A Blue Page

It is not for anyone, but it is for everyone; it is not for you if you thought you were the one intended for it, but for you because you did not think that you were the intended one; it is not for reading, but for contemplation, and not for contemplation because it is for reading.

It does not express the writer’s imagination because it is the reality with its imagination and the imaginary with its reality. It is the virtual world that imposed its world on us, and forced us into its assumptions.

On every page there is a blue page, and on every blue page there is space for one’s self and the others to see how many times their hearts had been broken, how many times they have broken the heart of others, and how many times have passed without any heart being broken!

A blue page in the color of the sky, filled with the contradictions of Facebook, its beauty, intensity, and its attachment to us like a blue scarf embroidered with the faces of the thin clouds wrapped around our necks.

Facebook pages and its faces are now us, taking the ones we love from us, and the ones we love take everything from us and leave us floundering in the blue world, dreaming that one day we will soon become what we want to be, if we can find a way.

The color of the heart of love is blue, the sun is blue, the night is blue, the moon is blue, and the sea is yellow like the color of my pale face.. A blue page for you to turn back the hands of your clocks to a time before Facebook, social media and sacred timing, and be the one who decides.. Can we love from behind glass screens and multiply through Facebook accounts and such?! Maybe we will do that one day.

In the time of blue pages, he decided to be a white page, in which he writes about humans and life, about social relations and their worlds that are hidden behind the glass of souls and the silence of hearts; in short, it is a space of emptiness in a world crowded with ideas, and every soul eager for elevation and transcendence flees from it, so that one day it will be what it aspires to be.

((I drew the first letters with a pencil when I was a child discovering words, recognizing them so that I could erase them easily with a small eraser if I didn’t like them, and when the world grew inside me and its walls caged me, I wrote about it with a blue pen, vocabulary and structures that cannot be erased from my memory that is made of rock, and today, I opened the door to my soul and I let it embrace the sky, and from that moment on, the world for me was a white board on which I drew scribbles and art, and the faces of people whom life threw on my bumpy path and my crazy, boundless world, so I weave lines or pages from their remnants and write as much as I can)).