On Olives and Sake

Some days I wake up with a sinister feeling brewing inside of me. I wake up because I could hardly breathe, and I reach for my asthma inhaler. I feel shackled by the strings of my own freedom. My books and my little memoirs from times past along with other, even more trivial, lifeless belongings stare at me with a smirk. The desire for things nauseates me, depresses me and leads me to a round of foggy self-lashing. I feel lost and disrespectful to everything I believe in.

***

Some days I sit on my roof and stare at the sky. My mind races through the names of random stars I can recognize, ones that I remember and can not see, names of galaxies I’ll never see, or the moons of Jupiter. A familiar and stressful thought keeps coming back from as long as I can remember. I have seen too many sci-fi movies that the imagery in my head is completely corrupted, and any attempt to close my eyes and imagine these vast distances and spaces is bound to end with the painful feeling of familiarity, like everyday life. But the thought itself races through my mind, cripples my heart and brings tears to my eyes. There has never been anything more fascinating and awe-inspiring to human consciousness than the Universe, and Death.

The comforting thought of Death is what brings my mind to ease. The thought that I, too, will have a chance to experience these split seconds of consciousness before that moment of death, is comforting and fulfilling. How painful would life be without that thought. How painful would life be if the only thing we could do was to sit on a rooftop and let our hearts explode over our inability to comprehend the very thought of the Universe.

I know for certain that I will have these split seconds of consciousness before I die. And then I shall die. Whatever that is, I will come to experience it fully. The experience of Death has no limits. Be it an after life, or complete nothingness, I will come to experience it. I will never watch the Big Bang, or touch the outside edges of an expanding universe. But I shall die, and I shall touch the outside edge of life. Without that promise of an ultimate experience of the unknown, I would’ve gone completely insane.

***

Some days I feel like I am almost too conscious of my youth. I feel a destructive desire to exploit my body and mind until they break down beyond their limits. It gives me a twisted pleasure to stay up for days until my body collapses over the bed, to drink beyond pleasure and to smoke beyond need.

***

On most other days, I drink my coffee and walk to school.

I’ve been away for too long indeed. Long enough to have missed the glorious festival of the “Blogging Week Against…” I shall catch up!

***

Since I am, as apparent in all my 2 cheerful posts since 2005, a very positive person, I will be manipulating the title into “Blogging Week for…” This week’s cause will be Moral Decay (أسبوع التدوين للإنحلال الأخلاقي).

Furthermore, since you and I know how little online campaigns do, my suggestions are to be applied in real life.

***

On the first day of the Blogging Week for Moral Decay, you shall buy a rock and roll album (preferably Are You Experienced? By Jimi Hindrix), and one of them evil devil-worshippers heavy metal (Say, Sabbath Bloody Sabbath). Get your iPod on, let your hair down, make your red underpants very visible and then go have a little walk.

On the second day of the Blogging Week for Moral Decay, you shall grab a hot tea thermos, a Labneh sandwich and some dessert for your outdoor breakfast at the lovely little park down the road. Make sure to smile back at the gloomy faces of people spitting on your footsteps for breaking your fast a little too early.

On the third day of the Blogging Week for Moral Decay, you shall skip school and stay home enjoying the vast porn directory on the internet. Your plan for the day should include nothing but long sessions of Masturbation. Do get some sleep and some food in between these sessions. However, you are not to go to sleep at the end of the day until your palms start growing hair.

On the fourth day of the Blogging Week for Moral Decay, you shall rest from yesterday’s exercise with some Arak (or your choice of hard liquor).

On the fifth day of the Blogging Week for Moral Decay, you and your girlfriend/boyfriend (Whom you are not to be married to!) shall have to experiment with BDSM, role playing, threesomes, foursomes (or your choice of sexual fantasy).

On the sixth day of the Blogging Week for Moral Decay, you and your girlfriend/boyfriend (Whom you are not to be married to!) will have to go to that same park down the road and make out until your balls turn dark blue, then repeat yesterday’s suggestions.

On the seventh day of the Blogging Week for Moral Decay, you shall pretend that you are God and rest. (Preferably with a joint of the finest Beqaai hashish). And then proceed to blog about your week, under the influence.

***

Now tell me my dear fellow bloggers-who-oh-love-blogging-weeks-so-much: How’s that for sticking my morals up your anus.

***

Disclaimer: I personally have done every single one of these at least once in my short life on this planet, and I stand by every word here in both its literal and sarcastic sense.

“Wise men speak because they have something to say; Fools because they have to say something.”

