I wrote two posts and then didn’t feel like publishing either of them. Is silence that addictive?
Or maybe because words lost their merit in our world?
I keep thinking about this. If we measure the amount of literature on this planet, it should be sufficient for educating thousands of human generations. It would be sufficient to humanize every aspect of their lives. But you look at the thousands of great works, and then at the thousands who die of oppression, poverty and hunger, and then you lose faith in humans.
Something in gravely wrong with those so called books, maybe? Those so called words? Do words really change people? Or people are hopeless by nature or what? It’s so desperate.
In my country, it is. Our so called ‘elite’ turned out to be fascists. The ones who many thought were well versed in thought, ‘culture’ and ‘civilization’, are blood thirsty, vindictive liars. Go figure, literature.
God, I miss the word ‘beautiful’. Nothing is beautiful these days. And if it is, there’s pain that keeps hovering around it.
And I want to write. I want to write about my country, about its heroes and its bastards. About the marches, the gunfire, the blood and the tears. About survival’s instinct, about faith, courage and martyrdom!
In our world, books are inspired by life. Life is rarely inspired by books. Life is master, here.
Those past two months in Egypt, are worth hundreds of bookshelves on their own.
I can’t even write well.
Oh, I also so want to write about my dad. Oh, my dad. My own father. That man. That man is my ticket to happiness, and I just never knew it. I was stupid and arrogant and just naive.
I love my dad. I love my dad very much.
Good night you people whom I miss,