"We live in an age that glorifies outward perfection and mocks the mark left by a wound. But I say otherwise: the one who lacks something may become its greatest giver, because loss has planted need deep within them, and that need is a spring that never runs dry. Salvation does not lie in sealing the cracks, but in letting light shine through them."
So the wise man thought as he walked slowly, carrying on his shoulders the two jars he habitually took back and forth every day. Despite his advanced age, he kept walking for exercise; his years had brought him experience and maturity. He carried one jar on his right shoulder and the other on his left, listening with interest to the conversation between them.
A Symbolic Projection: The Two Jars
The intact jar attacked her sister with the arrogance of stagnant pride.
The Intact Jar: "You cracked vessel, symbol of deficiency in a world of completeness! Everything goes smoothly for me. I am the perfect representation of what society wants: quiet, obedient, full, and securely in my place. I cause no disorder. You, by contrast, are nothing but a bleeding crack, losing what you have at every step. You are proof of failure that produces nothing."
The Cracked Jar:(Her voice is sorrowful, but carries a defiant strength.) "You are complete only on the outside, my intact sister. You are the model of a woman who accepted submission as her purpose and brought children into a life they never chose. I see marriage as a heavy restraint, a rock pressing on my chest, a cursed disease I could not endure even for a few hours. Yes, I am cracked, but my crack is the price of rebelling against a society that sees a woman as a vessel for obedience rather than a source of existence!"
The Intact Jar: "You are alone, rejected, unable to fit in. Your crack is a social and psychological disability: you refuse the restraint that life requires. You cannot hold the water of marriage or endure the bonds of partnership. You are an outcast, refusing the natural path society mapped out for you. You are not fit to be a vessel. Your crack shows that you cannot obey and will not accept the system. Every step you take is a lost one; you lose something at every turn. No wonder they consider you defective."
The Cracked Jar: "You describe a dead kind of perfection. You have produced nothing, confronted nothing, and never had to carve your own path. Every pain I have suffered in my education, every struggle for divorce and liberation—that is precisely what my crack represents. It is not weakness. It is a force of will that compels me to grow."
The intact jar repeated her accusation: the cracked one was a social failure, unable to hold the water of marriage or the bonds of partnership, an outcast who refused society's natural route. She was not fit to serve as a vessel. Her crack proved her inability to obey and her rejection of order. She moved through life as a loser, and no wonder others saw her as incomplete.
The Cracked Jar:(Her voice blends pain, pride, and awareness.) "You are complete only in a false outward sense, my intact sister. You chose surrender and a hollow fullness over a free existence. I have always been the unbearable individual. I refuse to see a man as a partner; I see him as a heavy chain, a cursed plague whose presence I cannot endure for hours on end. My crack is not failure—it is a declaration of sovereignty! It is the price of rebelling against obedience, and the defeat of the idea that my worth depends on the presence of another being. I have created a world of my own, one in which I can do without everyone else, because, at my core, I accept division only by myself."
Yet the cracked jar knew that something inside her had been shattered. At times she only pretended to be strong; at other times she truly was. Still, a deep feeling of frustration and despair sometimes took hold of her. Was she weak after all? Patriarchal society looked at her and saw nothing more than a jar to be filled and emptied by the man. Because she was cracked, they assumed she could not do her job. She, however, believed she was stronger than all of them—stronger than the foolish patriarchal society that lost every battle with life yet kept its head held high, boasting of its own cowardice and laziness while marginalizing women and relegating them to second place.
One day despair overcame her and sorrow sank deep. She wondered why the wise man insisted on carrying her every day when he knew she was cracked. Whenever he returned home, she held no water for him to use; only the intact jar delivered water. She sighed, bitterness mingling with a hidden determination and stubborn resilience.
"My crack makes me unable to hold water—not even a single drop. I am not fit to be a jar. Then why am I a jar at all?"
She felt that something within her distinguished her from the intact vessel. There was a secret strength whispering that she would one day do something great and meaningful. Despite her crack, she would endure; she would not be the failure the intact jar believed her to be, a vessel unfit for its intended purpose and useful for nothing. The voice echoed inside her, ringing through the fissure and dropping leaves of strength, as though the crack had made her more singular, more independent, and more distinctive than anyone else.
