The work of art is born of the intelligence’s refusal to reason the concrete.
Watch closely the degree to which you feel your own emotions at any given moment; dissect and intensify them, but do not let them slip through you fleetingly like an echo of a speeding bell; listen intently to what they have to say, and follow every trace of their shades and shadows; immerse yourself into them — do not hesitate and exaggerate if you must — and when the time finally comes for them to slip away, let them: forget and ignore them, but don’t forgive the stain they have smeared upon your soul: let it flow along the currents of your bloodstream, and feel it flow within the veins of your body; let it fill the empty cavities within your lungs and filter the air you breathe each coming morning. Let it crystallize in the deepest fibers of your being. The world would then offer itself to you in all its richness, and only then would you start to realize nothing that has happened to you will ever be forgotten, even if you do not remember it.
The challenge of being a true aesthete is the commitment to make decisions based not on whether or not they are right, but on whether or not they are beautiful.
قمة العظمه…..أن تبتسم وفي عينيك الف دمعه…
The pinnacle of excellence is to smile when your eyes have one thousand tears.
In a barren village somewhere in middle-eastern Asia, a state of unrest had been ongoing for quite a long while now. For unknown reasons, most probably political, the village had been divided into two territories, loosely named by the locals as the north and south. The south territory was some kind of an isolated prison, a dump where exiles of the north are thrown and are then left to rot to death. Although the south dwellers were practically powerless, one could see guns and weapons brought about by adults of the north everywhere they go, serving rather as a symbol of authority. On the border of the two territories, a little further to the north, there was a small canteen where people from both parts of the town would gather around and drink.
On a particular day, a friend and I visited the border’s canteen for a drink and to gather some information. The place was special; there was a kind of an unwritten law which forbade any conflict to occur inside it. People from both territories could come over and sit beside one and another in peace. Most visitors were in especially good terms with its owner. As we chatted away with the dwellers of the other side, we were reminded several times to keep an eye on the pathway that led to the deeper parts of the north, since the extremists may appear at any time. Although the village was divided into two, there was only one leader: an elderly, composed woman who at the same time gave one the impression of a person with a short temper, capable of occasional bursts of violence.
As I went out and checked for the pathway, a large gathering of men appeared and walked along towards the border’s canteen, guns and bayonets hanging around their shoulders. Instinctively I started to run towards the borders, forgetting that I was leaving my comrade behind. As I ran, these people didn’t seem to chase me; I could hear their footsteps in the same rhythm as they were before. Not one of them uttered a single word. This silence, coupled with a chillingly rhythmic footsteps, was frightfully intimidating; I was ready to get shot anytime by a sudden gunfire, but it never came.
After a lot of toppling and stumbling along the way, I managed to flee safely and reached the shelter where the south dwellers lived. Once there, I shouted to the house dwellers that people from the other side might arrive anytime now, and that everyone should enter the house. Not long afterwards, the north dwellers came and inspected the place; as usual, we were treated like the shit of the world, which made the house, perhaps, the asshole of the world; no one dared — or rather, no one was capable to oppose the others’ words and actions. All of a sudden, my comrade back at the border’s canteen emerged from the back of the crowd, an expression on his face as pale as death itself, and was going towards the elder woman of the north. I tried to hold him back, but he told me that he knew he was spotted back at the border by the elder woman, and yet all she did was stare at him as she descended along the pathway towards the south. Out of guilt, and perhaps as an attempt to relieve himself of the inexplicable tension that bound him, he pushed his way out of the crowd towards the elder woman, and apologized ecstatically. A long silence ensued, and the elder woman only gave another long, indifferent stare into his eyes. Not long afterwards, the north people left.
The next day, an announcement for a grand meeting in the south shelter was broadcasted for both parties of the two territories. My comrade was shot to death that day. Some other events occurred during this dream; a vague plot twist was suggested, in which viewers — which is, in other words, myself — were reminded that perhaps the antagonists of this dream really was not the leaders from the other territory, but a person whom the dreamer knows closely, one who had ‘always been there’.