I do not know if it is June, with its scent filled with Arab defeats and the defeat of the Arab Spring, and the spring of the seasons receding on its edges, bidding farewell to greenery, blowing from the ashes of its hell over some of its days to make its thorns whistle and the wind howl in it.

Its history filled me with a fluctuating cloud, and it robbed me of a smile. It made me live in a state of isolation that I entered, neither safe nor reassured. I was plagued by anxiety and insomnia, and sleep deposited its traces in my eyes, and embers settled in the whiteness. Every time I rubbed it, it became redder.

I was waiting for some news from I did not know where, some kind of prophecy, the unseen carrying in its travels something that would break my frustration and despair, and cause my isolation to be revealed to me.

I used to hammer on a tree every day a nail that would dig into the end of my misery.

I search the interior of books for the reasons that have befallen me.

I read psychology and delved int
o dissociative hallucinations, thought disorders, and delusion.

I was not overcome by fear or erratic behavior.

Yes, I was internalized by lack of enthusiasm and refrained from talking much, and I know that this is part of the irrationality and uncertain tendencies in the shadows of June, a dry and depressing month.

I turned to philosophy, alienation, and the state of mind that was afflicting me. Finally, I became attached to the weather and the emergence of its fluctuations, but nothing helped me.

I decided to seek refuge with fortune-tellers, cup-readers, and sand-throwers. I was unable to decipher my miserable condition.

I discovered that it was a virus that had no name or religion, sweeping over me like a drop of ink that stained my feelings, making me lose my personal and essential meaning.

I wondered if it was awareness and the discovery of futility! And your water flows into nothingness?

Or losing love and staying away from Eve! Which was and still is the cause of my constant pain, whether out o
f longing or abandonment, on its journey towards my feelings.

A friend told me: It is Ramallah fever, which brings profits from the shift towards the semi-capital, and its spirit is biased towards Jerusalem.

I decided to stop the internal rifts and collapses. I recited at length the poems of Al-Hallaj, Ibn Al-Arabi, Ibn Al-Rumi, and Farid Al-Din Al-Attar, and I was filled with ecstasy and mystical manifestation to the utmost extent. My frustration broke and I shouted, ‘Man may be destroyed, but he cannot be defeated.’

Source: Maan News Agency