لنستخرج كنوزا من المعرفة و الإبداع و العلم و الأفكار
The headache is a warning from the brain that tells us that something is wrong and a Panadol capsule is enough to silence it. As for the headache of life, it is a warning that tells us that there is wrong behavior.
The moment of realization - even if it is late - that you have come a long way to reform; So you changed, and that you are no longer the same as you are accustomed to in yourself, and that what you thought was permanent in your condition has changed and changed, and that maturity gained from your soul and blossomed with you, and from your mind and increased with it, this very moment is priceless.
Only one should carry the world on his shoulder as a raging bull, and only he who searches straying steps for his eternity. He must solve this puzzle? So who is he alone? Waste of complete formation around him, his naked shadow resting on the trunk of a tree, so where is his shadow? Where is his shadow after his trunks are broken? Isn't the summit of man an abyss...?!!
Restoring things to their natural place, birds in the heights, not in cages, and free people as well, is half of maturity and rationality, and it is the turning point in human life.
Man’s hope of maturity is to find warmth in places of frost, companionship in places of loneliness, support in places of inclination, humility in places of misfortune, strength in places of weakness, a smile in places of hardship, and a breeze in places of intensity. It shrinks, but rises, fades, towards something that almost died for thatHe gets it and gets it, even if it's in his hands!He'll put it aside and move on.
Many of those afflicted by hunger close their eyes in our bare streets, and whatever crimes they have committed, they are unable to open them to a world more cruel and harsh, and these miserable hungry homeless people do not find anything better than lying on the ground and blanketing the sky in anticipation of death.
{Indeed, his command, when he wills something, is to say to it, ‘Be,’ and it is.}
“In the name of God, we embark on new paths, hoping that we will not stumble.”
I hate hesitation, which never lets go of my hand, and which makes me swallow every time a torrent of words, some insults, and many screams that I never hear - nor will I hear - coming out of my string bars.
As I write, I imagine everything, I see the faces of the oppressed, their sittings, until crying has become vulgar, perhaps because the tears have become ashamed of themselves?!
The calamities seem great, crippling the soul, then comes what is more powerful and severe, and what seemed big becomes smaller and shrinks in a corner of the heart and viscera. I do not think that it is a headache, but it is the headache of life and oppression.
What is the logic in running after a memory that permeates the conscience thousands of years ago, while it wanders seeking to escape from itself, disheveled, forgiven, terrified, haunted by the horror of what it saw and sees? We ran for life, and they, as Arabs and Muslims, wish us death.
Everything I see and hear makes me tired, and I will get tired because I don't want to hear or see.
Is it not better for a person to listen to the speech than to be the one to speak?
We are not honest except when we are alone with ourselves at the end of the day. Isn't faith in God and then the justice of our cases what helps us to live? How much loses those who have no case!
There is no doubt that writing is a silent revelation, pain that has no voice, but we are always exposed by it, and with all this we still write and we will remain, for such a land - Palestine - does not grow except for the prophets, this drought can only be cured by heaven.
