The Seven Selves, Khalil Gibran

In the stillest hour of the night, as I lay half asleep, my seven selves sat together and thus conversed in whisper:
First Self: Here, in this madman, I have dwelt all these years, with naught to do but renew his pain by day and recreate his sorrow by night. I can bear my fate no longer, and now I rebel.


Second Self: Yours is a better lot than mine, brother, for it is given to me to be this madman’s joyous self. I laugh his laughter and sing his happy hours, and with thrice winged feet I dance his brighter thoughts. It is I that would rebel against my weary existence.


Third Self: And what of me, the love-ridden self, the flaming brand of wild passion and fantastic desires? It is I the love-sick self who would rebel against this madman.


Fourth Self: I, amongst you all, am the most miserable, for naught was given me but odious hatred and destructive loathing. It is I, the tempest-like self, the one born in the black caves of Hell, who would protest against serving this madman.


Fifth Self: Nay, it is I, the thinking self, the fanciful self, the self of hunger and thirst, the one doomed to wander without rest in search of unknown things and things not yet created; it is I, not you, who would rebel.


Sixth Self: And I, the working self, the pitiful labourer, who, with patient hands, and longing eyes, fashion the days into images and give the formless elements new and eternal forms-it is I, the solitary one, who would rebel against this restless madman.


Seventh Self: How strange that you all would rebel against this man, because each and every one of you has a preordained fate to fulfil. Ah! could I but be like one of you, a self with a determined lot! But I have none, I am the do-nothing self, the one who sits in the dumb, empty nowhere and nowhen, while you are busy re-creating life.

Is it you or I, neighbours, who should rebel?
When the seventh self thus spake the other six selves looked with pity upon him but said nothing more; and as the night grew deeper one after the other went to sleep enfolded with a new and happy submission.
But the seventh self remained watching and gazing at nothingness, which is behind all things.

Read On My Behalf Please!

A lot of things we can do through this crazy time. Please read to make that world bearable. Covid19 is a lesson, and history is full of many lessons, but we never heed intentionally or unintentionally! Those are 100 books, so read and fathom well.

The link;

https://1drv.ms/u/s!AsbOT8tkbgZ9gUske4ow_YjNeRiA?e=eZJ6pk

 

 

Illusory

Hello Omar,

I am Christin,

When I read your message, I smiled once, and grieved twice.

Smiled because of women’s instinct to like flirtation and compliments even if they deny it.

And grieved twice, once over you, and once over me. It is the curse of beauty, Omar!

The curse that kills everyone.

It inflicts love on men, jealousy and envy on women.

It inflicts loneliness and depression on beautiful women.

Everybody is racing to reach out to her, but they remain in the rally leaving her out of reach. If he gets the chance to be by her side, he will grow miserable because of her misery.

He loves a woman who is in everyone’s heart, until he feels that she is no longer his, but rather everyone’s!

Beautiful women are the most miserable ones, Omar.

They break ordinary men’s hearts, while well-off men break theirs.

Excuse me, Omar!

We, broadcasters, are not beautiful even if we have some beauty.

It is the result of sleight of hand, stuffed beauty, artificial features, and deliberated allure.

One of us grieves over the falling of her false eyelashes more than the falling of atrocities. She fears the mistakes of misspelling more than the mistaken bombing.

We are nothing but toys, or maybe a machine reading good news and bad ones with the same feelings and features. There is no difference between the inauguration of a cabaret or slaughtering hundreds of your children at night.

Sorry Omar!

I have not asked you about your life

Because I know it well

I know it is as bad as the country you live in

There are some thieves among you. They appear at the expense of indigent people. They live in upscale villas. They falsely claim to speak up on behalf of the poor and hardworking.

Their conversations are boring. Their standpoints contradict with diverse information.

They allow themselves to speak on your behalf to get 200 dollars after each harangue.

We suffer from them more than you do.

Maybe we curse them more than you do.

Nonetheless, I congratulate this miserable country for having you and such obscure poets, and send my condolences because that gang was able to disfigure your images.

Leave them aside now!

I know you envy our men because of having our beauty, but you don’t know that we envy your women because of having you, because of your feelings full of softness, because of your magical words that can conquer any woman’s heart.

Your women do not probably realize your importance as we do. Maybe it is due to their conservative nature or rather stupidity!

Your neighbor may have peeked out of the window and snatched your heart and messages.

Your colleague may have approached you at university or work. Hopefully, she would be able to get a bunch of your love and words.

Your friend may have stopped you asking for a souvenir shop to escort her to it.

My apologies for the flowers that die in your hearts before your eyes.

My apologies for the words that age in your tongues before your silence

My apologies for your kindled hearts when they dim because women want marriage more than love

One line of your message, Omar, makes me happier than traveling to San Francisco to take a photo with Donald Trump in front of the garden of the White House

A warm word of love compensates me for going skiing in Moscow

A sincere flower is better than a stroll in the gardens of Andalusia

I stopped wandering around continents and countries as I used to do so. Now, I am wandering between words and alphabets into your message. I have become more interested in freeing your messages than freeing any countries.

Finally my friend!

Do not be a cheapskate and send more messages to me. They are not mere messages as you think, but rather precious tickets to navigate through the cities that I love the most. Cities that we gain nothing from its visiting but great poets like you!

This was a broadcaster’s reply after she received a message from a Yemeni guy. He has written a poem describing her beauty and blonde hair. He has mentioned that her beauty overshadowed his country’s disasters and war when he watched the news. The Arabic poem is very rhetoric and full of metaphors. I tried my best to translate it accurately without ruining it. It touches my heart, so I hope it touches yours too.

May Allah abate these scourges upon Yemenis, Uighurs, Syrians, Palestinians, Iraqis, Libyans, and every free spirit on earth beyond any religions!

A Solo Journey

Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you yet they belong not to you. You may give them your love but not your thoughts, For they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday. You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far. Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness; For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable. When I remember who I am, I read the prophet book, Gibran Khalil Gibran with the song, https://m.soundcloud.com/haydarhamid/dnlywl3n7wvy