The cracked jar resolved to trust the voice and hear its echo: Your crack is the secret of your greatness. Yet how? The voice kept repeating itself; the crack seemed to groan along with it, whispering confidently: "Be the stronger one. Your crack is proof of your uniqueness and your productivity! It produces; it plants; it will harvest."
Although she felt some confidence in this thought, anxiety, confusion, and despair still possessed her. She asked the voice inside her, "How can that be when I am cracked? I believe you, but what path will take me there? And when will it happen?"
The voice answered with absolute silence—with emptiness and stillness. Winds of ambition and curiosity stirred inside her. She decided to ask the wise man, her question veiled in confusion, sorrow, bitterness, and a carefully maintained composure.
"Why do you insist on carrying me back and forth every day, wise man, when you know full well that I cannot carry even a drop of water? You take me home daily, knowing that I have no water inside me and that only the intact jar can pour any out."
The wise man smiled tenderly. He stroked the crack with gentle fingers and profound care, as though he held a precious treasure.
"I hold on to you because I do not see the crack in you. I see what lies beyond it. I am certain that without your crack you would not have become the heroine. You are a magnificent spirit, singular in your very being, rare in what you have achieved."
He placed the jar on his shoulder and carried her to a lush garden, full of the colors of creativity and beauty. The garden pulsed with woven novels, literary poems, and a fertility no eye had ever witnessed.
Then the wise man turned toward the side where the intact jar was carried. There he found a desolate yellow wasteland, like a desert of the soul. The intact jar produced only stagnation and acceptance; not a single drop of creativity had fallen from her to water the world.
The Wise Man: "My cracked jar, I see what lies beyond your fissure. Your crack was the source of light and creativity. You watered the world with your pain; your deficiency made you surpass others. Instead of seeing you as incomplete, they tremble before the completeness of your crack, and feel deficient beside the strength of your will, which turned a wound into a message.
"You are a whole number that refused division except by itself. You turned inward around your crack and wound, not to weep over your fate, surrender, or fear anyone, but to develop yourself. You turned your fissure into flowing water, a spring that watered this barren land with your creativity until it blossomed into a lush garden. You gasped in amazement when you saw its beauty. Without your singular crack, the fruit could never have ripened.
"Your crack, my beloved and precious jar, makes those who think themselves complete feel deficient beside you. Your crack has slaughtered their complacency, cutting them apart like a sharp blade and scattering their pieces beneath your feet. It is the price of your brilliance and creativity. The very thing they mistook for a flaw made them look like dwarfs beside you. Your crack raised you and diminished them; it honored you and humiliated them. It quenched your thirst and left them thirsty. It lit your way and darkened their nights. Your crack cracked them open.
"Your crack was a powerful giant they could not stand against. It became a symbol of defiance and defeated them all. Every day it roared in their faces, terrifying them and declaring that they were nothing but drums—noise on the outside, emptiness within—producing only boredom and yawns. Your crack became the whip that made them shrink before you. It created your grandeur and awe; it became the bridge by which you crossed above them all. Your precious crack frightened them and lifted you. It was your fortress of safety. It turned their alleged completeness into a visible, shameful defect, while the deficiency they imagined in you became a perfection plain even to the blind."
The wise man turned again to the side where the intact jar was carried and found it barren, yellow, and desolate. She had never let even a drop fall. She was merely a container that carried water and poured it into another container, producing neither fruit nor flowers. She could never create what the cracked jar had made: a lush garden, a paradise alive with creativity and art. On her side of the path she had produced only a wasteland. One day she would leave the world without a trace, unlike the cracked jar. She had brought nothing new; she was simply a vessel whose supposed completeness was deficiency itself—an empty completeness, a disabled completeness, incapable of anything creative or beautiful. She had always believed herself whole, until she saw the flourishing garden watered by her sister's crack and learned the truth.
Philosophical Conclusion: The Declaration of the "Whole Number One"
The cracked jar wept with joy and understanding. She realized that the creativity with which she watered the world—writing, literature, and art—was a garden grown from her inner fissure.