Plato

Kasak Abu Fares, this butt truly is an elegant example of the splendor of creation.

“Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time.”

Winston Churchill – 1947.

I think Churchill had anticipated well that the age of Internet, with its blogs and wikis, was bound to come.

It’s a remarkable experience to be a part of an age where a post-democratic system is in the making, virtually.

I’ve been an editor on Wikipedia for more than two years now. And two of the fundamental guidelines that are invoked and cited almost daily state that: Wikipedia is not a democracy, and polling is not a substitute for discussion. The main and preferred way to tackle a dispute on Wikipedia is discussion, and consensus. Controversial topics may take days and months in discussion over every word and articulation until there is a consensus on the issue. A valid compromise is one that guarantees that the majority can’t coerce the minority or bully it, and at the same time, that the minority won’t disrupt the collective effort of the group by being disgustingly brushed aside.

Yesterday, Al-Mudawen, a Syrian bloggers portal, announced the first Annual Competition for the Best Syrian Blogs. A commendable effort taken by Al-Mudawen to bolster a Syrian blogosphere shaken by a repressive internet censorship regime and its own internal rifts. I was honored to be selected as part of the Judges committee which will oversee the evaluation of the blogs that enter. I was glad and quick to accept this gesture, not as a “contest” but rather a collective effort to bring more attention and more activity to this blogosphere.

When the contest was announced however, a condition which was inadvertently added stirred a certain amount of controversy among bloggers. The condition read:

The contents of which [the submitted blog] must not dissent from the accepted mores and morals (i.e. sex through videos or photos, hostility to religions, cussing, swearing and bad taste).

Abu Fares was very quick to hit back, quite elegantly, at these ambiguous prerequisites and their premise, and I received a few emails to inquire about it.

The discussion that followed was an interesting experience. After years at Wikipedia, I’ve learned to always start a discussion while assuming good faith, and this was very much inline with that. And while there was a major disagreement on the most fundamental issues, Omar Mushaweh, the Admin of Al-Mudawen, (and the only representative from the site in the contest, it should be mentioned), was quite courteous in understanding the reservations that I, and other Judges, had on said prerequisite. And he readily accepted to remove it.

Yes, I personally wouldn’t like to read blogs that are of abusive sexual nature, or ones that completely disregard and insult other people who may differ with its point of view (be it religious people, or homosexual atheists). But if there happened to be a Syrian blog which advocated that, I wouldn’t mind having it add itself to the competition, only to be disregarded later in favor of blogs with actual substance. In fact, it only helps to show how low quality (in any sense) writing, is readily disregarded by most people.

It is interesting to note, that while there was no consensus on the issue itself, there was a consensus on resolving the issue. Not to make a big deal out of it, but it is a refreshing incidence in a blogosphire that is growing more and more apart, and more and more bitter.

Personal disagreements aside, today I’ve come out with greater respect for Omar, and this experiment as a whole. It is worth noting that while Syria Planet and Al-Mudawen do seem to represent very different currents in the Syrian blogosphere, with Syria Planet more heavily influenced by English blogs, and Al-Mudawen by Arabic ones. This should not be an acceptable status quo. Tensions are bound to happen, but voices, ugly ones included, should be, and must be,  represented.

Internet is not a democracy, but a more fundamentally free forum, in the most extreme expressions of freedom. And thus should be treated.

Please do add your blogs here, and let us enjoy a little experiment, in good faith.

I share my birthday with the most adorable Katia, and celebrate it one day after Rime‘s and Mariyah‘s. Images and scents of the loveliest ladies surround and dizzy me, what more could a boy ask for!

August 8th, happens to be my birthday, and I shall reserve the right to indulge myself, and you, my dear readers, in this little trip down memory lane.

April 1987, Beit Jeddo’s terrace. I can’t even imagine what thoughts must’ve been going through his little head.

May 1988, Sanaa countryside, Yemen.

August 1989, Beirut, Lebanon.

August 1987.

January 1st, 1993.

Ssshhhhh! (1989)

Here I am again, sipping wine from the bottle, surrounded by the layers of take-out garbage that’s been piling around for a week now, this must be exam week.

It’s a Friday night, and I’ve guilt myself into staying home, but ended up sipping wine, smoking, dylanning and pondering endlessly about improbable questions of my own.

***

Her name has come up many times, too many for my own comfort, in the course of the last few weeks, in the most strange of coincidences. I still don’t know if this is a simple conspiracy of life, or is one of my own mind to deny me any ability to focus on my Database Theory textbook. One thing is certain though, the thought is here to stay.

