The Madman

I have wanted to write about this for a long time, But never did.
Today The Echo Of the word Gibran asked me to.
A Friend Once told me to buy Gibran Khalil Gibran’s The Madman, I did as Told. By then I didn’t know about Gibran anything but that he was some famous Arabian writer. When I read the book, fifteen at the time I can’t say I understood every single word, nor can I say so now. However some magical force about his words drew me, the wordless world that his words lead to … took my breath away. The way he spoke captured the world from a Genius’s point of view. I insisted on carrying the book around with me for a whole summer, it might have been out of Ego or A need to look like a know-it all, However I would like to think that that wasn’t the reason. I liked reading the book out loud to myself, I liked having that Magic carried around in my bag. Gave me a sense of safety to know that madness is no myth.
After the Madman I didn’t read any other book of Gibran, However he still had a big place in my heart. and Last year I went to Lebanon . To be honest the moment I heard the word Gibran on the activities list I went Nuts.
On my second day in Lebanon the group that I was with (whom were all Arabs) , rode a bus and we headed off to the area where you find the famous Cedrus trees, And there on a mountain full of high aging trees, near a waterfall covered with the petals of yellow flowers, surrounded by houses so old that their fragrance takes you to another time, in the Monastery of Mar Sarkis or rather a modest area for monks, Gibran lay.
The Moment I entered my heart started dancing, beating so hard. I was touching every painting and smelling every fragrance, His hand writing was write there infront of me, there was something so real about that fact. Shelves with books that have been worn out by him, I started looking at the titles and hoping I’ll be able to memorize some, I saw his painting evolve, and saw the infinite beauty that he wanted to express, I saw the faces that he painted of the people around him with no masks and wondered who would I look without a mask, His vision of Humanity was right there before me in a small tiny temple were he asked to be buried, I saw his furniture and his desk and I saw the place that he loved so much, and found such a spiritual meaning in it, the place he wanted to be buried in it.
However seeing that as I already mentioned I was with a group of Arabs whom after decades of being controlled by other Nations and led around like sheep, have forgotten who they are, they forgot their culture and their thought, and most of all they have forgotten their passion. They have turned into people who no longer appreciate culture or art or even mere thought, and to give the simplest proof of this, Me and my family and an old couple were the only people who entered the museum out of over a hundred other people in our group who were satisfied to be sitting in the garden of the museum taking pictures of each other. As a result our guide gave me a

A Painting of Kamila Gibran's Mother, one of my personal Favourites

mere fifteen minutes to explore the whole life of one of my most beloved thinkers, At that moment I wanted to run down to these people and scream till I drop, Have you no sense no thoughts at all?

Back to the museum, as you see I was in a rush so the instructor lead me straight to where he was buried, I went down the straight with quick steps, and I was in folded by the darkness of the dim lit room, and there I felt it before I even saw it, There I was sure that Humans have a soul, and as if cold rain drops were running through my every cell, I was out of place and time, I start crying without even knowing why, on his tomb there was a sculptured cedars tree branch, and next to his tomb on the wall there were words

” I am alive like you, and I am standing beside you. Close your eyes and look around, you will see me in front of you ….”

Those were the words he asked to be written on his grave…

By anyway I don’t believe in cherishing Human Beings, And this one thinker I found worthy of Loving not cherishing, for some reason the word Gibran will always Have an Echo in my Mind, and for some reason at many of the turning points in my thoughts I find his words.

“A little while. a moment of rest upon the wind, and another woman shall bear me”

The Day the Sun hid under a Cup.

On a winter day

Winter … strangely enough I haven’t noticed the season has come and is on it’s way out, for I have been in another world.

I can hear the drops as they fall and leave a sign of their existence by the harmonic voice of their fall.

as I set near the heater with it’s orange flaming fire, asking for warmth from it’s cruel nature.

The world outside me sounds like a train that is moving far too fast. a bird is humming from a distance, trying to fit it’s self into the portrait of the world. The world outside my window is white, but white is too general a word, for this white doesn’t hold the purity of it’s name. around me the world is -just for a millisecond- pausing to take a breath, thoughtless and tired.

The strings of a story hold on to my mind, for I feel like telling a story. I would have written mine, but mine bears no magic for the normality of the picture drawn for it has made my story out of breath, out of magic.

