مطاردة الأحلام تشبه الوقوف على كرة والحلم عبارة عن نقطة موجودة على هذه الكرة, قد تكون قريبًا جدًا منها لكن إن مشيت بالاتجاه المعاكس لها ستبتعد كثيرًا رغم أنها كانت قريبة لذا يجب عليك السير في الاتجاه الصحيح حتّى تصل تلك النقطة.. لهذا لا أحب أن أقول "اقتربت من تحقيق حلمي" بل أفضّل قول "لقد حققت حلمي
In the jumbled, fragmented memories I carry from my childhood there are probably nearly as many dreams as images from waking life. I thought of one which might have been my earliest remembered nightmare. I was probably about four years old - I don't think I'd started school yet - when I woke up screaming. The image I retained of the dream, the thing which had frightened me so, was an ugly, clown-like doll made of soft red and cream-coloured rubber. When you squeezed it, bulbous eyes popped out on stalks and the mouth opened in a gaping scream. As I recall it now, it was disturbingly ugly, not really an appropriate toy for a very young child, but it had been mine when I was younger, at least until I'd bitten its nose off, at which point it had been taken away from me. At the time when I had the dream I hadn't seen it for a year or more - I don't think I consciously remembered it until its sudden looming appearance in a dream had frightened me awake.When I told my mother about the dream, she was puzzled.'But what's scary about that? You were never scared of that doll.'I shook my head, meaning that the doll I'd owned - and barely remembered - had never scared me. 'But it was very scary,' I said, meaning that the reappearance of it in my dream had been terrifying.My mother looked at me, baffled. 'But it's not scary,' she said gently. I'm sure she was trying to make me feel better, and thought this reasonable statement would help. She was absolutely amazed when it had the opposite result, and I burst into tears.Of course she had no idea why, and of course I couldn't explain. Now I think - and of course I could be wrong - that what upset me was that I'd just realized that my mother and I were separate people. We didn't share the same dreams or nightmares. I was alone in the universe, like everybody else. In some confused way, that was what the doll had been telling me. Once it had loved me enough to let me eat its nose; now it would make me wake up screaming. ("My Death")
الحلم الى ما يكبرش بيموت..اه يكبر كدا ويطلع له عينين ودان رجل أيد ..شوى شوى ويزحف ( ﻷ مش برص يا ظريف .ما هو شوى وهيكبر ويتمشى ) يتسند على حيطة اتنين ..يقع مرة أو عشرة ويقوم ويقع ويقوم ويثبت ويكمل مشى لحد ما هيقدر يجرى ويوصل لحلمه..( أما بقى الاحباط واليأس وظروف ..دى حجج تبريرات خضوع..خضوع لتصبح من عبيد الظروف تسيرك كيفما شاءت فلا تأتى بخير إلا قليلا دا لو فى خير وهيبقى أكيد لحظى ومؤقت )
Dear father,It's been five years today, but makes no difference! Not a day goes by without me remembering your pure green eyes, the tone of your voice singing In Adighabza, or your poems scattered all around the house.Dear father, from you I have learned that being a girl doesn't mean that I can't achieve my dreams, no matter how crazy or un-urban they might seem. That you raised me with the utmost of ethics and morals and the hell with this cocooned society, if it doesn't respect the right to ask and learn and be, just because I'm a girl.Dear father, from you I have learned to respect all mankind, and just because you descend from a certain blood or ethnicity, it doesn't make you better than anybody else. It's you, and only you, your actions, your thoughts, your achievements, are what differentiates you from everybody else. At the same time, thank you for teaching me to respect and value where I came from, for actually taking me to my hometown Goboqay, for teaching me about my family tree, how my ancestors worked hard and fought for me to be where I am right now, and to continue on with the legacy and make them all proud.Dear father, from you and mom, I have learned to speak in my mother tongue. A gift so precious, that I have already made a promise to do the same for my unborn children. Dear father, from you I have learned to be content, to fear Allah, to be thankful for all that I have, and no matter what, never loose faith, as it's the only path to solace.Dear father, from you I have learned that if a person wants to love you, then let them, and if they hurt you, be strong and stand your ground. People will respect you only if you respect yourself.Dear father, I'm pretty sure that you are proud of me, my sisters and our dear dear Mom. You have a beautiful grand daughter now and a son in-law better than any brother I would have ever asked for.Till we meet again, Shu wasltha'3u.الله يرحمك يا غالي. (الفاتحة) على روحك الطاهرة.