The crack had created a wholeness that false perfection could never provide. It was a bridge that carried her to the summit while others remained stagnant in their imagined completeness.
"So I now proclaim my philosophy: like Dostoevsky, I love humanity in the abstract, but I hate human beings as individuals and cannot bear the bonds of partnership.
"I am the whole number one in the equation of existence. I accept division only by myself. I am an individual; I do not love even numbers or partnership. I find my world in solitude. This is no mere mathematical equation but a profound philosophical declaration: the crack gave birth to life, not death. Those who appear sound and complete on the outside are dead within; they are deficient and have nothing with which to nourish the world."
The Cracked Jar: "You see solitude as denial, while I see it as wholeness and a dissolving into the self."
The cracked jar stood proud and confident. "Now I know that my intuition was right. The voice that whispered of my strength now rings with unmatched confidence. My crack gave me the will to continue my education to the very end and drove me into the fierce struggle for divorce and freedom. These obstacles are not signs of deficiency; they are the stakes to which I tie my creativity. You confronted nothing, so you produced nothing."
She understood the truth: her crack was not a defect, but her true, indivisible identity. With dignity she declared:
"I now proclaim my uniqueness. I am the whole number in the equation; I accept division only by myself, and I will not share my being with another number. This is not selfishness, but the wholeness of a self born to live within its own world. Like Dostoevsky, I love humanity as an abstract idea, but I hate human beings as individuals and reject every chain that obstructs my individuality. I now water the world with my flowering crack, while those who falsely call themselves complete remain dead within, diminished before the abundance of my light."
End of reflection
I AM THE WHOLE NUMBER ONE
I am the whole number one in the equation of existence. I accept division only by myself. I am an individual; I do not care for even numbers or partnership. I find my world in solitude. This is not merely a mathematical equation, but a profound philosophical statement: the crack gave birth to life, not death. Those who appear sound and complete on the outside are, in truth, dead within—deficient, unable to nourish anything.
"I see solitude as a refusal," someone says, "but I see it as wholeness and a dissolving into the self."
Now I know my intuition was right. The voice that once whispered of my strength rings out with confidence and vigor. My crack gave me the will to pursue my education to the last moment and drove me into the fierce struggle for divorce and freedom. These obstacles are not signs of deficiency; they are the stakes from which I hang my creativity. You have faced nothing, and so you have produced nothing.
I now proclaim my individuality: I am the whole number one in the equation. I accept division only by myself and will not share my being with another number. This is not selfishness, but the wholeness of a self born to do without the world. Like Dostoevsky, I love humanity as an abstract concept, but I hate human beings as individuals and reject every bond that constrains my singularity. I water the world with my flowering crack, while those who falsely call themselves complete remain dead within, impoverished before the abundance of my light.
End of reflection
THE SPIRAL DECEPTION
She hurried into her room as though she were a commander who had made a decisive choice, or an adventurer compelled to take a necessary risk. She seized her wallet, sat on the sofa, and drew out a banknote worth a substantial amount—not a fortune, perhaps, but enough to buy some of the things she needed. It could at least pay for the antidepressant she had been taking for months, or cover a visit to the dentist she regularly saw to check the teeth that had begun to erode, with decay eating into some of her molars.
All of this passed before her like a film while she held the banknote and stared at it in silence, a silence roaring with questions and a torrent of conflicting thoughts, coated in the rust of aversion and disgust. She squeezed the note between her hands until it crumpled like the face of a centenarian, then pressed it harder still. She remained on the sofa, staring at it with flat, indifferent eyes, like the faded eyes of a dilapidated house coated in dust.
Boredom mingled with revulsion. The drums inside her mind began to pound faster and faster, their rhythm racing toward the wrinkled banknote lying on the floor. In a flash, before she could hesitate, she picked it up. Her decision was made. With anger and disgust, she tore the note into pieces, turning it into a paper corpse. The scent of banknotes seemed to rise from the shredded remains and fill the room until she felt she was choking on it.
