لا تقل تعالي

To my pen’s favorite correspondent,
I pray my letter reaches you safely. I am writing this with a heart full of worry, anxiety, and confusion, so forgive me if I don’t make sense or if this letter turns out to be long.

I know I only confessed to you my feelings a week ago, but this story actually began in October 9, 2020. I’d like to keep the beginning of the tale private, between me and God, but essentially this is a year and 3 months in the making. It might seem like I sprung this confession abruptly but it’s been my little secret for so long, until my word vomit. You know I have a soft spot for you, right? But ever since that confession, i’ve been in a foggy state of mind. I lost my appetite. I exist physically but i’m mentally absent. I’m anxious and scared and I caved in to my overthinking. I held it all in gracefully for 14 months, but then you started talking to me tenderly.. gentler than usual, and I fell deep, so deep. I’ll try to express my sentiments in Arabic now.

إلى مراسل قلمي المفضل،
آمل أن تصلك رسالتي بسلام ودفء. لا أدري كيف أبدأ هذا الخطاب لأن القصة بدأت في ٩ أكتوبر، ٢٠٢٠، أي قبل سنة وثلاثة أشهر من اليوم. أرغب أن أترك تفاصيل بداية القصة بيني وبين ربي لكن عليك فقط أن تعرف التاريخ وحسب.

لطالما أحببت شخصيتك.. لطالما وجدتك شخص طاهر، ونقي، وذو أخلاق عالية.. لكنك لم تستحوذ على تفكيري حتى التاريخ المذكور أعلاه.. منذ ذلك اليوم وأنا في كومة من القلق والمشاعر والحب والخوف في آن واحد.. يوم أكتب لك ويوم أهرب منك. لا أعرف كيف أعتذر منك وأبرر لك موقفي من هذه الازدواجية والتناقض…

أحب التحدث معك كثيراً.. من صفاء قلبك ونواياك لم تكن تعي أنني كنت أختلق أي عذر لكي أتحدث معك وأسألك أي شيء فقط لأنني كنت أعشق سماع صوتك. اتعي خطورة هذا القلم الذي بيدي؟ كنت كل ما أشتاق لك، أحمل القلم وأخلقك من جديد. أكنت تعي؟ خبأت الهيام بين السطور وبين الأحرف وكان كل شيء تحت السيطرة.. إلى أن صارحتك بمشاعري. من بعد ذلك اليوم وجسدي يحاربني.. معدتي بدأت حملة إضراب عن الطعام.. عيني لا ترى غيرك.. إذني تكاد تحترق فضولاً وشوقاً للتعرف على صوتك.. ويداي لا تعرف سوى هذا القلم ولا تستطيع الايقاف.. وعقلي يعيد شريط محادثاتنا ويرغمني على التفكير وقلبي مشاعره تزداد ولا أعرف كيف أهذبها.. كيف أهذب نفسي؟ .. لا حل سوى الرحيل..

صرت تعاملني برقة أكثر.. كلماتك الرقيقة تبعثرني، تلعثمني، تذوبني، تأخذني يمنةً ويسرة.. وفجأة من دون سابق انذار، بدأت استخدام الكلمات الصغيرة الخاصة بي.. وتسرق من معجمي الكلمات وأنا أذوب من وراء الشاشة. عندما كنا ننظر إلى النجوم سوياً على بعد أميال.. عندما كنا تحت (كوكبة الجبار) لم أكن أدري أنها ستصبح مجموعة النجوم المفضلة لدي.. صرت أبحث عنها كل ليلة لأنها تذكرني فيك وتجلب لي الطمأنينة.

حاولت أن أكره تفاصيلك.. حاولت أن أحذف حسابي عدة مرات.. حاولت أن اتجنبك.. لكني أحن.. أبكي وأهرب وأعود وأبكي من جديد. لا أعرف كيف أبرر لك طفوليتي.. آه ليتني لم أبوح لك.. ليتني لم أقل شيئاً.. ليتك لم تكن لطيفاً معي وليتني لم أكن هشة وضعيفة الشخصية هكذا. تمنيت أن تلتهمك العيوب حتى انعمي واصرف النظر .. ليتني لم أشعر بوجودك كلما نظرت إلى السماء.. ليتني لم أعرف المجرات ولا أسماء الكواكب والنجوم.

