So, once upon a time there was a man, a man who was among the Hittites who invaded Babylon, and among the Spanish inquisition’s mercenaries who wiped villages, and among the Seljuks who invaded Azerbaijan, and even among the Americans who bombed Dresden, and among so many others, countless and endless. He, says, violence doesn’t interest me as an act; it’s just something we do, like the woman in Kiev when I was with the Mongol, we wrapped her after we raped her inside a cow leather and dangled her under the fire to roast for the longest time without burning, while we drank and ate and danced, that doesn’t interest me, it’s a usual thing that repeat itself without any surprise, it is vulgar! What interests me is something more delicate, like when I was in Rwanda one day, we have dug a big hole, a big grave to slaughter people on its edge and dump them inside. I don’t remember honestly why I was there, or for what I was slaughtering, or whom I was slaughtering, it doesn’t matter anyway. If you do what I do, it will never surprise you the way they submit, a kind of paralyzed surrender. What surprised me is when they bought the next victim, a 12 years old kid, thin and pale; someone followed him in a submissive and apologetic posture, begging and pleading, and because I thought it was a usual begging and pleading I kicked him, but I noticed that he was asking for something else, he was asking that he should slaughter his kid, and because this was somewhat new to me, kind of, I let him, and just stood watching. He kissed him first; he placed his head on the edge, but a different edge from the one that was covered with other people’s blood, he caressed his hair and whispered things in his ear, and he slaughtered his throat quickly. He carried him and placed him carefully on a far corner in the hole. He was whimpering without tears, sounds of sharp inhalation, and then he placed his face on the same edge, the same spot where his son’s blood was


I remember my mother a lot these days … I am afraid I have become more sentimental. I can’t help it.

She died when I was very young, before the conscious’ invasion could desecrate her. This is the worst virtue of being an orphan: you don’t lose the sacred symbolism of Motherhood, which is necessary. When I remember her I feel so alone and deserted, it is the only image in my conscious that still pure and nice; because it is not real … It is dangerous to be bound by fake sentiments.

We didn’t have much when I was a kid. My blanket was very short; when I pull it to my head, it exposes my feet … In this juncture of this story, I have many versions, which contribute the touching and evocative and nostalgic elements of this made-up tale. I am fed up with it, fed up! No more fake childhood sentiments … I tracked her down, she is a lawyer now. I followed her from place to place, there is nothing recognizable; nothing that stir anything in me. I helped her load the grocery on her car, she smiled and thanked me and chat a little about the weather. She didn’t know me of course; I was too young when she died. She has three kids, and a husband who owns an outlet store. Three days, I watched, slowly, quietly, hiding in deep shadows … And nothing … What a disappointment!

I drive sometime through roads unknown, roads I believe they change whenever I am out, roads of enormous trees and vast fields and blurring imagery. At a narrow street rimmed with giant pines veiling the identity of the sky and time; I came across a dead body, a dog, lying on the middle of the street, torn with shredded flesh and crusted blood. I stopped at the middle; there are never cars or passerby on these kinds of streets when I drive through it, so the dog seemed like it was placed here just for me. I shuddered with dread and eeriness at that notion, I stood statically, surrounded by the resounding stillness, staring at the jagged body and reddened feather, his eyes cold and still, it laments with languish the nothingness of its pointless existence, just a dog’s corps. I dragged it to the woods, I dug a shallow grave with my hands, and I instilled a crooked headstone to tell that there is a creature in here, and I stood for a long time amid the giant woods of whispering leafs and hypnotic bleakness, gazing unfathomably as you do when you gaze at something incomprehensible.

Something is killing me, slowly!


The sea is the closest thing you could reach to nothingness; it is without routes, without directions, without alterations or variations. That’s why the Sumerians and the Babylonians believed that the gods who preceded life were water, Apzu the fresh waters and Tiamt the oceanic waters, when they lived in a static Hyle state … The sea, at least on the surface, is a raw emptiness, an authentic uncontextual existence, like an empty child’s memory, without awareness to divide time, create moments, build a memory, capture impressions. The sea is a childhood, so free, so pure … I stand on the edge of the shore, the dawn spills a yellow ink in the horizon, the tides comes sauntering to the shore, covering my feet and receding with an ecstatic joyfulness, because every ebb and flow are an aggregate of thousands of individual travelers, infinitesimals of water, taking their turn to visit the shore, and then get back to the deep sea where they travelled from, passing the other specks that moves anciently ashore, asking excitedly about the magic touch of the edge. When the sea blow and storm, don’t be realistic for god’s sack, don’t believe the meteorologists, it is not wind or weather, it is the desperation of a long waiting, or the gloom void of a done purpose.


A dream of mural. Vast, pale, ancient, fragmented mural.