"An illusion, an illusion! Nothing but an illusion. It is the illusion of control that a colored piece of paper grants you. Money is not a virtue to pursue; it is a narcissistic curse, a great deception. It makes you look rich while stealing your honor, conscience, and morals from you day after day. And despite my deep hatred of it, I am afraid of losing it. This is a coercive relationship: we often need what we hate, because we are forced to."
The Spiral of Money: The Hand-to-Hand Game
Looking at the fragments of the dead banknote, she addressed it directly.
"You are a glittering deception, and in the end you are nothing. Look at yourself. You used to spin and slide from hand to hand, promising every hand that held you its wishes fulfilled and its hopes achieved. Whoever possessed you believed they held the most powerful weapon, a shield to protect them, an Aladdin's lamp that would grant every desire and fulfill every ambition. Why not? They believed they carried a deadly weapon in their grasp, moving toward their goal with bitterness on their lips and sorrow in their eyes—yet they remained subject to your will. They could reach what they wanted only through you, you wretched banknote.
"And now you are a torn corpse at my feet. Rot. Go to hell! You slip slyly from one hand and roll into another, passing from hand to hand. Every hand, every finger that clutches you believes it holds an Aladdin's lamp. With the lightness of a professional thief, you offer empty promises. You persuade the hand that has acquired you that you have granted its wishes and helped it achieve what it sought. Then, with your familiar, malicious slipperiness, you slide into another hand and offer the same promise, creating the same illusion. You pass like a cloud into yet another hand, then circle back to the very same hand, repeating the same performance and making the same promises. In the end, nothing—nothing but suggestion. You merely make people feel that they have gained what they wanted, achieved something through you, obtained what they needed or dreamed of. But it is suggestion, nothing more. You yourself keep slipping around the same circle, and they continue living the same illusion.
"It is a closed loop. The fingers and hands that clutch you imagine they are moving forward. The beginning is not zero but the bank or vault where the note is first printed. An employee receives it as 'profit,' then hands it to a merchant, who passes it to someone else in a shopping basket. Eventually, the very same note—or one like it—returns to the bank to be distributed again. Everyone sells; everyone buys; everyone pays for the illusion of profit with a piece of their soul. A contest takes from the competitor to pay the judge; the winner then gives away what they won to pursue another goal, and the money returns to the business that feeds it back into the larger circle. The circle keeps spinning and making everyone dizzy without creating anything real. It produces only slaves who lose their consciences to the lure of wealth."
The shredded banknote smiled at her—a sly yellow smile tinted with the color of control. With arrogant pride, it replied:
"But you need me. You cannot deny it. Without me, you cannot live; you cannot eat or drink or find the medicine you need to stay alive. You cannot go to the dentist or the market. You cannot buy a dress or a blanket to protect you from the bitter cold. Without me, you cannot own an air conditioner or even a fan to save you from the burning heat. In short, without me you will be lost, perhaps destroyed. However fiercely you resist, in the end you will submit to my power."
The Silent Dialogue: Money and Nothingness
She stared at the note with hatred.
"That is precisely why I hate you. I do not deny that, unfortunately, I need you. But often we need things we do not love—even things we detest—and we submit to their control. Life has forced me to live under the lash of your power. You whip me with my need for food, drink, medicine, and doctors. Life has placed me beneath your lashes and made you the executioner who broke my back beneath this unbearable burden. I chose you, but I never loved you. There is a vast distance between what we willingly choose and what we are forced to need.
"You forced me to clutch you between my fingers until you felt like a knife, your sharp blade tearing into my hands and every finger's artery. I have always hated you; I truly despise you. You took my freedom, bound me, and subjected me to your iron chains. Oh, how those chains have cut my wrists! Why should I keep them when they have robbed me of liberty? Now the time has come for revenge. What a despicable power you are, you piece of paper!"
The Spiral Circle: The Game of Illusion
"Money is no treasure; it is an exhausting circular trick. Look at it: the circle turns and spins without creating anything real. It is an endless hand-to-hand game. An employee takes a salary from the bank and gives it to a merchant; the merchant uses it to pay obligations, and the bank takes it back again, only to redistribute it among the laboring slaves in every field."