ليتني لم أقرأ كلامك الدافىء مراراً وتكراراً حتى أصبحت سجينة التفكير المفرط. ليتك لم تضحكني، لم تبكيني، لم تعرف اسمي.. ليتنا لم نكن. هذا العبء ثقيل على قلبي وسئمت البكاء والخوف.. حان وقت الرحيل. أرجوك لا تقل ”تعالي“ لأن هذه أكثر الكلمات التي قلتها لي التي بعثرت كياني… لا تقل تعالي، قلبي الصغير لا يتحمل كلماتك ولهجتك الناعمة.. لا تقل تعالي وتزرع الفراشات في قلبي من جديد… أرجوك.

حب عن بعد

إلى رقية،
بما أنك فتحتي قلبك لي وصارحتُك عن انعجابي بأحدِهم، هلا سمحتي لي بأن اتحدث عنه في هذه الرسالة؟ أعدُك أن لا أطيلَ الحديث. في قلبك يا رقية موطنٌ للحبِ بكافة أنواعه وأردت الاستحواذ على غرفة صغيرة انثُر فيها حبي له بالخفاء. اتسمحين لي؟

لقد عاد الخريف ومشاعري كالأوراق تتساقط! كما تعلمين، يا عزيزتي، أني أحبُ أحدهم عن بعد… غريب اشعر بالانتماء إليه رغم أنه لميحتويني قط. انتمي له وهو ينتمي لغيري. أبت الروحَ إلا هو وهوَ بغيري معجب. 

أجهلُ التصرف معه يا رُقية. ذهني يتشتت من عينيه المعسولة وكلامه العذب. عيناه العسلية تكادُ أن تُحلقُ فيها النحل! يفعل بي ما تفعلهالشمس بزهرة دوّار الشمس، أميل له وأميل وأميل. كمكعب سكر أنا، خشِنة، صلبة لا انكسر إلا أن يأتي هو فأذوب وأذوب وأذوب.

له وجه تشريني يشبه السحاب والورود والأيام الزهرية، يشبه الحب والنقاء والاقتباسات الشعرية. انقى من النقاءِ هُوَ! وجفنه… آه من جفنه،عدو الجمال! يخفي وراءه لؤلؤة عينيه. من فيض حبه طمع الجميع.. وأولهم أنا! كما الغيمة فوق سماء متعطش، استظِلُ من ظلِهِ الطويللأرتوي… اتعطش لكل قطرة طيبة وحنية تشعُ من عينه.

في حضرته، اعترف أنني لا أجيد الكتابة لكني أحاول! أحاول وإن لم اتوفق في نسج الكلام العذب مثله. عندما يتحدثُ، يا رقية، لا أعرفماذا يحلُ بي. احمد الله انه لا يرى ما يحدث وراء الشاشة عندما يقول مرحباً… تكادُ عصافير قلبي تفضحني! واذا تحدثنا، طمِعتُ من فمِهِالكلامَ أن يطولَ وطمعتُ من الليالي دقائقُها، ألا ليتها لا تنتهي. 

اذا حزن، حزنت لأجله ودعيت الله أن حمله الثقيل ينشقُ إلى قطعتين فآخذ أنا الحمل الأكبر، فالحزنِ لا يليق بجميل الوجنتين (أقصدك أنتِوهو. ادامَ الله سعادتك يا رقية)

يا زهرة القرنفل، هلا خبأتني بين بتلاتك؟ اخشى أن يرى ذلك الرجل احمرار وجهي! اذا سأل عني، قولي له أنني بين أرياف الطبيعة، أتحدثمع الزهور عنه.

مع حبي،
اسيرة حب من طرف واحد

My October

When the universe assigns you a person, you take him with arms wide open; you don’t question it. One autumn night, a human emerged before my eyes in a dream that was innocent but simultaneously intimate and intense. A seraphic being descended from the clouds and onto my lap, onto my papers, and I was terrified by how swiftly and intensely I felt towards him. I did what any writer would do in my position; I took my gratuitous emotions and poured them into the right stream.

