The mere idea of writing something sends a wave of dread through me. Words come with no fluency. Fear consumes my heart. And then, I am left, with the conclusion that the easiest thing is not to write at all.
And it scares me that I may forever linger in this place. Forever "afraid of nothing..nonetheless afraid". But, it is true, it is easier not to write. It is easier to leave those velvet images of mine free of words and definitions; it is easier not to have to be faced over and over again with the futility of it; it is easier not to be disheartened every time I realize that not a person cares. I do not at all know if i am any entitled to call myself a writer; but if I were not a writer, I do not know who I'd be.
But no; I do not believe in this all, I never did. Because writing is not those few minutes when you put pen to parer; writing is a state of being. And I, I am haunted by words. I am haunted by long narratives that bereave my eyes of the peace of sleep; I get lost, deeply engrossed, within lined pages that have the little secrets of life in them; and my thoughts, my hellish thoughts. they consume me and send me to the brinks of insanity. No camera would capture that and steal it from time; only words.
And time, i have concluded, is a villain. I need it to freeze. Physics just says it cannot. And, according to my own belief, time is the progression of life; without time, we would be imprisoned by an everlasting moment of nonexistence. But then, that is actually my wish...never to exist.
I am not a great fan of classic Arabic poetry and tend to have a great liking to the modern one. Today though, in my Arabic curriculum, I happened to come across an enchanting classic poem written by Ibn Al-Roumi. It was a lament to his dead child. Even though we are not supposed to memorize it, I have read a lot already I know it by heart. Here are my favorite two lines:
فيالك من نفس تساقط أنفساً تساقط در من نظام بلا عقد
و أنت و ان افردت في دار وحشة فإني بدار الانس في وحشة الفرد