The torn banknote confronted her with the arrogance of a flirtatious woman.
"And even the freedom you flaunt—I can subdue it. By controlling the whole world, I can bring freedom under my sway and buy it with my influence. I can reduce it to nothing, make it my captive, and force it to kneel before my power, my glitter, and my irresistible seductions."
She met its gaze with defiance and pride, like a storm blazing with fire.
"Be quiet, you contemptible thing! Do not put the word freedom into your filthy mouth, which knows only degradation, domination, and the subjugation of the weak. Freedom is too sublime to be bought by your supposed seduction. You may be able to control everything else, but not freedom. It is your sworn enemy, greater and loftier than you, like a towering structure your kind can never reach. Before it, you are a rusted matchstick beside a skyscraper, an ant beneath the feet of a giant elephant. What do you know of freedom? It alone has escaped your chains. It alone has understood what it means to do without you, abandoned you with contempt, turned its back, and trampled you beneath its feet. Do not dare utter its pure name with your filthy tongue.
"If all the treasures of the earth you carry were laid before a hungry lion or a wolf waiting for prey, would they care? Would you stir even a single thing within them? No. In nature's eyes, you are nothing—mere matter worth less than the grandeur of moonlight or the courage of a mother defending her child. Yet humans, in their foolishness, kill, steal, and sell their honor for you!"
The Torn Banknote (a narcissistic illusion): "I am the game, human beings. I am neither virtue nor evil; I am the symbolic chain you chose for me. You are the ones who wish to kill, and I provide the justification. You are the ones who wish to stray, and I provide the cover. You invented my circle to enjoy a temporary illusion of possession, then you blame me! There are no slaves in nature—except you, my slaves."
Climax: The Madness of Doing Without, and Sacred Art
She spoke with pride blended with sorrow and bitterness.
"I lived beneath the burden of this noble contempt for money, yet I forced myself to need it in a world that recognizes nothing but currency. Then I remembered the principle of doing without, practiced by Tolstoy when he possessed everything, while I practice it possessing nothing. I want to prove that doing without is an inward decision, not a material condition.
"I know that, in other people's eyes, tearing you apart and turning you into a lifeless corpse was an act of madness. From the world's perspective, that is what it was. But for me it was renunciation and revelation—indeed, a sacred art that grants my self another life, one I can live truthfully, not bound and humiliated by you. I have declared to the universe that I can do without your game and refuse to let a currency I hate control me. I humiliated you and tore you to pieces until you became a dead body, useless for anything, and I did it at the very moment I needed you most."
The banknote's remnants looked at her in anger and astonishment.
"Why did you do this, you fool? How stupid you are! You could have gained so much by keeping me. What would you have lost by holding on to me? On the contrary, you could have bought what you needed and achieved at least some of your goals. But through your foolishness, you have made me worthless and useless."
Her eyes flashed with triumph; her voice stood tall with pride.
"See? See how trivial you are! A simple act of tearing made you nothing. Your place is in the rubbish; even rubbish can be recycled, but you cannot. That is why you are sad, enraged, and weeping: I have made you feel your insignificance and worthlessness. A tiny crack in you, a drop of ink, a spot of tea or coffee, or hot water burning your sensitive skin can wrinkle you and make you defective. Then no one wants you; everyone refuses to take you in their hands, even though those hands once dreamed of possessing you as the most precious thing in existence. With the slightest crack, wrinkle, or stain, they kick you aside and recoil from you, though they once longed to hold you. How trivial you are! You are only a wretched banknote, cheap and worthless; you cannot tolerate the smallest flaw because one little defect strips you of all your value.
"Do you know why? Because you have no value or meaning to begin with. And now, shamelessly, you want to compare yourself with the breeze of freedom, with its greatness and immortality? Never! How far the earth is from the Pleiades. Freedom is the act of letting go of your cursed chain. No crack can break it; no knife or scissors can tear it; no hand, no weapons, no force can weaken it. It does not bend or grow faint. It is a shining star in the vast universe, beyond the reach of hands. It is hope's beam, enduring life, true strength—not the deceptive strength with which you delude those who possess you.