Anxiety soon followed suit and started tapping at my bones, coercing me to think of a man I had no right to think about. A day or two after that fleeting dream, I immediately quit the Internet. I hid under the pretense of a much-needed hiatus when I was burning with longing, achingly tossing and turning in bed, physically shaking my head for a week straight thinking that thoughts seep from your scalp if you persistently shake them away. He didn’t deserve to have his purity smeared by my shameless feelings, even if they were tucked in a journal.

Since October, I was colonized heart, body, and soul by a man I unrightfully pined for. What tore me to shreds was that my feelings were pure; they only ached for his innocence. I am rather relieved when I love someone superficially because I know feelings will dissolve in no time, but when my emotions are infantile and pure, it wrecks me. When I crave a man childishly, I become a prisoner of non-expiring sentiments. I’m charged with anxiety knowing that I now have a soft spot for him. I had hopes that time will heal but days were futile; they did not help me bury wrong feelings in the graveyard of unreciprocated love.

His occupation, his colony in the crevices of my heart caused me to tremble to the point where I sought my previous muse. I went to the Tuesday cafe to redirect my feelings toward another man whose stay in my heart felt safer and valid… but to no avail. I’m held captive by a ravenous pen that wishes to praise this man only. It’s a wild idea, having a muse… any time you urge for his touch or his voice, he’s just a sentence away from emerging from your papers.

He’s a creation of a love-lorn writer, and there’s comfort in knowing that he’s one daydream away. I shut my eyes and I rest my little palms on his rounded face. I look heavenward toward his eyes, parched… parched. I love his pudgy face, there’s more to love, more space to be kissed. I can spend a thousand seconds and plant a thousand kisses on one cheek alone. I love the idea of my small hands against his giant hands, and my eyes softening to his gaze.

Like a fugitive in search of a shelter, I take refuge in his arms—the safest place on earth—fractured and shattered, hoping with his touch to be amended into wholeness. I feel the warmth of his caress, his body towering over me like a shade from harm. Protected and sheltered in the tenderness of my make-believe, I refuse to open my eyes again, and why would I? He has the softness of a teddy-bear; being held by him, despite his manliness, feels like being held by a cloud.

The love I have for him is beyond what my small body can contain. The hours leading up to typing this post were brimming with anxiousness. I’m half scared, half relieved to introduce My October to my readers. I’m also scared that he might find this….

If you are reading this, the tenderest part of my heart is reserved to you.

Soft

I pine for a soft man to compensate for my lack of softness. I have lived quarter of a century being insecure about not being womanly enough, not being soft enough, graceful enough. It only makes sense to crave traits that I fail to find in myself.

I want a soft-hearted man who talks tenderly to me that his voice almost sounds like a whisper of warmth, a man as quiet as the night, as passionate as the balmy sun. I want a man that fills the stars with a new-found radiance that they dance and flicker to the rhythm of his gentle voice. I want his eyes to be starry that they invite the moon to land in their dainty blackness. I want his touch to be as soft as a dandelion, a touch so gentle that our future child would refuse to let go off his fatherly embrace, a calming touch that stray cats no longer stray from his kindness. I want a man who, after God, will be my second guard, my shield from harm. I want to be tucked in his softness forever.

I’m a late bloomer & my milestones are embarrassing

When I turned 27, I thought there is no way i’m going to evolve more than I have, there is no way I will learn more about myself because I have reached my final form; I was wrong. These past few days I’ve been on an unplanned self-discovery trip and I was intrigued by who I am and who I continue to grow into.

 

I have always known that I am a late bloomer: I drove at 24, I was attracted to someone for the first time at 25, I gradually became more feminine at 26, and at 27, I discovered I have a type when it comes to men. The sad part of being a late bloomer is hitting milestones I can never celebrate with anyone. Last week, I caught myself saying: when I have a son, i’ll name him Ghanim, and if you know me, you’d know I never have baby fever nor do I care to have kids! When I tell you I was smiling from ear to ear in my bedroom and I couldn’t rush to anyone to celebrate it…..

 

To the average person, those are normal feelings but you have to understand that I have been aloof and robotic all my life. I have lived all my life thinking I will never break that chain, that I will forever be not ready for love, not ready for children, not ready for relationships, and when I got a taste of normalcy tingling in my mouth, I was over the moon! It feels that I was caged in a jail of fears and reluctancies and now I am blooming in my late 20s, and I am free!