Musíme rozlišovat mezi obsahy myšlenkového procesu a logickými kategoriemi použitými myšlením. Zatímco se obsahy našeho bdělého myšlení nepodřizují omezením prostoru a času, mají kategorie logického myšlení prostorově-časovou povahu. Tak například mohu myslet na svého otce a zjistit, že jeho postoj v určité situaci je totožný s mým. Toto zjištění je logicky správné. Jesliže však tvrdím: "Já jsem svým otcem," pak je toto tvrzení "nelogické", protože neodpovídá pojmům fyzikálního světa. Z hlediska prožívání je však ta věta logická, neboť jí vyjadřuji své prožitky totožnosti se svým otcem. Logické myšlenky v bdělém stavu jsou podřízeny logickým kategorím, založeným na speciální formě existence, ve které přistupujeme k realitě v jednání. Ve spící existenci, která se vyznačuje nepřítomností dokonce i potenciálního jednání, se používají kategorie, které se vztahují k prožívání sebe sama. To platí i pro cítění. Jestliže se můj ci v bdělm stavu týká člověka, kterého jsem dvacet let neviděl, jsem si stále vědom faktu, že dotyčný není přítomen. Když o něm však sním, pak ho cítím tak, jako kdyby přítomen byl. Jestliže však říkám "jako kdyby přítomen byl", vyjadřuji tím svůj pocit v pojmech, které odpovídají "bdělému životu". Pro spící existenci neexistuje žádné "jako by"; příslušná osoba je přítomna.
I had a dream about you. It's been a while since I could remember any of my dreams, and still, this one has left me with such strong impression. Even now, when I am fully awake, your face flashes before my eyes. It's a face I can totally relate to, as if it wasn't any more yours than it is mine. Terrifying thing, you know? I can't say I've felt that sort of intimacy with anyone. For a moment you knew all my secrets, without me even having to tell them. For a moment I even knew them myself…While I was looking into your eyes, I suddenly started to realize things about myself that were unspoken for years, like fragments of my inner life that were deeply repressed. It’s hard to distinguish if they were buried inside because dealing with them was such a dirty work, or if leaving them unnamed meant that it was not possible to define them precisely enough, so they would keep their true meaning. Perhaps, all this life that I've known so far was in fact no more but a dream about living. The only thing that has kept me in touch with reality was you…I know it comes as a surprise, and you may be wondering why it took me so long to come clean. You also may be wondering how come you've never noticed before. I've tricked you on purpose, yes, and you must realize it really has nothing to do with you. It’s always been me. This is why, seeing you in my dream like that, came out as a shock. You also must forgive me. You must forgive me because I know how it looks like, that everything we ever shared was a lie, and it wasn't…I am more of an illusionist that a deceiver, but it all comes from being in fact, a very private person. Even if it was true that you knew me better than anyone, I’d never admit it. I’d rather dig my own heart out, with a rotten spoon, than admitting it. I may let people in my own little world occasionally, but I would never let them be aware of it. I don’t throw my intimacy in front of others, especially when I care. The more I care, the less I give away, and this is something for you to understand, and grant me your forgiveness. I didn't play my tricks on you in order to deceive you, but rather to save myself, and maybe even deceive myself as well. I’ve had hidden my feelings for you so deeply that I've learned to live with them, as if any other casualty. I have done wrong to myself as much as I did to you, and I don’t know if I can forgive myself. So now I wonder, could you forgive me without feeling sorry for me? I certainly don’t deserve your pity. Especially not now that I am awake.