When I set out to write anything about her my thoughts start to confuse reality and fiction. They start to confuse what really happened with what imaginary conversations and events I’ve made up in days like this one. I confuse what I wrote once about her, with what she really was.

A question she kept on dragging behind her was whether I did love her, or just wanted to love, and whether she did love me, or just wanted to be loved. I remember how grotesque the question and its whole premise was, I still do. Maybe my problem was, and apparently still is, that I’ve found love, in its most abstract shape, to be an entity completely independent of us people.

Don’t read too much into this, I am not dwelling over an end of a relationship. Not that one anyway, that one was bound to crash in the most painful of ways. Egypt and Japan are not even in the same continent and, I have no doubt, our worlds were much further apart.

Nonetheless, when you find out that you share a thought that is so transparent, like a dream, a thought so personal and so particular despite its many, many colors, when you share such a thought with someone, she becomes an integral part of it. She blends with the background, a color of her own, and comes back with every morning as that thought eats into your mind.

You burn bridges and then beat your head against the wall.

Oh what an noisy gruesome world we live in these days. What a terrible way to burn bridges by ignoring emails and removing people from your Facebook friends. Oh dear!

There was a time when I wrote letters everyday, much like Issian of Amin Maalouf’s Ports of Call. Letters that explained yesterday’s letter, and one’s that explained today’s. But unlike Issian, I did not mail them. They’re here. All these letters of madness that I wrote are here, as a comic and insightful testament to those days. They bring me sorrow because I was the one who wrote them, but mostly because I never put a stamp on them and mailed them.

***

She had the smile of Astarte, and eyes much like the sun. She had the passion of a million seas and the vengeances of a million humanities. Oh, what beautiful a color she’s made.

Sigma TV, that blessed Cypriot channel, reminds me of my 1990s more than anything else. Sigma reminds me of my first porn, my first infatuation with English and my first video of Michael Jackson. For a kid growing up with the brunt of Syria’s 90s, Sigma was a little place of solace. Sigma was where I first saw Basic Instinct, Apocalypse Now and Star Wars.

***

How can someone of my generation write about the 1990s? I never seize thinking of those days. I am, above all, a product of the 1990s sensory deprivation. The culmination of the autocracy and the implosion of every attempt to change in the mid 1980s, delivered us to a century of silence. It’s much more easier to track down the psychological impacts of these days than to actually remember how it happened.

The towering figurines of Hafez Assad looked down on me from every corner. It’s difficult to recall how a 10-year old child formed his complex relationship with those photos. In my earlier years, I was fully aware that these photos were the reason why my father lived in a far off city, why I had to lie about my name every time I was shipped to Beirut in the summer, and why my mother would speak very little about him in the presence of others. I saw the bitterness in her eyes, and I had nothing but hate for these photos.

In 1995, my father was somehow smuggled from Beirut to Latakia, and for the next 6 years, we lived, for the first time, like a normal family. Well, normal might be an overstatement considering that he had to hide in the bedroom closet whenever we had guests, but still, we lived all three of us in one house. My relationship with the photos changed.

I never saw bitterness in my father’s face, and when I told him that I hate them photos he smiled and said that hate is for defeated people. He brought laughter to the place, and he brought defiance to replace bitterness. My whole life had changed suddenly. The photos didn’t have that air of immortal fear and hatred anymore, they were photos of a mighty opponent, but one who couldn’t defeat defiance with bitterness. The fear, my father told me, is not but the reflection of fear in other people’s eyes. It is not but the reflection of the exasperation and desperation of what later became my forming century, the 1990s.

***

One of the scenes that will never leave my mind was the young lady crying helplessly as she reaches out to touch President Hafez Assad as he cast his ballot in the 1999 presidential referendum. He turns to her, smiles and hugs her. It moved me, and still does every time the footage is played again on television. I’ve made up many stories as to why that young lady was crying so emphatically. Many years later, as I read through my father’s diaries, I found these recollections of dream from April 1993.

He was attending some sort of a poetry reading, and Hafez Assad was present at the reading. As the night came to an end the room emptied and he found himself alone with the president. Assad came up to him and said, I have a feeling you want to talk to me about something. My father said, yes, but there’s something you need to know about me first. I am a member of Hizb al-Amal (Communist Labor Party). Hafez Assad, said with the most genuine surprise and pain, “But, Why?”

The dream was titled, “Stockholm syndrome.”

