childhood memories

We are here a sea away from our childhood, years away from our memories.

Newspaper

I started reading the newspaper at an early age. I used to go daily to the library to buy the newspaper for Uncle Nun. Uncle Nun was the first person who incited me to read the newspaper. When he finished browsing and reading about politics, he called me, read on the last page, his way of encouraging me to know. The last page of the newspaper. I was fourteen. I became passionate about the papers and pages of the newspaper. I enjoy in her stories and news. Seriously increased me. I decided to send my first article, I could see my name written in the newspaper I saw before it actually happened. I asked my mother's neighbor and neighbor to send me my first article to the newspaper. I remember that when he faxed it in front of me. He told me it would be published on Thursday or Saturday. I waited Thursday and the article was published, it was a feeling that my name is not described in a daily newspaper. The articles were sent every period. This was the beginning of a dream growing up. When most of the paper newspapers began to stop publishing and turned into electronic newspapers, the Ammanis had left this life. I remembered him what he would have looked like if he had seen the end of paper newspapers. It was better for him to leave before these ends. My mother's relative is no longer sending me articles, because he became a martyr. He was assassinated in front of our house.



First email

The first email I carry my name. The first thing I had in life, I had nothing. No car and nothing to me. I was receiving messages, from my friends. Now I have a default address. But my friend is still sending me postcards.



The neighborhood wall

Facebook was the neighborhood wall, with the wall still dusted with chalk, logos of that stage and names and phrases as if engraved with indelible ink. It is a more realistic wall than all virtual worlds. The neighborhood wall is still more beautiful than the blue wall.



Another donkey

As I walk into the manor between the trees, it comes to my mind that it is strange. A long time ago I did not encounter a donkey. Most peasants and the elderly used the donkey and the animal when they went to their fields. The last donkey died in the town almost 10 years ago, with the death of the last peasant. I was sad that day, and my friend laughed at my grief. She mourns the death of another donkey. What a donkey and allergic.



Pre phone

At the age of 15, landline was the only means of communication. We imagined a pre-modern generation of communication. Pre-WhatsApp, Internet and all this technology. We sit in the car on top of the village and drive to Beirut, here Beirut International Airport. Airplanes take off in different directions and land as we displace the furthest spot of light. We dream in the city to imagine what is happening there. Will my daughter believe that I lived before the phone, before the iPad and before all that. I don't know I'll try with her. How traditional and technological I am.



File No. 111

It had prepared everything to revive it electronically. Yara psychotherapist has all the information about him. Physical and psychological, even the bulk of his imagination and memory. Full identification card from birth until his death. During the sessions she was doing, he told her everything. Initially insert them into inaccurate stories. His imagination was speaking, he admitted it after a while. His record has become clear and unambiguous, the information is accurate. Like a mirror himself. He lived trying to find someone who understood him. Who does not judge him. Whoever does not say to him should have been or do so. For him that's what happened to him. That's what it is. So he understands things. This is what he could form. So he says and says what he likes. He had difficulty with a society that did not accept, govern, whip and take positions. But he has gone beyond that. In hearings.

Yara, who gave up her career, is no longer treated psychologically. All professional laws and commitment are broken in their terms. She gave up and started working in another field. She confessed to him ... She told him that it was the reason.

She said to him: Do not be sad, and do not blame yourself, that was the most beautiful thing to do, I needed to open another window and a slap on my skull. I would be simpler than I am, life is simpler than that. I admit I was touched by you. Don't be ashamed of it. Remember that I have in my closet, your spectrum, your soul, your experience and your aura in papers. File number 111. Your memory is stored inside my computer file number 111 ZZA. You especially DATA.

"It's time to go away," she said. Did I burn these papers and erase the file or hand it over? It's up to you. This was the last time you saw it. She is gone. He left in his distant journey.

Like stories of fiction, but they are not.



No one survives the war

The last story I heard was in the lap of my grandfather, he had an interesting way of getting me and my brothers in the context of the story we become her characters as if we represent her.However, I do not know acting yet or maybe I did not dare to try it even though inside me I do not know to deal with him. My grandfather's stories were as professional as showing us the scenes in 3D and with high precision. The interesting stories ended with his departure. My mother didn't have time to tell us the stories that we needed to write. The concern that they store is more important than all real and fictional stories. Her white handkerchief brings hope to us and her from all the dark circles that surround us and within us. As if this handkerchief is a sign of peace. Peace from everything, namely the barbarity of war. It's war and it's my childhood. We were growing up together.

Do you know what it means to be born in war to start your childhood with war to grow up you and war to play a war game that your relative dies or your relative in war that your father dies in your first year of life. To discover after a while that your uncle also died in the war. Be your home near the hospital. You hear the voices of the wounded running with your brother, all that I heard the sound of ambulance to see who came dead or body parts and instill your horrible scenes. The one who died before you from freezing eyes, broken feet, and faces separated. And to dream in the evening of all these and hear the echo of their voices.

Barcelona again

I arrived in the city after a month of travel between capitals full of accidents and excitement, arrived at once from Baghdad, from Damascus, Tehran and most recently Yerevan. Every capital has stories and tales. From the dust of war, people are bleeding. You think you are immune to all these cities. After a while, she finds out how deeply you are in crisis. Inhabit your skin without you knowing. Impressions instilled in you what you saw and experienced. To Barcelona as a last chance with freedom, as the date for the last encounter with the self. Here you decide to announce your separation from things. Like a divorce with your past and with you. Separation, a dose of life in a different way, with childhood and life friends. We are here a sea away from our childhood, years away from our memories. On near nice souls of nostalgia.

Loud music ... detached after attempts and resistance to stay as I am. but no. You have to venture and take your chance. I walked as I never walked before. I talked like I didn't talk before, I saw like I didn't look at any time. I flew like a bird, and I was light as an autumn leaf, clear as a spring, a mocking tongue, as a childrens slave, a smiling slave, without cost, without snappy, no contract. Without pain and discomfort. Without grief, a joyful joy comes. I was like I never was. Like I was at birth. My body was freed from the power of my body and the senses from the windows of the senses and the shackles of its shackles. The air was pleasant and I was also unusual. The revelation and recognition was whispering at the top of beauty as if I were in magic. I reconciled with me and whispered with me and love was nothing but love.

== The sky is magnificent and the road without feet. The faces are smiling. The low level is a slope, originally this conflict since your consciousness of life will stop here at a fighter's break.

This mood can be adjusted, this body can be different, and at best, light without cramps, but not always, just for a while. And come back as you are and maybe worse.

Here you start to see another scene, different from what is repeated in your head unknowingly, as if you are blind and are now beginning to see. So far you are blind,

I said my words without any stuttering, clear and confident spontaneous emerged as if music or antique melody, you dance in a dramatic state, a painting painted on the beach, a poem you write from the sea of ​​language over the rhythm of the wave and light mist, with a charming sunset, so in joy and whisper melts To the end of the sound in your feet It is cells free from disappointments and stereotypes, standing in front of you as never before, do not scream in your face, but smile.

Beautiful things don't simply repeat.