Last year I had a very unusual experience. I was awake, with my eyes closed, when I had a dream. It was a small dream about time. I was dead, I guess, in deep black space high up among many white stars. My own consciousness had been disclosed to me, and I was happy. Then I saw far below me a long, curved band of color. As I came closer, I saw that it stretched endlessly in either direction, and I understood that I was seeing all the time of the planet where I had lived. It looked like a woman’s tweed scarf; the longer I studied any one spot, the more dots of color I saw. There was no end to the deepness and variety of the dots. At length, I started to look for my time, but, although more and more specks of color and deeper and more intricate textures appeared in the fabric, I couldn’t find my time, or any time at all that I recognized as being near my time. I couldn’t make out so much as a pyramid. Yet as I looked at the band of time, all the individual people, I understood with special clarity, were living at the very moment with great emotion, in intricate detail, in their individual times and places, and they were dying and being replaced by ever more people, one by one, like stitches in which whole worlds of feeling and energy were wrapped, in a never-ending cloth. I remembered suddenly the color and texture of our life as we knew it- these things had been utterly forgotten- and I thought as I searched for it on the limitless band, “that was a good time then, a good time to be living.”And I began to remember our time. I recalled green fields with carrots growing, one by one, in slender rows. Men and women in bright vests and scarves came and pulled the carrots out of the soil and carried them in baskets to shaded kitchens, where they scrubbed them with yellow brushes under running water…I saw may apples in forest, erupting through leaf-strewn paths. Cells on the root hairs of sycamores split and divided and apples grew striped and spotted in the fall. Mountains kept their cool caves, and squirrels raced home to their nests through sunlight and shade. I remembered the ocean, and I seemed to be in the ocean myself, swimming over orange crabs that looked like coral, or off the deep Atlantic banks where whitefish school. Or again I saw the tops of poplars, and the whole sky brushed with clouds in pallid streaks, under which wilds ducks flew, and called, one by one, and flew on. All these things I saw. Scenes grew in depth and sunlit detail before my eyes, and were replaced by ever more scenes, as I remembered the life of my time with increasing feeling. At last I saw the earth as a globe in space, and I recalled the ocean’s shape and the form of continents, saying to myself with surprise as I looked at the planet, “Yes, that’s how it was then, that part there we called ‘France’”. I was filled with the deep affection of nostalgia- and then I opened my eyes.
My dearest friend Abigail, These probably could be the last words I write to you and I may not live long enough to see your response but I truly have lived long enough to live forever in the hearts of my friends. I thought a lot about what I should write to you. I thought of giving you blessings and wishes for things of great value to happen to you in future; I thought of appreciating you for being the way you are; I thought to give sweet and lovely compliments for everything about you; I thought to write something in praise of your poems and prose; and I thought of extending my gratitude for being one of the very few sincerest friends I have ever had. But that is what all friends do and they only qualify to remain as a part of the bunch of our loosely connected memories and that's not what I can choose to be, I cannot choose to be lost somewhere in your memories. So I thought of something through which I hope you will remember me for a very long time. I decided to share some part of my