write you in the most cliché words because running away from you always takes me back to you. Let me craft the idea of you like I'm portraying my favorite novel character. You'd be reading under a dim light, so tugged in your book I'd get jealous of the characters inside, they're so lucky to be flying freely inside your imagination while I'm only watching you from a two-meter space that kills me to get closer. I wish I could read with you to share the same thoughts (I wish we'd be one). I pretend to be busy with my book too but I find that every character reminds me of you, even if you're not really similar, they just invoke you in some mysterious ways. I flip through each page in a speck of a second while stealing a look at you from the corner of my eyes. I start to be so good at this you barely notice me. And I barely notice myself when you lean closer to the book and I melt as if you're drawing me in one of your characters too.  You make me love books and the words inside them, because they talk about you. I know they do, they tell me that I love you, not as cliché as I write it, but in the warmest, deepest, calmest words I could ever read. I love you, like the books say it. And I'll find a better way to say it one day.

Written for you.
4th of Jan. 8:23 PM.

How can you read words and sleep to wake up to another day just like that? I mean, how can you not let the words, the stories, the novels dwell, linger, breathe in you until you can no longer speak, read or write, or even live. Can a day pass without the effect of the words you read, on you? And what good would words be there? At the bottom of your being, breathing yet not breathing. Until their face appears on the surface, a strange being, something you cannot fathom; just because you gave them no chance to survive, to evolve.
You can't possibly want words to make sense if you just keep reading without breathing. Read and breathe in between. And give words at least half the amount of oxygen you give to yourself. Let them evolve. Let them prosper. Let them be. You. And I. And the world.