Some time ago, maybe now, maybe in a dream, or a transcended reality: I am trapped as a continuous endless fade of a figure inside an infinite mural, a shabby painting on a boundless wall of an old building in a narrow street, a crowded stirring staggering street with a river of entangled bodies walking hurriedly. And I’m conspicuous but yet intangible in the wall among millions of others, indistinct in our collective visibility that prevent any individuality. A crust of pale color fading faintly in my face, but I don’t vanish, I don’t disappear, no matter how much I fade. The static posing of something almost inanimate, gliding anciently inside the frame in the stillness of nonentity, not changing, not aging, not perishing. And in this static state of being; people will pass me by the millions, changing every time, disappearing and showing up again, glancing with little attention that lost interest. Millions. Steps. Rivers of bodies. Faces, oh god an infinite rang of faces. Features. Postures. Eyes, hollow oblivious eyes … And like them towards me, I can’t individualize them, I get lost in their aggregateness, I can’t capture any one individually, and I feel bitter thinking they feel the same about me.

A dream of mural. Vast, pale, ancient, fragmented mural.


The shady cold night brought blended voices from the quiet street. Youthful voices, clear vigorous sounds imbued with rapture Interrupted by drunk arguments. It went for 15 minutes, until the group disassembled; the voices subsided through the distance. Only one guy remained, I could hear his heavy breathing under my window. I stared carefully at him, hiding behind the curtain. He seemed lost, distraught by the sudden loneliness, surprised by the shivering stillness of the street. They both looked quite similar, the intangible remnant of the receded stir from the vanished day that left the street with a dreary lonely image, seemed familiar to him as he felt the same … Suddenly, he vomited with a sound of itched rattle. He stood up, looked around him, as though looking for something he doesn’t know what it is, and when he didn’t find anything except the deadpan image; he pulled himself and start dragging his feet, bowing his head in the most wistful posture I have ever seen. Until he disappeared beyond the distance.

For some reason, I felt sad … I sagged quietly on the sofa, peering through shades at the void of my empty apartment.


I saw the sea when I was a little kid. I stood alone in the harbor pier of an old city; the sun was sinking in the horizon, the yellow vivid light flow nostalgically like the pale crust in the surface of an old photo, streaming luminously over the thick waving water, like a melted gold. The sound of ships and boats was muffled, a hypnotic background reechoing in a vast tranquility. It was both sad and ecstatic. I kept starring in a deep intoxicated daze. I felt Time, the fragmented pieces of a broken glass, occurring without change, just a static scene repeating itself in the infinite stillness.

It is an image inside my memory, I don’t remember anything around it, I even sometimes doubt if it was real.

I always remember it when I see water, so I remember it every day. I stand sometimes rigidly, staring at the water pouring from the tap, absentminded, without a thought.


I saw the Theater when I was young.

I was alone in a pine forest … a time gap … and then, I was standing alone in front of the stage among the crowd, imbued with a redolent scent of moist trees. They were performing outside in the street. The setting sunlight shone on the stage, a very bright light radiating a vivid sunbathe atmosphere, mirroring in the faces that seemed like a glowing lamps, with no features or expressions, postures or gestures, just a brimful illuminated spots of light … I didn’t make a move, I kept standing with a numb gaze, drifting lightly into a fade memory containing images of pine trees in a forest, entangled simultaneously with the continues sun drenched stare at the illuminated spots of light on the stage … I don’t recall an ending, it kept going, endlessly … I think I’m still there, somehow.


My retrospective nostalgia twirls and curls in a circle of the arbitrary mood of my present. My past is trapped in my present. Everything that ever happened feeds on the status I’m in now. You see? I don’t have a past. I am a moving hollow existence forms his vacuity from the things he crosses. I am a void. I don’t belong. I don’t have a past … my theater … wife … kids … moments … all of them: templates of lines twirling and curling in a circle of the arbitrary mood of .my present


8 آراء على “Dreams

  1. هذا النص يشبه المأزق. أحببته. هل ستتوجه للكتابة بالإنجليزية مستقبلًا؟

    1. أشكرك على القراءة، وسعيد بإعجابك .

      فكرة الكتابة بالإنجليزية تتصاعد جديتها لدي، ومهتم بمواصلة القيام بها ولو بدافع المتعة .
      لكن لا أستبعد أن أكتب روايتي القادمة – خصوصا بما تطرحه من إشكالات ووجع راس – بالإنجليزية ونشرها هناك، ولكن أحتاج مزيدا من التدرب والممارسة .

      شكرا لك .

      1. هذا خبر محزن ومفرح في الحقيقة. محزن للرواية العربية ومفرح لك بحيث ستحظى بقراء أفضل بطبيعة الحال.

        هل الرواية التي تعنيها دوائر؟

      2. ممنونك على هذا الرأي.
        وعموما النشر هناك أيضا يحتاج إلى تفرغ وقليل من الحظ، ولكنه يظل مشجعا بصراحة أكثر من هنا .

        ليست دوائر، فدوائر تطبع الآن مع المركز الثقافي العربي.
        التي أقصدها رواية مختلفة.

        أشكرك 🙂

  2. هل ستتوفر دوائر في معارض الكتب (الشارقة/الكويت) القادمين؟ وبالتوفيق أينما ذهبت يا صديقي.

    1. للأسف يا صاحبي ليس لدي معلومات كافية، كل ما أعرفه أن الكتاب يطبع الآن، وأن من المؤكد توفره في معرض الرياض القادم .

      إذا نزل قبل سأعلن ذلك .

      متشكر يا جميل على كل هذا الاهتمام . ممنونك دائما 🙂

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