فاض الموت هذه الأيام بسخاء.
مضت أيام وأنا ساكن بين القنوات الفضائية التي تُلقي بالموتى إلى قبورهم من غير أي طقس لتوديعهم.
المداواة على رؤية مشهد الموت يصيب المرء بالبلادة، وخلال الأيام الماضية خف ذهابي وإيابي، وأصبحت رهين القنوات الفضائية المشيعة للموتى بالجملة، موت في موت حتى أن «قراءتي» أصابها الذبول، ولم تستطع الأفلام اختطافي لكي أعيش في عوالم سينمائية موازية للحالات الإبداعية القادرة على تجسيد حياة لها منافذ عديدة، فرؤيتك لفيلم يمنحك الإدراك بماهية اللحظة، ولأن الحالة العامة للسينما المحتفية بأفلام الرعب والعنف تزيد المرء بلادة على بلادة.. ربما كانت أفلام الأبيض والأسود لها هدأة النفس فلجأت إلى عوالمها، ومع ذلك كانت الأحداث الفضائية الحارقة تصيبني بلذعة التنبه، خاصة إن رأيت من يسقط ميتاً في لحظات، ولأن القنوات الفضائية تصب الموت صباً قل الاكتراث، وتهون على نفسك الجزعة أو من تراهم موتى ليس لك بهم علاقة سوى الإنسانية المنتهكة.
كنت ساكناً في صومعتي؛ مكتبي، ومن شقوق عزلتي، تتسرب أخبار أصدقاء أو معارف تنص الأخبار رحيلهم عن هذه الدنيا، ولأني لا أحبذ التعزية، مكتفياً بالرضى، والاقتناء أن من رحل سيظل في داخلي حياً فقط فرقت بيننا الأماكن، ولكي لا أُؤكد رحيله، لا أقوم بتعزية ذويه، وهو سلوك قاس على نفسي، وعلى من يعرف علاقتي بالمتوفى.. مؤلم جداً أن تعزي فيمن كان نبضك يخالج نبضه.
البارحة ومن شقوق عزلتي تسرب إليّ موت الشاعر الصديق موسى محرق، كان خبراً عاصفاً، مرعباً، ليس لرحيل موسى، فكلنا راحلون، وإنما كان موته مهيجاً لذكرى جمعت بيننا نحن الثلاثة (حمود أبو طالب، وموسى محرق، وأنا)، ودار الحديث عن العمر، وسرعة انطوائه، معتبرين أن العمر لو امتد لمائة سنة فهو قصير، وقصير جداً، وفتحنا رغباتنا في امتداد العمر كحد يرضي أنفسنا للبقاء على وجه هذه البسيطة، وكان أمامنا مثالا دعوة نوح عليه السلام في العمر الممتد، واختار كل منا عمراً يرضيه لأن يعيش في هذه الحياة، كنت أنا وموسى قد ارتضينا أن يكون العمر الملائم يقدر بثلاثمائة سنة، وإن كانت طويلة، فلتكن مائتين وخمسين سنة، وأقنعنا حمود بهذا العمر.. كنا نتضاحك، فمع كل اختيار يتم صياغة حياتنا، وفق العمر الجديد الذي اقتنعنا به، وعندما سمعت بموت موسى، عدت إلى حساباتنا، لم يمكث موسى سوى خمسين عاماً، وقد تبقى له مائتا عام وفق رغبته التي سفكها في اجتماع تميز بالضحك ونثر الرغبات والأحلام والأماني؛ كوننا ما زلنا في بداية أعمارنا الجديدة.. رحل موسى بغتة، آآآه لقد فاض الموت هذه الأيام بسخاء، فغرق موسى مع من غرق، وقد رأيته يشيع في كل القنوات بكفن لم أميز لونه.. رحمك الله يا موسى.
تابع قناة عكاظ على الواتساب
Death has been overflowing generously these days.
Days have passed while I remain among the satellite channels that cast the dead into their graves without any ritual to bid them farewell.
The constant exposure to scenes of death dulls a person’s senses, and during the past days, my comings and goings have diminished. I have become a prisoner of the satellite channels that collectively mourn the dead, death upon death, to the point that my "reading" has withered, and films could not capture me to live in cinematic worlds parallel to the creative states capable of embodying a life with many outlets. Watching a film gives you an awareness of the essence of the moment, and because the general state of cinema celebrating horror and violence films increases one’s dullness upon dullness... perhaps black-and-white films had a calming effect on the soul, so I resorted to their worlds. Nevertheless, the scorching satellite events would hit me with a jolt of awareness, especially when I saw someone drop dead in moments. Since the satellite channels pour out death indiscriminately, concern diminishes, and it becomes easier for you to disregard the panic or those you see as dead, with whom you have no connection other than the violated humanity.
