أحلامٌ لم تأتِ

ظنّ ذاكَ الطفلُ عندما بدأ ببناءِ أحلامِهِ، أنّ تحقِيقَها واجبُ الحصُول، وظنّ ذاك الطاعِنُ في السنِّ أن الأحلامَ مضيعةٌ للوقتِ والجُهدْ. فبَين هذا وذاك توجدُ أحلامُنا؛ فمِنها ما تتحقّق، ومنها أحلامٌ لا تأتي، وأُخرى تتأخرُ بالوصول ..
في أحد الأيام، استَظل طِفلُنا تحتَ شجرةٍ حدِيثةُ الغَرس، مثلَ قلبهِ وصِبا عقلِه، و كان بيدهِ قلمٌ وكتاب. بدأ بملءِ فراغِ وقتهِ وصفحاتِ الكتاب بما امتلأ به قلبُه؛ رغباتٍ، وأمنياتٍ، وأحلام.
كان يفتحُ كتابهُ بين الحين والآخر، حتّى أصبَح روتيناََ يومياََ أن يتصفّحهُ ويَعِدُ نفسَه بتحقِيقها.

مرّ وقتٌ طويل.. وبدأت الدُّنيا برَمي أحمالِها علَيه، صارَ مشغُولاً، شاردَ الذِّهن مُعظم الأوقات، يُفكّر كيف ينجِزُ هذا العمَل، وكيفَ يُنهي ذاك. في بدايةِ الأمرِ كانَ يُحاول جاهداً أنْ يُزاحمَ أحلامَه بين أعمالِه، وألا يكسِر عادتَه القديمة في تصفُّح كتابِ طفولتِه الذي أسمَاهُ “كِتابَ الأحلام”، كانَ يقضي وقتاً ممتعاً عِندما يفعلُ ذلك، كان يلجأُ إليه، كبُستانٍ من الوَرد في منتَصفِ صَحراء حياتِه، ولكن.. بعٓد فترةٍ من الزمن ليست بقصيرة، لمْ يَعد كذلك؛ حيثُ أصبَح يُشغِل نفسَه عن قِراءتِه، يتحَاشى حتّى النظر إليه، أصبَح كتابُ الأحلامِ في الأحلام! كان النظَر إليه لا يُذكره بشيءٍ سِوى أنّ أحلامَه لم تأتِ، وأنّه لم يستَطع تحقِيقها.

فبدأ أملُه بالتّلاشي، وذاكَ الطِّفل الذي يسكُن داخِلَهُ بالموت.

حتّى أصبحَ شيخاً كبيراً في السنِّ يمشِي بين الطُّرقات، يرَى الأطفَال الذين شَرعُوا في بناءِ أحلامِهم وآمالِهم ويُخبرهُم بأنّها مضيعةً للوقتِ والجُهد.

Sliding on The Bow of Time

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Clocks tick and time goes by, doesn’t stop nor does it slow. Seasons change in a blink of an eye, from hottest summers to whitest snow

As seasons do, people too. But their memory always stays. As if spring roses never die, they bloom infinitely throughout your days.

Sometimes you smell their pleasing scents, and live that moment in your mind. You form smiles that were never meant, because happiness then is hard to hide.

But then they hurt you with their thorns, when you come to realise they’re in your past, and only there. You wish you can take a bouquet of these back home, but there is where they grow, and you can only stare.

You wake up and make a vow, to never smell roses anymore. Still you plant more and more, as time goes by and people go.

A Friend of Her Thoughts

Sitting in the corner by herself, holding back her words and tears. Her thoughts are her best friends and the worst of her fears.

Squeezes her eyes shut though she owns the prettiest eyes. Her refuge lies behind her lids, therein the darkness she hides.

It’s dark, mere blackness, quite scary inside, but she holds on to these daunting thoughts since they’re sole in her mind

Illustration by Kathrin Honesta.

They’re there with her all the time, what dominates is against her will. They take her to a pretty heaven, sometimes a frightening hell.

They keep pulling her down, like gravity on a hopeless drop, careless where to land, fearful to never stop

She doesn’t think of what comes next, for she always lives in her past, swimming in the seas of old memories, drowning deep in flashbacks

As she dives deeper within her space, between childhood fantasies and future aims, she catches a glimpse of a fading dream, an image of herself in a better place, in the middle of achievements and great success, on top of the mountain of ultimate bliss

There is the place she once longed to be, that is the person she wants everyone to see, then she realizes that this dream could still come true, if she gets herself out of that dying sea

She knows now she shouldn’t stay still, there’s a place in this world for her to fill, and with that single thought and powerful will, she swims back to reality with a renewed thrill

And later on, she lits up a candle in that corner, where she used to sit cry.

Fragile Gold

Perhaps the right words have run away
Realising the awfulness they hold

For our hearts are quite fragile
Though they seem a shiny gold

In another world may I find you
And tell the things I never told

I’m afraid to be misunderstood
So I keep them within, secrets unfold

My Shadow in The Light

My world shone bright
and you became its shadow

My guide through the night
now an afterglow sorrow

If I had a second heart
it’d be yours to borrow

Til’ we meet in a light
a fated shimmer of tomorrow

For that time I shall write
for the overflowed hollow

With the glee and delight
that washes away our woe

Melody of Strength

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He’s walking down that road, been told he’d find a place where he can touch his dreams.

Promised himself to do his best, to keep on going, to give it all it takes. Sleepless nights, crowded mind, and restless is how he spends his days.

Waits impatiently for the next sunrise to carry on with this journey. Eager to reach the end, though it seems to be endless. It is foggy, full of obstacles, and directionless.

And he keeps on stumbling and falling, then questioning if he’d ever make this. Yet, he gets up, every time stronger than the time before. Fulfilling his promise, being determined as he swore.

He’s gone too far to give up now. So he keeps on walking down that road.

His thoughts enlighten the darkness that surrounds him, clear away the fog. A blow of wind, moves the branches, forms a melody that sings of being strong. A carol so lovely, encouraging him to move forward, and quicken his base, as his heart leads the way on the tone of that song.

He knows that what awaits him is greater than all the struggle, he is certain it is worth the trouble. So he keeps on walking, starts running, chasing the clouds. Catching glimpses of light in the distance, kicking off rocks along with his doubts. He does a million things, has billions of thoughts, and much more ways to get him there, where dreams are not mere dreams, where success is a way of living, and happiness is an every-day feeling.

Maybe he’ll reach there someday, achieve his goals, satisfy his desires, and make his dreams come true. And maybe, just maybe, that ultimate dream of his is nothing more than a driving force, a hand which holds on tight to him and guides him somewhere better than his intention, a place beyond his comprehension, a reason to keep him going.

It doesn’t scare him nor leave him shaky, doesn’t stop him that he might be wrong, for he prefers certainty over maybe, hence he does not look back, as he’s walking down that road, muttering a melody about being this strong.