Because if I don't do it now, I never will.'Īnd I still don’t know which month it was then But I wasn’t that brave or honest, so all I did was look at him. I would say it, so he would know it and I would know it, and I could never take it back. I looked at him, and I thought, 'If I was very brave or very honest, I would tell him.' Maybe this was why I came, so I could really know. I felt it in the pit of my stomach, the familiar ache, that lost, regretful feeling only he could give me. I couldn’t even be mad at him, because this was who he was. The girl who comes running back every time you push her away, the girl who loves you anyway.' I looked at him, and I felt so sad, because this thought occurred to me: 'I will never look at you the same way again. In his eyes, there was no trace of what had happened between us earlier and I could feel something inside me break. But it was the kind of nothing that meant everything. “We stood there, looking at each other, saying nothing. Wanting nothing in return, except that you allow me to keep you here in my heart, that I may always know your strength, your eyes, and your spirit that gave me freedom and let me fly.” I love you as only a girl could love a boy. ![]() I love you as you have become an extra necessary organ in my body. I say this to you now: I love you, with no beginning, no end. To say “I love you, but….” is to say, “I did not love you at all”. Love lives in our spirit and graces us with its presence each day, until death. Love changes our brain, the way we move and talk. It is there in our heart, a part of our heart…eventually grafting itself into each limb and cell of our bodies. Not a feeling that comes and goes at the whim of the emotions. It’s the condition-less state of the heart. In love their are no ‘buts’ or ‘if’s’ or ‘when’. Yet the “but” takes away the ‘I love you’. That's what scares them-to recognize that death could be this close and this ugly.“Sometimes you want to say, “I love you, but…” ![]() When it comes to me, however, all they see is death staring them in the face. As much as they disapproves of such outlaws, they don’t treat them as if they are invisible. In their eyes I am worse than a thief or a murderer. Whenever they places a coin in my bowl, they do so with amazing speed and avoid any eye contacts, as if my gaze is contagious. When people looks at me, they don’t see who I am but what I am missing. And for me, unlike the trees, there would be no spring in which I would blossom. Every day another part of my body abandons me. My skin, my organs, my face are falling apart. A tree shedding its leaves in autumn resembled a man shedding his limbs in the final stages of leprosy. ![]() I’ve realized that the trees and I had something in common. So profound is their need to show off how generous and charitable they are, not only do they race to give us alms, but for that single day they almost love us. To the contrary, they specifically look for one, the more miserable the better. Once a year, people don't turn away from beggars. ![]() That is when even the hopeless penny-pinchers race to give alms, keen to compensate for all their sins, past and present. The last day of Ramadan is by far the best time to make money. None of these people seem to realize that as keen as they are to avoid me, I am far keener to avoid them and their pitiful stares.įriday is the best day of the week to beg except when it is Ramadan, in which case the whole month is quite lucrative. Artisans chase me from their storefronts to ward off the bad luck that follows me everywhere, and pregnant women turn their faces away whenever they set eyes on me, fearing that their babies will be born defec-tive. Mothers point me out on the streets to scare their misbehaving little ones, and children throw stones at me. Neither the dead nor the living want me among them. Believe it or not, they call this purgatory on earth “holy-suffering”.
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