I wrote two letters only,
and hesitated over the send button,
I hemmed and hawed and deleted the letters and then wrote them again and my finger hovered and hesitated over the send button, until I finally sent it.
But in the shrewd light of your eyes, you read everything I did not write, you read that I am alone, and vulnerable, and that I am reaching out to you, to soothe and calm, to be.
You read that I was feeling so small, that Paris Is burning, and so is Syria and Beirut and Lebanon, and other corners of the world that no one speaks about and you read that I am feeling like the world is so near,
Paris is usually a dream, far fetched by the glittery lights of the Eiffel tower, but now its mortal and her people lay strewn beside beautiful roses tinted in the hues of love.
You read, in those two letters, about the Syrian boy who drowned, and how hopeless I feel the world has become, that a child should drown helplessly, running away from his home, away from terrors in a land he can no longer survive in, he had two choices, run and risk drowning, and stay and there is no risk because death lurked every cabro pavement, every dark corner of their house, death sat and waited for his inevitable gain.
I was feeling hopeless enough to need you, a hopeless quest for solace.
And when these two letters went unanswered I breathed a sigh of relief, I am awake again, the Sun is bright and the world stands, and I realize I must fight, we must rise against terror, and loss, so much loss of life, of compassion, of humanity, amidst belligerent squabbles about flags and colors.
And most importantly loss of love.
The world is small, and ailing, and I read Rumi’s words, they made me ache:
‘I ran my hand all over a map of the world and whispered
“Where does it hurt?”