•• جاءني باثاً شكواه الخجولة التي جللت رأسه المثقل بزيف الأوهام.. صوته المتهدِّج الكثيف شقَّ صمت المكان حتى كاد أن يصمَّ أذناي.. وتكدُسُ عواؤه ملأ روحه بالرماد فتحوَّلت حياته إلى تيه جارف.. وجنون صدره أربكه وأحاله إلى إنسان شرس بامتياز.. فأوجاع الزمان المجتمعة حوله زلزلت تفكيره بأقفال ليس لها مفاتيح.. وخيالاته المتبعثرة أشعلت حريقاً داخل أعماقه فعيَّشته في عزلة لا تنتهِ.
•• صديقي البائس؛ الحياة تحتاج إلى مشربية تطل على التفاؤل.. تحتاج إلى دم في العروق يزيِّن العيون ويقرِّب المسافات والأزمة.. تحتاج إلى خصال النبل وملامح الجمال تحوِّل العذابات إلى متعة.. تحتاج إلى من يعشقها حتى الثمالة بمزاج صافي النسمة والعذوبة.. تحتاج إلى من ينغِّمها بعمق مشاعر ومخزن حكايات لا ينضب.. تحتاج إلى تواصل حميم مباشر عالي الهامة مع أزهى ألوان الفرحة.
•• إنهم «أموات الحياة» الذين لا يملكون سوى الاستياء بلغة ميتة.. هؤلاء هم «رديئو البكاء» الذين يصولون ويجلون في ساحات الوجع المزركش بالألم.. هم ذوو الأرواح الصدئة الرافضين لوهج الحياة وصيرورتها، وكأن شعرة تتحرش في بلعومهم.. قلوبهم تحوَّلت إلى سطح محروق لا تولد فيه الأحلام، إنما مكان لخلق التعاسة.. مروا على الحياة مرور الكرام فلم ينجوا من عقوبة استمرار العيش البائس.
•• تلك الغيوم السوداء الحاملة بالخوف والبكاء؛ تُبقي رائحة صاحبها باقية في الهواء.. وتلك المرارة المتمردة المُميعة للحياة؛ تصلِّب شرايينه وتسدها.. فمن يرى الألوان لوناً واحداً تنمو مسيرته على ضفاف الخوف.. ومن تزداد عليه رطوبة الوجع يضع حياته في سلة إعادة التدوير.. ومن يسخر من زمن يعيش فيه؛ سوف يتلذذ بإذلال ذاته ويستمتع بإهانتها.. أولئك المازوخيون الذين يجدون في الألم لذة.
تابع قناة عكاظ على الواتساب
خالد بن هزاع الشريف
khalid98alshrif@
•• He came to me, expressing his shy complaint that enveloped his head weighed down by the falsehoods of illusions. His thick, trembling voice pierced the silence of the place until it almost deafened my ears. The accumulation of his howling filled his soul with ash, turning his life into a sweeping confusion. The madness in his chest bewildered him and transformed him into a fiercely aggressive person. The pains of time surrounding him shook his thoughts with locks that had no keys. His scattered imaginations ignited a fire within his depths, plunging him into an endless isolation.
•• My miserable friend; life needs a window that overlooks optimism. It needs blood in the veins that beautifies the eyes and shortens distances and crises. It needs the qualities of nobility and the features of beauty that turn suffering into pleasure. It needs someone who loves it to the point of intoxication with a clear and sweet disposition. It needs someone who can harmonize it with deep feelings and an inexhaustible treasure of stories. It needs a direct, intimate connection with the brightest colors of joy.
•• They are the "dead of life" who possess nothing but discontent in a dead language. They are the "poor in tears" who roam in the arenas of pain adorned with suffering. They are the ones with rusty souls, rejecting the glow of life and its transformation, as if a hair were teasing their throats. Their hearts have turned into a burned surface where dreams do not arise, but rather a place for creating misery. They passed through life without a trace and did not escape the punishment of continuing their miserable existence.
•• Those black clouds carrying fear and tears keep their owner's scent lingering in the air. And that rebellious bitterness that dilutes life hardens and blocks his arteries. For one who sees colors as a single hue, their journey grows along the banks of fear. And one who feels the humidity of pain increases will place their life in a recycling bin. And one who mocks the time they live in will relish in humiliating themselves and enjoy degrading it. Those masochists who find pleasure in pain.
•• My miserable friend; life needs a window that overlooks optimism. It needs blood in the veins that beautifies the eyes and shortens distances and crises. It needs the qualities of nobility and the features of beauty that turn suffering into pleasure. It needs someone who loves it to the point of intoxication with a clear and sweet disposition. It needs someone who can harmonize it with deep feelings and an inexhaustible treasure of stories. It needs a direct, intimate connection with the brightest colors of joy.
•• They are the "dead of life" who possess nothing but discontent in a dead language. They are the "poor in tears" who roam in the arenas of pain adorned with suffering. They are the ones with rusty souls, rejecting the glow of life and its transformation, as if a hair were teasing their throats. Their hearts have turned into a burned surface where dreams do not arise, but rather a place for creating misery. They passed through life without a trace and did not escape the punishment of continuing their miserable existence.
•• Those black clouds carrying fear and tears keep their owner's scent lingering in the air. And that rebellious bitterness that dilutes life hardens and blocks his arteries. For one who sees colors as a single hue, their journey grows along the banks of fear. And one who feels the humidity of pain increases will place their life in a recycling bin. And one who mocks the time they live in will relish in humiliating themselves and enjoy degrading it. Those masochists who find pleasure in pain.