The 1990s were about to end, and with them the towering figurines of Hafez Assad. Within weeks my father would become, once again, a citizen.

***

The 90s are long over, and Michael Jackson is dead. There are very few of them towering figures now to look down on me and I don’t make much of an effort anymore to disguise my phone conversations. But I still don’t know how to write about those days. Memories from back then still come unexpectedly and leave me in a state of both confusion and contemplation.

Intoxication leaves me in the morning with an abundance of stills from the night before, and in a blur of the events. It leaves me with images of drinks being poured, sounds of laughter, shouting, inadvertent smells, and two lungs struggling for a breath in the midst of cigarettes smoke.

I wake up, fix my coffee and stare at my screen. Coffee instills them images, all of which completely unrelated and most of the time, out of place. I wake up with a pressing feeling of vanity and a desire to cough out everything I’ve ever read. I pick myself up to the washroom and I take a look at my face, swollen from sleep, and my eyes red with smoke.

It’s not that I feel my life slipping from me, far from it, I look at it and it feels, more than ever, like there’s absolutely no point to it. The most important feat any of us will come to achieve is to play a role in a process of natural selection, nothing more than a shrew (and this is not to undermine our ancestors’ honorable pursuits, in any way) did a few billion years back, but because I’m a human there will be, I suppose, a gravestone mentioning that somewhere. Something like a graduation certificate, “This man has carried his journey through the giant DNA soup, and we thereby declare him Dead.”

As we rant endlessly about our free choices in life, we forget that the very premise of “life” is inevitably predetermined.

The details of life, small or big, begin to crawl back upon me. An email here or a phone call there, news on the TV and words and words and words. They inconvenience my solitary disillusion with my transient existence.

Compromises come back in a rush; they weigh heavily on my soul. Places where I have mercilessly cut out a piece of me, so that the rest can carry on. It’s all very grotesque suddenly.

I smoke a cigarette and let my light-headedness take all of them away. I want this feeling of lightness to stay, I want to vomit out all my thoughts.

I feel condemned to life, and hope, and I don’t like it, not one bit.

The air reeks of smoke, and I open the window, but the whole city reeks of smoke. It reeks of smoke, and of the sweat of people running and crawling in pursuit of happiness.

This is madness. The only thought that runs through my mind as I take my shower is that, this is madness. And in two hours, I shall pick up my phone and walk back into this madness.

Of all the exquisite and the mesmerizing things that can be said about the beauty of a woman. About eyes as deep and wild as the Mediterranean on a stormy night, or of the creamy delicacy of her skin. About her faintly rouged cheeks, or of the element of subtle excitement filling her every move up to the tips of her rose-painted nails. Of all these little pleasures that tickle my heart at the sight of a beautiful woman, her laughter, alone, is what melts my heart like a fine piece of Brie.

That little sparkle in her eyes as she turns to you unexpectedly, sparks a fire in my heart that would last me many winters. The little tremors at the edge of her mouth, up to the tip of her nose, make my knees tremble and my heart dances like a million Alexis Zorba.

***

It was little after 8, I had finished my laborious Arabic class, and all I wanted was to smoke a quiet cigarette and listen to the random tunes of the band playing in the little plaza in Sakae. I sat down in utmost solitary while the whole of Nagoya was bustling around. A random smile, on the most beautiful face of the most perfect stranger, was all that I remember from that beautiful summer night.

***

At my 22, I am still as puzzled and inconsistent as I remember I was on my first day of school.

It was not scary, nor abhorrent, I remember. All I could think of, as my mom walked me to school that day, is that I will be doing this same thing for many more years than I could actually count on my fingers.

But for the next three years, I woke up everyday early morning, put on my brown uniform and hurriedly crossed the street to the little school near my grandparents house. Because she’ll be there in my desk with her funny ponytail and her exquisite smile will say “Sabah al-Kheir” and go on telling me how easy yesterday’s math assignment was.

***

Ever more, I grow detached to everything and everyone around me. I grow restless of my dreams, and desires, and fonder of my passions. I grow further apart from my home, and closer to those random strangers whom I’ve met, and will meet, somewhere over a glass of wine and danced with till the wee hours of the dawn.

***

In August, I fly to Korea.

