Is dreaming simply our minds on shuffle mode?

Are dreams simply our minds on shuffle mode? or are they a calling? what are they anyway? At times when when one wakes up, one finds her/himself still revising her/his dreams, and for a few seconds one remembers each and every detail in the dreams, however the human memory makes it’s job to delete those dreams, good or bad. But sometimes we hold on to some of what we have seen while dreaming, at times they are too sweet to let go of and at times they are too scary to forget. At many times the dreams we dream come uninvited, reminding us of an old friend we lost, or of a fear we have. at times they come as a declaration of what we deny, for example someone who hates swimming and denies it might dream of drowning. and at times we dream of simple human fears, like falling, or walking in an endless corridor, or simply going to work while forgetting to put your clothes on. Our dreams are a journey in our inner mind, but at times you have to wonder if your inner mind is so shallow that it can’t think of anything else but the ridiculous fear of going to work undressed or in your PJ’s, the triggers to what we dream of are usually very small that we don’t realize them when we were awake, at times people who go under the same conditions have similar triggers therefore similar dreams. But I hope that just because you dream of someone or of something, that it doesn’t give them anymore importance, because our minds bear no callings, they bear us, us with our imperfections and our human needs, and at times dreams are simply there to indulge a silly thought, that doesn’t make that silly thought of any importance. Even the idea of sleep it self is wondrous. how us as humans simply shutdown for hours so our body can recharge. I always thought weirdly of the idea of the hibernation of bears, and I wonder if they dream … Man those would be long dreams.But as one comes to think of it we somehow do the same every day, hibernate through the dark night. If the world didn’t want us to dream, our sleep would simply be empty, but for some reason our minds work as we sleep, creating a world, that through it’s ridiculousness gives us limitless possibilities, giving us actual scientific evidence that we have to use our imaginations and that there is more to our minds, and to the world than what we think. dreams are rather a source of amazement.

اخترت ان اكون خنجرا

“الى شعراء يضرمون النار في ثيابهم على الطريقة البوذية؟
هل نحن بحاجة الى شعراء يلبسون الأحذية اللماعة ، و القباب المنشاة … و يكتبون القصائد المنشاة … ام نحن بحاجة الى شعراء يقلعون جلدهم و يلبسون العاصفة ؟

ثم لا ادري ، اذا كان الوطن العربي، في صورته الحاضرة بحاجة الى شعراء يأكلون الشعر بالشوكة و السكين … ام بحاجة الى شعراء متوحشين ينقضون على هذا الخراب كالنسر الجارحة؟

انني بدون تردد مع القصيدة المتوحشة!

مع القصيدة التي لم تقرا كتابا واحداً عن فن الجلوس على المائدة ، او فن تنسيق الأزهار على الطريقة اليابانية ، او فن تقبيل ايدي النساء على الطريقة الانكليزية.

لا تستطيع القصيدة ان تكون عاقلة في غابة من المجانين ..

و لا تستطيع ان تكون منيكاناً .. في كرنفال من القبح .. و لا تستطيع ان تضع الخلاليل في ساقيها .. و ترقص حتى مطلع الفجر .. لرجال الميليشيات.

يا أصدقائي:
ليس هذا زمن العصافير .. و لا زمن المواويل .. و لا زمن الورد و اللوز و العنب ..

و ليس هذا زمن ابن زيدون ، و ابن المعتز ، و ابن نباتة الأندلسي .. لان الاندلس كلها صارت في ذمة الله ..

و العالم العربي يتآكل كل يوم كبرتقالة عفنة .. و ينام على مسلسلات الرعب .. و يصحو على مسلسلات الرعب ..

ان هيتشكوك العربي ، هو البطل القومي الوحيد ، الذي تملا تماثيله ساحات المدن العربية …

اما الشعب العربي فهو موضوع في الفريزر .. و هو بالتعبير المصرفي كمبيالة مؤجلة الدفع حتى أشعار اخر ….

و في هذا الإطار الهيتشكوكي الرهيب .. العابث برائحة الموت ، و البارود ، و المسدسات الكاتبة للصوت … مطلوب من الشاعر ان يضرب على طبلته .. و يهز وسطه .. و يشارك في الأفراح.

ففي هذا الزمن العربي الذي لا وصف له ، لم يعد أمامي خيارات كثيرة.

فاما ان اكون حمامة تسكن في قبة مسجد ..
و اما ان اكون خنجرا في لحم عصور النحطاط ..
و لقد اخترت ان اكون الخنجر … ”

من روائع الشاعر نزار قباني ١٩٨٣

To simply give in.

Is it wrong to believe in fate? To sing Que sera sera?
To simply accept everything as meant to be?
Does this not make us believe that we are the centre of the world? Does this make us fight less for what we want, give up and then use fate as a shield against our souls?
In fate you might find comfort knowing that what ever you missed was not yours to begin with, however in fate you might also not fight for getting what you missed.
And then one must ask if I am breathing at this moment, what is the point of what has gone, of what I missed?
And at other times one’s heart aches for what it has missed.
Oh, god.

A pure spirit

When ever an inner voice reminds me to think of the world, of others. I try to listen really hard, however another inner voice replies stating that the mission is tiring. Thinking of the world and of others is full of sorrow , and conflicting news, it fills me with confusion and undirected energy that I should save till I truly understand these conflicting news. A third voice asks me to stare at pictures of people and know that the world is not summarized in a news cast.

People always talk of the human nature and how hard it is to overcome. People always talk of how no body is honest, how it is hard to trust .. Even your own spouse or your own son or daughter. I have been raised in a world where every one suspects everyone, and I am not saying they shouldn’t because it is true what they say, about people only going after their own benefit .. But not always. I remember Jon stewart mill’s theory ( I think it was him) about how we only do things that benefit us and are in the greater good of our selves. He even said that we live in civilizations and respect laws just because we know that it will benefit us in the end. My point is: he didn’t believe that people have the power or the urge to work for the greater good. Each man for himself he said.

She cradles the child in her arms, murmuring prayers, he will be home soon she tells herself. She is sitting on the door step, putting the child down she goes back to her work, staring into the space in front of her, still murmuring prayer .. Prayers for her dead husband, and prayers for her sons , prayers for the crippled child down the street … prayers for the people she hears about on TV.. May god protect them all .. May god forgive them all .. May god be with them all. her neighbor passes .. a gentle greeting of peace is what she gets. May god protects her as well. Standing there in front of that door step, with a white shawl on her head, you can see her loos white hair on her back. dressed in black her skirt moving with the wind, she is tired, she thanks her god as she works. And thinks of what might she be cooking for lunch.

Staring at these women you can’t help but feel hope, but feel love. I have met many old traditional hard working women who are like that woman, women who make sure that they never take an extra penny that they didn’t earn, women who pray for you with each sentence, women with simple prospects who want nothing but good for others. Such pure spirits. They believe that everything is meant to be, and appreciate the taste of food, With their songs, and their tales, how two sugar spoons are too little for a cup of tea, how they worry if their neighbor’s child is sick, and how happy they feel to spend a summer evening in the garden. Looking at these women I can’t help but stare, for they live for others, they care for others, their portrait is simply beautiful.

Yet again I fear women like that might be forgotten in a time like ours, where humans are closer to robots than they are to passionate beings. These women will stay in my mind as a reminder of simplicity, love and caring. I pray for them.