Toubib Or Not To Be

عندما تنقشع سحب السماء، وتكفّ الأمطار والثلوج عن الهطول، وتبدأ براعم الأشجار وبتلات الزهور بالتفتح، وتضحى الشمس واضحةً في الأفق مرسلةً أشعتها الدافئة نحو الأرض، حينها نكون قد ودّعنا ضيفًا عاصفًا وباردًا، ليحين وقت استقبال أخيه الدافئ والناعم، الربيع. لطالما كان الربيع رمزًا للجمال والتوازن، إذ إنّه يمثل عودة الانسجام والاستقرار بعد فترةٍ صاخبةٍ ومضطربة، فهو الفصل الذي ينتظره الجميع بكلّ الصبر كي يتمكنوا من الاستمتاع بالعالم دون خوفٍ من تقلب أحوال الطقس. نعم، الربيع يمثل تلك المكافأة على صبرٍ دام لأشهر ضد بردٍ وصقيعٍ قارصين، ضد فترةٍ تكون مصحوبةً في غالب الأحيان بكثير من العقبات والتعاسة، ضد شبحٍ مظلمٍ وكئيب يقيد الروح ويثقل فؤاد ضحاياه، ليخيَّل لهم أنهم غرقوا في سوادٍ عاتم ولا سبيل للخروج منه. لطالما كانت حياة الإنسان مليئةً بتلك اللحظات التي يخيم فيها اليأس كسحابةٍ سوداء تحجب النور وتطفئ الأمل، وتخمد الشغف حتى يتحول إلى استسلامٍ وانكسار. لا تؤمن ضحيتها بالخلاص منها ولا من قسوتها. يكون رجوع الأحوال لما هي عليه أمرًا شبه مستحيل، والفناء ببؤسٍ وسط ذلك الظلام أمرًا لا محالة منه. لا يخيل ل...

In a manner of speaking, I question the silence. A silence I erased in the hopes of understanding. But you say everything by saying nothing. In a manner of speaking, I crash the silence, my words like tidal waves come crashing in, crashing with them what's left unspoken, shattering the vows you whispered to the wind. In a manner of speaking, my words hunt the silence. The shadows are retreating, but I only fear silence. God is silent. The absence of God is my religion. In a manner of speaking, I listen. God is taking shape. I listen to the whistling in the dark, echoing the forbidding words, the enigma of nature, written in fractals, a quiet signature of God. In a manner of speaking, I pray. I shiver to the horrors of guilt, of confusion and illusion. I pray to the trees, for I am rooted. I pray to the sun, for I am burning. I pray to God, for God is within me. In a manner of speaking, I write to you. Words flowing to me, words filling my throat, words submerging my existence. The ...

Cursed is the neck that carries the silver medal. Before one is to proclaim that, well, the silver medalist is indeed a winner, one must pause…ponder. One must walk upon a metaphorical red carpet, wait behind the bronze medalist to climb that metaphorical podium, and waste away as every member of this accursed metaphorical arena announces you the first loser. I am not an athlete, nor am I ever inclined to be one. My physical prowess is limited to running after buses and away from the rain; however, I can proudly admit that I have been a silver medalist on many occasions in my life. As a matter of fact, so has every person I have ever met. In truth, we have all carried that mantle. So allow me to paint you a picture. You are ten when you are diagnosed: gifted. That’s what they call you, that’s what they are going to continuously whisper behind your back before you inevitably plummet, an Icarus who burned out too close to the overachieving sun. But I digress, you are gifted, and whether ...

Society craves isolation; it requires it. Man is not proficient enough if man is always aching for another. Companies preach all they want about team building, yet they pluck out each one of us and plant us in cubicles dusted in ashy gray, tasting of regret and longing, and hope that by 5 PM sharp, one fades away into that wall. They commend individualism when one is creating a project, not when one’s project is themselves. Governments hold their breath for the fiftieth person to walk into a room before they smack a request for a permit on your front and tell you to disperse. Yes, man wants to be a social animal. No, man may not be one. Late-stage capitalism decrees as much. Truth is, loneliness sells. You get an employee, you breed into them fear of authority and respect for the soul-stripping madness that is a 9-to-5, you teach them work culture, you make sure that work haunts their breaks, haunts their commutes back home, haunts their holidays, haunts their PTO. Thus, they do your...

I want to be emaciated, not of flesh but of need. My hands are so cold. I keep wondering if they will ever learn warmth, as if warmth were something earned, something the body could retain. Everywhere you touch me, my skin ignites. Flames, sudden and violent, as if I mistake burning for salvation. I confuse your warmth with interest, with care, with something that belongs to me. But it doesn’t. It never did. It is warmth I borrow, pressed briefly against my chest before it fades. Intimacy gives the illusion of belonging. It tells me I am held when I am only close. Each kiss feels like survival, like I’m siphoning life from your mouth to nourish what’s starving in me. When it fails, when nothing inside me wakes up, I kiss you again, believing insistence might become resurrection. You touch me and the desire to disappear loosens. This is easier than repairing what’s broken. For a moment, the void quiets. For a moment, I hate myself less. When our fingers intertwine, I want you endlessly....

Parents are forgotten gods. My first act of worship was not a prayer but irrevocable love for my parents. It was easy to cast parents as gods when they were your eyes to a new life. The slow movement of your mouth as your teeth grind food, the small steps that you take confidently in a stride now, the smile that goes too wide because there is no shame in showing a moment of joy: all of my parents’ teachings live through me. I was their New Testament, their Vedas, their Torah, and so were they to me. Their voices wrestled in my head at every decision. What would my parents do? In moments of fear, I reached for the safe blanket of parental security to take cover in. Their ideas seemed so big and inconceivable. My inexperience ascended them to the pedestal of gods. I sought their blessing as earnestly as any believer. Heaven was the small smile of approval. Hell was the disappointment concealed behind indifference. It was important to maintain this balance, albeit impossible; my brain fou...