ملء البطنة يذهب الفطنة. هذا صحيح، لكنه يذهب النوم أيضاً. رغم كل ارهاقاتي وانسطالي كان نومي قليلاً ومتقطعاً. هكذا صحوت قبيل الثالثة فجراً على ثورة السماء ورعودها وأمطارها وبروقها. ما أجمل صوت المطر، السيول، الميازيب، سياط الماء تلسع الاسفلت كجواد أدهم. أرقب الدنيا من النافذة وبيروت فارغة صامتة تصغي في هذه القطعة السوداء من ثوب الزمن التي سموها الليل.

لا شر خالصاً. في الشيء جوانبه المتعارضة. لذة الطعام ذهبت بمتعة النوم ونعمة الحلم. انقطاع النوم والأرق قاداني إلى النافذة والشعر وهكذا لكل ثانية من الوقت ملاكان/قوتان والإنسان يفني عمره هكذا، وفي النهاية الحظ هو الذي يحدد المصير.

لا أعرف من الذي ماثل بين ورق اللعب والحياة.

ففي ورق اللعب إمكانات مفتوحة لعدد لانهائي من الألعاب. ولكن لكل لعبة قانونها أو قوانينها واللاعب محكوم بتلك القوانين، وبراعته في اللعب وذكاؤه لهما دور هام في النتيجة، لكن حظه هو الحاكم الأكبر فيما يمنحه من الأوراق بل وحتى ذكاؤه هو مسألة حظ أيضاً.

كل مجموعة تختار لعبة، ونادراً ما يلعب إنسان مع نفسه دون الآخرين (كما يحصل في التبصير بالورق) ولكنه أيضاً محكوم بقوانين وأوراق وحظ. على كل حال ليست تلك المماثلة/المشابهة خاطئة. بل في نظري هي فكرة عبقرية تلك التي تربط بين اللعب والحياة، بالورق أو بسواه.

يشبه السياسيون العالم برقعة شطرنج أو دومينو أو… أو… حسب اتجاهاتهم. والحال أن الوضع لا يقتصر على السياسة ومستوياتها وتجلياتها. بل الحياة ككل. من ناحيتي أرى الحياة لعبة والأحياء لاعبين ولكن لكل شخصيته. فهذا يلعب من أجل الثروة وذاك من أجل الشهرة وثالث من أجل السيطرة والسلطة ورابع من أجل اللذة وخامس من أجل اللاشيء وهذا الأخير هو الأوسع انتشاراً ودوره في الواقع كالقاعدة التي تقوم عليها مشاريع جميع الأصناف الأخرى من اللاعبين.

لا حصر أوتصنيف للعبات أو اللاعبين غير أن ثمة نوعين هامين:

اللاعبون من أجل اللعب وحسب، وهم قلة لكنهم متواجدون في كل مكان وعلى جميع المستويات وفي كل زمان. واللاعبون من أجل تقويض جميع الألعاب لصالح لعبة واحدة رأوها في أحلامهم، أو جاءهم بها جد قديم أو مصلح أو ما شابه.

ذان النوعان من اللاعبين هما الأكثر صدقاً وعطاءً وتضحية.

ولكنهما الأقل حظاً في الانتصار. ومع الوقت، تتكاثر الألعاب الجديدة ويتكاثر اللاعبون وتتغير القوانين والأشكال والأدوات. لكن الجوهر يبقى لامعاً في العمق. الحياة لعبة واسعة وكل من يدخلها سيكون له موقعه شاء أو أبى. والحظ والبراعة هما عنصرا النجاح أو الفشل، لكن ما يحدد الإنسان في رأيي ليس نجاحه أو فشله إنما اختياره، أي لعبته.

رغم طاقاتي المتواضعة اخترت لعبة كبيرة ومعقدة ومرهقة. ومع أنها استغرقت عمري وكل ما أملك، فأنا ما زلت أجهل قوانينها. بل ولأعترف، كلما تعمقت فيها ازداد ضلالي. ولهذا صرت مقتنعا تماماً أنني لا أصلح للنجاح في أي جولة ومع أي فريق. لكنني لم أخطئ في اختياري، فالاختيارات الأخرى (الألعاب الأخرى) لا تغريني وأهلها أكثر بعداً عن ذوقي ومزاجي.

إن مبدأ لعبتي هو الحاسم في اختياري. إنني من الأعماق لا أجد نفسي إلا في تحويل تام للوسط في نمط الحياة والتفكير.

أحب أن أجتث الأمراض وأدفن الفقر وأعيد للطبيعة طبيعتها، أن أفجر في رأس الإنسان انسانيته، ليس من أجله بل من أجلي، فأنا أموت إن لم أتحرك وليس بوسعي الحركة في وسط ميت. أنا لست سياسياً ولا أصلح لذلك… إنني مثالي… رجل أفكار وأحلام… ولكنني لست مثالياً خالصاً أو حالماً صافياً، بل جندي في معركة المبادئ.