I was dwelling in my sanctuary; my office, and through the cracks of my isolation, news of friends or acquaintances would seep in, announcing their departure from this world. Since I do not favor condolences, content with acceptance, I believe that those who have departed will remain alive within me; only the places have separated us. To avoid confirming their departure, I do not offer condolences to their families, a behavior that is harsh on myself and on those who know my relationship with the deceased... It is very painful to offer condolences for someone whose pulse intertwined with yours.
Yesterday, from the cracks of my isolation, the news of the death of my friend, the poet Musa Muhraqa, reached me. It was a stormy, terrifying news, not because of Musa's departure—since we are all mortal—but because his death stirred memories shared between the three of us (Hamoud Abu Talib, Musa Muhraqa, and I). We discussed life and the speed of its passing, considering that even if life were to extend to a hundred years, it is still short, very short. We opened our desires for an extended life as a limit that satisfies our souls to remain on this earth. Before us was the example of the invitation of Noah, peace be upon him, for an extended life, and each of us chose a lifespan that would satisfy him to live in this life. Musa and I agreed that the suitable lifespan would be three hundred years, and if that is long, then let it be two hundred and fifty years. We convinced Hamoud of this lifespan... We laughed together, for with each choice, our lives were being shaped according to the new lifespan we accepted. When I heard of Musa's death, I returned to our calculations; Musa had only lived for fifty years, and according to his desire, two hundred years remained for him, which he had poured out in a gathering marked by laughter and the scattering of desires, dreams, and wishes, as we were still at the beginning of our new ages... Musa departed suddenly. Ah, death has been overflowing generously these days, and Musa drowned along with those who drowned. I saw him being mourned across all channels, wrapped in a shroud whose color I could not distinguish... May God have mercy on you, Musa.
Days have passed while I remain among the satellite channels that cast the dead into their graves without any ritual to bid them farewell.
The constant exposure to scenes of death dulls a person’s senses, and during the past days, my comings and goings have diminished. I have become a prisoner of the satellite channels that collectively mourn the dead, death upon death, to the point that my "reading" has withered, and films could not capture me to live in cinematic worlds parallel to the creative states capable of embodying a life with many outlets. Watching a film gives you an awareness of the essence of the moment, and because the general state of cinema celebrating horror and violence films increases one’s dullness upon dullness... perhaps black-and-white films had a calming effect on the soul, so I resorted to their worlds. Nevertheless, the scorching satellite events would hit me with a jolt of awareness, especially when I saw someone drop dead in moments. Since the satellite channels pour out death indiscriminately, concern diminishes, and it becomes easier for you to disregard the panic or those you see as dead, with whom you have no connection other than the violated humanity.
I was dwelling in my sanctuary; my office, and through the cracks of my isolation, news of friends or acquaintances would seep in, announcing their departure from this world. Since I do not favor condolences, content with acceptance, I believe that those who have departed will remain alive within me; only the places have separated us. To avoid confirming their departure, I do not offer condolences to their families, a behavior that is harsh on myself and on those who know my relationship with the deceased... It is very painful to offer condolences for someone whose pulse intertwined with yours.
Yesterday, from the cracks of my isolation, the news of the death of my friend, the poet Musa Muhraqa, reached me. It was a stormy, terrifying news, not because of Musa's departure—since we are all mortal—but because his death stirred memories shared between the three of us (Hamoud Abu Talib, Musa Muhraqa, and I). We discussed life and the speed of its passing, considering that even if life were to extend to a hundred years, it is still short, very short. We opened our desires for an extended life as a limit that satisfies our souls to remain on this earth. Before us was the example of the invitation of Noah, peace be upon him, for an extended life, and each of us chose a lifespan that would satisfy him to live in this life. Musa and I agreed that the suitable lifespan would be three hundred years, and if that is long, then let it be two hundred and fifty years. We convinced Hamoud of this lifespan... We laughed together, for with each choice, our lives were being shaped according to the new lifespan we accepted. When I heard of Musa's death, I returned to our calculations; Musa had only lived for fifty years, and according to his desire, two hundred years remained for him, which he had poured out in a gathering marked by laughter and the scattering of desires, dreams, and wishes, as we were still at the beginning of our new ages... Musa departed suddenly. Ah, death has been overflowing generously these days, and Musa drowned along with those who drowned. I saw him being mourned across all channels, wrapped in a shroud whose color I could not distinguish... May God have mercy on you, Musa.


