La beauté réside dans les détails.

Ne regardez pas, observez.

N’entendez pas, écoutez.

C’est le regard qu’on porte sur ces détails qui fait la beauté des choses. Admirer une œuvre, ce n’est pas seulement l’image qu’elle renvoie mais plutôt la manière de sa conception, les moyens utilisés, l’amour qui lui a été porté, les émotions transmises dans chacun de ces traits.

Assiya Tahcine : artiste

« Just a lost soul waiting for her storm of mixed emotions to take her to another dimension where art, love and freedom take over »

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The last confession

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...

التذكرة رقم 21

زارته الكلمات قبل أشعة الشمس. لا يزال مستلقيًا على نفس السرير، تكاد تجزم أنه فارق الحياة في نومه، غير أن حركات معطفه المعلَّق على جانب السرير، تباعًا لكل شهيق، كانت تُثبت عكس ذلك. فتح عينيه وانتظر بضع ثوانٍ حتى يرى النور يتسلل عبر الخزانة، ليدرك أنه فصل جديد، أو كما يحب أن يسميه منذ أسابيع: الرقصة الأخيرة. شقةٌ تتوسّل الانفصال. يتجوّل فيها قليلًا وكأنه يودّع ما تبقّى ويحزن على ما غادر. كانت بالأمس القريب ملتقى للحكايات والنكات، وها هي الآن بالكاد تهمس بما تبقّى من صدى الأصوات. ألقى معطفه فوق كتفه، فزاده ثِقَلًا، ثم حمل عكازه وغادر دون أن يلتفت، ولو لثانية واحدة من الحنين. أمام المأوى لا يختلف المشهد كثيرًا؛ رصيفٌ لا تقبله حتى الزبالة، ومنازل تهمس لبعضها عن قساوة ما يسكنها. خطواته متثاقلة، يبطئها ضعف الجسد وتثقلها قوة الهموم. يعرف طريقه جيدًا، يتوقف أمام المقهى — مُرغمًا تارة، ومُغرَمًا تارةً أخرى. كان يحب الشطرنج؛ لعلّه يرى في قطعه بقايا الفرسان الذين كانهم يومًا ما. غادر جلّ أصدقائه المقهى… والحيّ ربما؟ كل ما يعلمه أن من تبقّى بدأ يتآكل بالنسيان. لم يقضِ سوى بضع دقائق جالسًا. استأذن ب...

What do I do with this love?

Today I woke up as one does. I had my cup of coffee, part of a routine I don't dare disturb. I wore the same outfit I had on yesterday, it wasn't hard to find it. It was right where I left it last night. And the night before. In a sad heap by the foot of my bed. I couldn't wear my rings, or anything on my wrist, its heaviness would make everything else unbearable. I left the house, keys jingling as I shoved them in my bag. I would struggle to fish them out of the mess when I get back, but that's something I'll have to figure out later. The bus is late, it always is. By the time I can see its carcass in the horizon, I've already developed a dull ache in my left knee. I wince as I climb the step. I pay the man whose face won't hold a place in my memories, they are already filled to the brim. I take a space to sway back and forth during a journey I know too well. The familiarity of it all is what makes it easy to navigate. It requires no effort to redo someth...

Toubib Or Not To Be

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