We think we comprehend it ,
And we try to make art and movies and music about it ,
And nonsense holidays and nonsense posts ,
And we live a nonsense life trying to make this happen to us ,
It will never be ,
Once i was talking to a therapist and he told me where do i belong ,
I knew but i couldn’t tell it ,
He started stating places but it wasn’t it ,
I didn’t know how to tell where i belong ,
Then at a month a man came ,
And day after day i knew his story ,
He’s alone ,
Not because he’s chosen to ,
But because his only daughter was killed in another country ,
He passes one ,
Like every normal human do ,
As if they’re just ordinary pieces in the society ,
Another day goes on , another month , another times ,
And a women passes ,
She tells me write x and y names ,
And i remember them somewhere ,
I searched on a forum and i told her isn’t (he) him ?
From a depressed shy old lady into a kid that the world couldn’t fit her eyes , she tells me yes ,
The yes that she thought would never come , because she still hadn’t move on from her brother being killed decades ago .
You see the problem with our world is that we think we know what love is , and that we think we truly feel what love is ,
And we go on being the nonsense we are ,
And we try to tell it and to share and to through whatever the lust and heck and shit we want into it to call it love ,
And we make and give food and dinners at streets out of “giving love” ,
And we take another people’s rights or feelings or stuff just because we think we deserve to love them the same as they do ,
And we blame them because we “love” ,
And we kill them too…
And you know ,
Rumi once said :”love is the stranger with the strange language , love is the language that can’t be heard or seen “
And i add , it could be only by pain ,
No one sees the stranger ,
And no one would will recognize the unknown ordinary human passing down the street ,
And the old lady would pass by the same people who killed her brother , the ones who are sharing food on the streets out of ” love “
With no one knowing her except poor old her ,
And we go on ,
Nonsense souls ,
Nonsense holidays ,
Nonsense faith,
all just to blind ourselves from the fact that we don’t know it , and we don’t see anything , and we’re in the face of the dragon we kill the queen , that we don’t love , not even ourselves, love is the lady that knew her brother’s picture was somewhere somehoe out of the world , not only in her bedroom , love is the man walking down the street , not crying because there’s no meaning for him left anymore … –
اخر صورة : بتاريخ ٢٧ تشرين الثاني ٢٠٢١، توفي أخ الشّهيد المظلوم يوسف شميساني (الأول يمينًا) ودفنَ معه في روضة الشهيدين.
يروي حاضرون أنهُ وخلال الدفن كُشف عن جسد الشّهيد يوسف فوجدوه تمامًا بالحالة التي دُفن عليها بعد شهادته يوم ٢٦ تشرين الثاني ١٩٨٨، مظلومًا مع رفيقيه علي صادق ومحمد عُميس (الظاهرَين إلى يسار شميساني).
zaki monzer 