It’s wonderous what three nights consisting of eight hours of sleep each did for me these last 3 days. How much I regret that I spent the first half of my life avoiding naps. I used to sit up trying to stay awake as I imagined what would it be like to stay awake as all the hours of the night passed by and it was day again. I had imagined the sun rise was a magical thing. I hoped to see it one day. One day I did, and it was all I had expected it to be.
We believe in a lot of things that give us hope. Maybe this is because we assume with enough hope one can manage whatever life throws in one’s way. We believe and we wish good things will happen to us, but they don’t always happen… whether we are optimists or passimists life is full of hardships.
Yes, I realize this is the second time I talk about life being tough, and I beg your pardon dear reader, but you see I live somewhere tough, in Lebanon to be precise, as in the Middle East.
I find bombings, explosions, and losses of innocent life do tend to put one in a gloomy mood. Gloomy enough to make a writer not want to write anymore just because a writer should give hope in times like these, but otherwise can’t find words that may bring hope. A lot is being written, and a lot more is being said. They talk of grievance, and anger; of frustration, fury, confusion, regret, and sometimes even revenge. No hope.
When I hear them I remember Pandora’s box, when the evils are spilled out of but hope remained inside, forever as hours upon passed by.
The sun always rises from the East and it is a magical thing. When will we ever be able to see it?