Stories are there to be told.

There once lived a ‘she’  who lived in a ‘magical room’, Her room was ten feet higher than the ground, for humans were meant to live above the ground not under it. she lived on the top of a tree named Vida, quite a strange name for a tree she thought each time she called the tree. Her room had all the things she loved, a box, thousands of small tiny buttons, colors, a brush, a tambourine and around thirty six pillows (ofcourse she had all the extra things that one usually needed like food and a bed) . Her roof was made of tens of colorful sheets, with colorful striped lanterns hanging from vida’s branches.

Everyday she would wake up hum a song, climb down vida, touch the ground, make sure she feels the coolness of the grass her feet touch, and start running. she would run and whirl, and smile gently each time she sees another person, that is until she reaches the Merchant’s town; the Merchants town was filled with big old grumpy men who never knew what day it was, if it were Monday or Saturday, that won’t change their frowning ways, The buildings were old and smelled like wet soil, the windows were tall and black, and the houses were crammed next to each other like there wasn’t enough space for them to spread their arms wide. she didn’t mind the Merchants town for that’s where she worked, where she met all kinds of people and sniffed all types of smells each with a melody of it’s own, and the sounds of the village each had a world of it’s own.

On a day like no other she woke up and saw the sun hiding under a cup. she wondered what the sun’s story might be, but she continued her day as if it were like every other day. Again this day was like no other day, for when she arrived into the Merchant’s town she saw all people hover like they have all been stung by bees, she looked around wondering what their story might be, as she walked a head a voice trembled in her head: Oh, Miss please do help. she looked to her left but all she saw was the same scene she saw a few second ago, she look to her right and felt something pumping into her cheeks. O please be careful, miss the voice trembled in her head again. she felt her shoulder and found an object on it, she held the object and gazed with her mouth half open. the voice came from a tiny tiny red haired human who was as tall as her index finger, Oh, Hello … miss can you please take me out of here. why would I do that she asked. I have a story the tiny tiny red haired human answered. and with so little thought she painted another bright color to the painting of her day and took the courageous step of rearranging the plot of her day.

As she carried the tiny tiny red haired human with both of her hands, her cream colored dress fluttered as she walked against the wind, the sun was peaking from under the cup and blessed earth with a few sun rays, she tried to feel their warmth on her skin, and every part of her body, felt as if a brush was repainting it from her toes to the ends of her hair, this way she was sure she was still with a full soul; for her day was getting weirder and even the wind is too fast for the colors to seep through.

She put the tiny tiny red haired human down on the floor of her room, She listened as he told her the story of how the sun after hundreds of years of keeping it’s feelings to it’s self, woke up this morning to frown at man kind, for they kneel ed to no one but to their mighty creator in the past but now kneel to each other betraying one another, they live with their backs bent down. for fear of the seen and felt has taken over them, men now walk with their heads down while other animal wish their heads could look straight up, and men kneel so often now a days that they might end up four legged. plants ask to go higher but humans ask to go lower. humans were made to live on earth but now they are making sure they live under the surface. for humanity has been dragging it self into darkness, even their clothes are painted by no other than the color of black.

and as you know ,the tiny tiny red haired man continued, sun as bright as it’s is always shy, so it hid under it’s cup for very few humans look up to see it these days. and her friends the wind and the sea and so many others share her pains so each of them dances in a rhythm to show their pain.

She gazed at the tiny tiny red haired man and asked but how such a small human came to know of such a big story. and as she gazed at the tiny tiny red haired human, she saw that he had a red beard and spectacles that were too big for his small face and behind them green fierce eyes gazed back at her and said: vision doesn’t come for those of size, or those of big brains, it comes to those who look for it, for the deepest truth is often the simplest one.

And then she asked why do you tell me? and the tiny tiny red haired human answered because your vocal cords give a stronger tune, and because every story has to told.

She blinked and turned her face up to the sun, the sun with it’s untouchable beauty. while some of it’s ray’s escaped through her roof of sheets and appeared in blue, purple, red and yellow. beauty that’s  felt rather that touched she thought, and then she looked back at her friend turned back to her and his train of thoughts and said You are right every story has to told.