There’s no greater satisfaction than reading hearing one putting your ideas and thoughts and sentiments which you’ve had in your brain and soul unorganised in a beautiful prose.
I should think about death, think about death so that I decide how to feel about it when she arrives to anyone I love. I had forgotten death existed as I had forgotten about life. Vacuum, Time. Time and space of a third world dimension had swallowed us. All we are is a downward journey through the throat.
I cannot write beautiful words. I cannot express myself in English. I am weak. I cannot express myself at all. She left us too soon. With her words. Her prose her Grief. I weeped, silently, as I read her Grief.
Featured image by Krikor Avessian.
Last time you gave me your hand and drowned me in your pages was with Zahra (The Story of Zahra) and now, after three years, I decide to give my mind to you again, for you to steer it to your direction.
I skimmed through your little game, I read all of your names, Suha, Tamr, Suzanne, Nur… I am not afraid to be your women, I am not afraid to become one with them. I am totally ready to dive into your words, to allow your lines to submerge me deeper and deeper, until I suffocate and forget to breathe.. But guess what, my Library knows me the best, she knows all my identities hidden in her shelves and I know that she will pull me out from you and dip me into another kind of you and I will equally enjoy every bit of it.
And if your women and I make it to the lands, I will allow you to scribble an abstract on how we made it to safe havens having passed through your flames…