story, of what led me here, the part we both have had in common. A past, which changed us and our perception of the world. A past, which shaped our future into an unknown yet exciting opportunity to revisit the lost thoughts and to break free from the libido of our lost dreams. A past, which questioned our whole past. My dear, when the moment of my past struck me, in its highest demonised form, I felt dead, like a dead-man walking in flesh without a soul, who had no reason to live any more. I no longer saw any meaning of life but then I saw no reason to die as well. I travelled to far away lands, running away from friends, family and everyone else and I confined myself to my thoughts, to my feelings and to myself. Hours, days, weeks and months passed and I waited for a moment of magic to happen, a turn of destiny, but nothing happened, nothing ever happens. I waited and I counted each moment of it, thinking about every moment of my life, the good and the bad ones. I then saw how powerful yet weak, bright yet dark, beautiful yet ugly, joyous yet grievous; is a one single moment. One moment makes the difference. Just a one moment. Such appears to be the extreme and undisputed power of a single moment. We live in a world of appearance, Abigail, where the reality lies beyond the appearances, and this is also only what appears to be such powerful when in actuality it is not. I realised that the power of the moment is not in the moment itself. The power, actually, is in us. Every single one of us has the power to make and shape our own moments. It is us who by feeling joyful, celebrate for a moment of success; and it is also us who by feeling saddened, cry and mourn over our losses. I, with all my heart and mind, now embrace this power which lies within us. I wish life offers you more time to make use of this power. Remember, we are our own griefs, my dear, we are our own happinesses and we are our own remedies.Take care!Love,Francis.Title: Letter to AbigailScene: "Death-bed"Chapter: The Road To Awe
मिरीकरनं माझ्या सांगण्याप्रमाणं केलं तेव्हा मी तिला उंट खाऊ दिला. मग एक प्यादंसुद्धा भेट दिलं. मला आता सॉलिड मजा वाटत होती. माझं मन समोरच्या डावावर नव्हतं. मी एक जगज्जेता सम्राट होतो. पण उदार आणि दयाळू. शरण आलेल्याला मारून टाकणं हा माझा धर्म नव्हता. "जा, तुझा राज्य तुला परत दिलं." माझ्यासमोर वाकलेल्या त्या राजाला मी हात झटकत बेफिकीरपणे म्हणालो. असल्या राज्याची मला पर्वा नव्हती. माझी ती विश्वविजयी सेना घेऊन मी राजधानीत मोठ्या डौलानं परतणार होतो. तिथं कुणी तरी माझी वाट बघत होतं. डोळ्यांत दिवे लावून, तबकात निरांजनं पेटवून.
لم يكن بمقدوري سوى الهروب إلى عالمي الخاص: إلى الحلم. أتخيلني وقد كبرت فجأة. عندما كان الكبار يسألون الصغار عما يريدون أن يكونوا في المستقبل, كان الجواب دائما واحدا من اثنين : إما أطباء أو معلمون.لكن لم أكن أعرف بما أجيب, لأنني لا أعرف بالضبط ماذا أريد. كل ما أعرفه هو أنني أعشق السفر. أتخيلني و قد سافرت بعيدا بعيدا جدا. أحلم أن لي طفلة أضمها إلي, أمنحها الحب و فساتين كثيرة و لعبا. أبدا لن تكون أقل من الأخريات, لن أنهرها, لن أكوي فخذها بل سأخفيها عن العيون القذرة. لكن أبدا لا أحلم بزوج. لم أكن أستطيع أن أتخيلني عروسا بفستان أبيض. حاولت مرارا تخيل شكل العريس فيتراءى لي وجه "قدور" القذر, أستفيق من حلمي مرعوبة على واقع أشد رعبا.
Το όνειρο είναι μια δεύτερη ζωή. Δεν κατόρθωσα να διασχίσω αυτές τις πύλες από φίλντισι ή κέρας που μας χωρίζουν απ' τον αόρατο κόσμο χωρίς ν' αναρριγήσω. Οι πρώτες στιγμές του ύπνου είναι η εικόνα του θανάτου, μια νεφελώδης νάρκη αιχμαλωτίζει τη σκέψη μας, και δεν μπορούμε να προσδιορίσουμε με ακρίβεια τη στιγμή που το εγώ, υπό άλλη μορφή , συνεχίζει το έργο της ύπαρξης. Πρόκειται για έναν ακαθόριστο υπόγειο χώρο ο οποίος φωτίζεται σιγά σιγά, και όπου βγαίνουν απ' την σκια και τη νύχτα οι επιβλητικά ακίνητες χλομές μορφές, που κατοικούν στο ενδιαίτημα του Καθαρτηρίου. Έπειτα σχηματίζεται ο πίνακας, μία νέα λάμψη καταυγάζει και κάνει αυτές τις αλλόκοτες οπτασίες να σαλέψουν: - μας ανοίγεται ο κόσμος των Πνευμάτων.
