Forwarded from Thoughts Hub (Hubeyb☁️)
Those who remain silent rise a little from the ground, their feet and bodies no longer clinging to it. Those who remain silent withdraw from the crowd of the earth to celebrate themselves. It is as if the celebration of one's self can only take place in isolation. As if celebrating life is nothing but silence.
I am depressed by the rhetoric that exist and does not include me, and from antagonisms even if they exclude me. I am depressed about the racism that does not target me. The discrimination that does not know me at all. I am depressed about the slanders, the settling of accounts in public even if I am completely bankrupt. I am depressed from the desire of others to slit the throats of others, yet I am not. I am depressed by the frenzy of scandal even if I am below the level of vision. I am depressed by the prisons that I have not entered, nor heard the sound of their doors, nor seen their darkness. From the indications of dreams that no one else saw and hid them even from interpretation for fear of realizing the possibilities. A strange fear overwhelms me without logical reasons. The horror of the one standing on the statistics of destruction in a city he does not know, but he is charged with listing the damage and announcing it and terrifying him that it has become wider than inventory and louder than the sound of any declaration. I am depressed by all these things that do not target me with their harm and consequences, but they target me with their meaning, their ease of occurrence, their ability to happen in the first place.
I imagine that the safe way to live in this world open to all these threats is to fortify within a square meter, deaf ears and close Eye blind about everything, and maybe destroying heart too.
I get depressed every time I feel myself to make sure that my heart has not become hardened, but it is becoming a wall. And that my tongue did not grow sharper, so it becomes a blade. And that my eyes did not acquaint themselves with the darkness of the world, it become blackhole. And that my ears were not hindered by the noise from hearing moans and aches. And depressed, depressed because I do not know how to be sure of the sincerity of my sense that I feel.
Because bad people and tyrants don't know what they are.
I imagine that the safe way to live in this world open to all these threats is to fortify within a square meter, deaf ears and close Eye blind about everything, and maybe destroying heart too.
I get depressed every time I feel myself to make sure that my heart has not become hardened, but it is becoming a wall. And that my tongue did not grow sharper, so it becomes a blade. And that my eyes did not acquaint themselves with the darkness of the world, it become blackhole. And that my ears were not hindered by the noise from hearing moans and aches. And depressed, depressed because I do not know how to be sure of the sincerity of my sense that I feel.
Because bad people and tyrants don't know what they are.
"...I do not know how to be sure of the sincerity of my sense that I feel....."
You write me letters on how you will love me like the way they do in the books you so much adore and like to sink yourself into but this is reality. We are breathing. We are humans. Someone must have thought you,maybe as a bed time story that life doesn't work like that. In this world. They break hearts. We. Break hearts.
Credit goes to @awirock23 on twitter
Credit goes to @awirock23 on twitter
Forwarded from Thoughts Hub (Hubeyb☁️)
What is the difference between writing and speaking?
I regained my thoughts, and I saw that when I intend to talk to someone about how I felt about what I lived through. I feel that I am stripping in front of him, I allow him to see my weakness and my helplessness, I lay down my arms forever, I may speak only to share and remove him from my shoulders, but I seem clear with open wounds. I am offended by their sympathy reaction and their sadness, or their gossip, their lack of interest, and what is worse is that they do not forget what happened despite my transgression of it, and I now confess that I am ready to transcend my principle of compliments, but to say my true feeling; Except for those close, there is no point in hiding from them.
As for writing, it covers me, gives me the freedom to exaggerate anger and joy, to hide behind metaphors, to write in the third person without intrusion. And when you finish writing the text, it does not return to you, it becomes the king of its readers, they receive it and treat it as they wish. Fingers will not turn to me after that to ask about the reason for this tear because it is no longer mine; It has become for all of us.
I regained my thoughts, and I saw that when I intend to talk to someone about how I felt about what I lived through. I feel that I am stripping in front of him, I allow him to see my weakness and my helplessness, I lay down my arms forever, I may speak only to share and remove him from my shoulders, but I seem clear with open wounds. I am offended by their sympathy reaction and their sadness, or their gossip, their lack of interest, and what is worse is that they do not forget what happened despite my transgression of it, and I now confess that I am ready to transcend my principle of compliments, but to say my true feeling; Except for those close, there is no point in hiding from them.
As for writing, it covers me, gives me the freedom to exaggerate anger and joy, to hide behind metaphors, to write in the third person without intrusion. And when you finish writing the text, it does not return to you, it becomes the king of its readers, they receive it and treat it as they wish. Fingers will not turn to me after that to ask about the reason for this tear because it is no longer mine; It has become for all of us.