الشيوعية حلم ومشروع قابل للحياة. ولكن ليس بموارد اليوم. أقصد بإنسان اليوم. ليس ثمة أجهل من إنسان اليوم بمبادئ الماركسية، وأخص الماركسيين.

كأنه قدر محتوم أن يكون الأتباع وصمة عار على المبدع الذين يدعون اتباعه. المسلمون ومحمد، المسيحيون ويسوع، الماركسيون وماركس. هذه هي القاعدة والاستثناء يؤكد القاعدة في كثير من الأحيان. المبدع شهاب محترق بنفسه، طريقه حريقه، فوق المكان والزمان تلحق به مخلفات وأتربة، رماد وركام، ولا تطول الرحلة. هو يختفي في اللانهاية والأجسام الباهتة تسقط على المروج والورود ورؤوس الناس ولكن تجد من يتبرك بها كرمى للشهاب التي كانت تتبعه.

هل أنا شيوعي؟!

نعم ولا… في شيوعي ثوري صيم، وفي صوفي خالص وفي آخرون.

في فوضوي بوهيمي إباحي وفي ميتافيزيقي روحاني، وفي مجنون.

بل في آخرون وأخرون لا يعرفهم سوى علام الغيوب.

كيف جميع هؤلاء يتعايشون؟!

أنا نفسي لا أدري. لكنني أعتقد أن الحوار هو الذي يخلق السلام ويفسح المجال للتطور الحر والمستقل لكل شخصية.

إن الشيوعي مؤمن بحق الصوفي والصوفي يذبح نفسه في سبيل حرية البوهيمي، والجميع هكذا مؤمنون بالحرية في الاعتقاد والتفكير والحياة. والحرية في وعيهم الرفيع هي مسؤولية عن الذات والآخرين لأنها مسؤولية في ذاتها وعن ذاتها أولاً.

وأنا مستمتع بهؤلاء الساكنين المثقفين الصادقين.

كم أجدني سعيداً عندما يتحاور في ماركس والحلاج؟ كم هما رائعان منفرجا الأسارير متحابان محترمان مخلصان لقضية واحدة هي أن يتحد الإنسان بالله أو يصيره.

كم يروق لي أن أصغي لمحاورة هادئة وغنية بالتجارب والأفكار بين تروتسكي وبروتون أو ابن سيرين وفرويد.

هل أنا مادي؟!

نعم ولا… لقد استخدم مفهوم المدرحية في الفلسفة وأعجبني كثيراً.

إنني مدرحي، أحلم بثورة خالصة في الروح والمادة، أي في المبدع والمنتج. الانتاج للجسد، الابداع للروح. ليس كل منتج مبدع وكل مبدع منتج.

الفن أرقى من المهنة والروح أرقى من الجسد.

لست في معسكر: مادي أو روحي أو مدرحي، إلا من حيث توافق التسميات.

الجسم أعضاء وحركة والروح إلهام وقدرة.

الروح معنى والجسم صورة أو كلمة.

الخطوط، الرسوم، الرموز، الحروف، اللغات أشكال. تتغير وتتبدل مع العصور والأجسام والناس.

المعاني أكثر ثباتاُ وأقل تحولاً في الدائرة التي تدور وتدور.

يمضي الرؤاة ويدرسون والرؤية تزداد غموضاً وإغراءً.

يتتالى العشاق والمحبون والحب يبقى لغزاً مبهما وقدراً لا يواجه.

يتجدد الفرعون والسجن والطغاة وتنفر الدماء وتتدحرج حبات القلوب نحو الشجرة الأبدية التي يسمونها الحرية.

الخطوة والفكرة. يبدو من المستحيل توحيدهما ومن المستحيل فصلهما. متلازمان كالأنثى والذكر. متوالدان من سلالة تتوالد. نهر عظيم يشق صحارى الزمن منذ الأزل وإلى الأبد. كالليل والنهار، كالأرض والسماء، كالمهد والكفن.

جميع من في يتحاورون هذا الحوار، ويصمتون جميعاً باحترام وجلال ووقار للسيدة الحسناء التي تجلس في الصدر، ويهطع لها الجميع كأنها الآلهة يتوحدون عند أقدامها في كلمة واحدة: السلام عليك يا أمنا الحيرة…

نورالدين بدران – بيروت 5/3/1992