 

Of course the term “late bloomer” here is not a label nor a classification. I am exactly where I am supposed to be, it just happened to be that you knew what you liked at 18, and I discovered it at 27. You were ready for goal A and B at 20, and I was ready for it much later in life. And the best part is that the universe had its reasons! God knows exactly when is the right time for everything. He knew that at 18, all I could think of was the beginning of my university journey. He knew that at 21, my biggest of issues was what notebook to choose for my classes. He knew at 23, I was in a dark place and I had no room in my heart or mind for anything or anyone. He knew at 25, that I was still not ready, at 26 not ready, at 27 not ready… he knew before I decided anything.

 

Only He sees me blushing and reaching tiny milestones that I end up never sharing with anyone, but I am signing off with happy tears. Remember that it’s never too late.

Growing up in an unaffectionate household & my fear of intimacy

I have no outlines or a clear idea in mind how to talk about this topic, so i will blabber as I go. I have been pushing off writing about this because I am in a good place in life & I don’t want to open a can of worms that will remind me of all the bad things in life.

 

So I grew up in an unaffectionate household with brothers and a sister. My sister was married when I was a teenager so I was then the only girl among guys. As I travel back in time, I remember that I never saw anyone hugging each other in my house. I have no recollection of anyone initiating anything remotely physical or affectionate whether it’s from my siblings or my parents. This is how I understood my detestation toward hugs and hugging. Embraces were never a part of our normal so as a result, my brain registered a hug as a sign of weakness. Years can easily go by without me hugging anyone and I would be completely fine with that? I can never know if that’s normal or not.

 

At first I thought it was merely an aversion to hugs, but the more I reflected, the more I realized that my aversion to physical touch in general is nothing but a fear of intimacy. It’s interesting when you’re in your late 20s and you come to conclusions that the person you are today is nothing but a product of your childhood experience. You’d think oh who cares about hugs, affection, and attention? The person will grow and they will eventually get those things from different sources (friends, companions, acquaintances, or other figures). I will now open up about how those “silly” details affected me in my adulthood.

 

  • Friendships

I am incapable of getting close (physically, mentally, emotionally) with anyone. None of my “best” friends were really close friends in my book. I never felt close to any friend and at first I thought it was a defect. Years and years would go by and I feel that the iceberg between us would never melt, and that would be entirely on me. My walls are high and I run away anytime someone was within my proximity.

 

  • Relationships

Although I have never dated anyone nor have I been in a relationship, if there’s any area my fear of intimacy would affect, it would be in the relationship department. First, I cannot see myself ever being in a relationship. Second, I can only imagine my future companion’s frustration trying to break my barriers. I would love to think that this is me predicting things out of sheer imagination, but I know for a fact it will take me a long time to get used to their touch. It will take me a long time to accept their hugs, them stroking my hair or face… (here I stopped because my body felt uncomfortable just typing this!)

 

  • Motherhood

The thing that worries me the most about my fear of intimacy and my lack of affection is motherhood. I never ever develop baby fever and I would like for anyone to come and tell me that this is normal & it has nothing to do with my fear. I also am so darn afraid of the idea that I may not be a loving mom. What’s the use of having kids if I am incapable of being affectionate and loving. Maybe just maybe I am the kind of woman who’s not made to be a mother?

 

  • Writing & reading preferences

You see how a few lines ago just typing about physical contact made my skin crawl? This fear has crept into my writing and reading realms too. I am incapable of writing anything physical or sensual, even if it was mild. I am incapable of enjoying any poetry book that has the slightest of physical description or affection. My preferences and interests in general are forever haunted by this aversion toward affection and physicality.

 

Is there a light at the end of the tunnel? Yes! There’s something I have not shared with anyone before, which is that I experienced my first physical attraction at the age of 25, and the person who changed it all was none other than my cafe muse. For the first time in 25 years, and I say this unashamedly, I sat across a man I wanted to embrace so badly. I noticed that even when I get the tiniest whims to be near him or crave to hold his hands, I would be all smiles! The person who hates physical touch…. is all smiles?

 

This was a milestone I could never celebrate with anyone. How could I go around telling anyone HEY LOOK AT ME I FINALLY WANT TO BE HUGGED BY SOMEONE. HEY LOOK AT ME I FEEL THINGS! I CRAVE THINGS? My heart actually works? And I am capable of feeling? Wanting?