"You say I cannot live without you. I answer that even if I owned all the wealth in the world, I would eventually die like every biological creature. Sooner or later, death is inevitable—at least as far as we know. What would you do for me then? You might buy the finest and most expensive food, but you could not buy the appetite or desire to eat it. You might buy the world's most expensive bed, but you could not buy sleep or peace of mind. You can buy medicine, but you cannot buy life. Even if medicine prolongs life for a while, in the end I will perish and go to nothingness. If this end is unavoidable, then, if death is inevitable, it is shameful to live as a coward. That is why I was brave enough to commit what you call madness: I tore you apart with my own nails at the very moment I needed you most, to free myself from your cursed chain."
Conclusion: A Declaration of Inner Wealth
The happiest person is the one who has nothing to lose—the one who, when struck in the eye, can say, "It was already ruined." I now live rich in renunciation, not in possessions.
"I see sorrow plainly behind the smile of Elon Musk, the richest man in the world. You could not give him even a drop of true happiness; you offered him only a faint smile, painted over with hidden sadness. You are disabled and helpless, so do not be arrogant or tyrannical. You are a human invention, and one day people will probably replace you with something else. You are a slippery, illusory mirage, and that is all you are.
"I know that unhappiness inhabits the hearts of those who possess treasures and fear losing them. I choose to be 'poor and rich' at once: poor in the silly, sticky circle of your game, rich in the principle of renunciation that cannot be bought. You are a great deception, but tearing you apart is an art understood only by those who have looked absurdity in the eye with certainty.
"I declare openly that you, money, are nothing but a narcissistic illusion, giving slaves a false sense of control over their masters. We live in an age in which human beings have made a colored piece of paper into a god, worshipped through meanness, theft, and the trading of honor. You tempt people into becoming scoundrels and deviants, though in truth you are nothing beside nature's innocence.
"All the evil committed in your name—from a woman selling her body under material temptation to a person killing for a fortune—is done in the name of this hollow entity. If Elon Musk's or Bill Gates's money were placed before a hungry wolf or a predatory lion, it would not move the animal at all. Nature recognizes no such illusion, but humans have chosen to be slaves who despise their chains and yet fear losing them. We are forced into a relationship of hatred and servitude.
"If you tell me that tearing you into tatters was madness, I will tell you in return: this madness is my final certainty—that life is a short lease, that nothingness is the final sum, and that nothingness has no need for a single banknote."
End of reflection
THE EMPTY HALF
Within a vast glass space, the world was divided into two halves. One half was illuminated—the full half. The other was empty, like a desert stripped even of its sand by a violent storm and a rushing flood, left without the slightest trace of anything except a void so transparent it was almost invisible.
The Glass's Paradox
The two halves stood facing each other inside a clear glass vessel divided into two worlds. The full half gleamed with the sparkle of naïve hope, while the empty half remained quiet, silent, and transparent.
The Full Half(loudly, with shallow confidence): "Look at me, you emptiness! I am certainty, tangible matter, proof to people that life contains goodness. Without me, the world would be nothingness. I am the source of ambition, the hope naïve people chase. You, empty half, are merely a symbol of failure and bitter pessimism. Why does no one wish to plunge into you?"
The Empty Half(with deep philosophical calm, like a teacher who understands the truth, and an air of proud inquiry): "Are you so certain of your status? Have you ever wondered why your optimism and your high expectations have disappointed so many people? Have you wondered why, after your false promises and rosy dreams—dreams that appear lovely while concealing a bleak darkness—some optimists have taken their own lives, or why those who were once optimistic have collapsed? Do you not understand that you disappointed and shattered them? You turned their inner worlds into wastelands, until some threw themselves from high balconies or took lethal substances. All of this came from your deception and malice, you evasive fraud.
"You killed them. You made them run with all their strength, believing the road you laid before them was broad, smooth, paved, and open. Then, in the blink of an eye, they crashed into a hard, rotten, merciless wall and fell, broken. I, by contrast, do not need anyone to plunge into me. I am the truth that makes no promise only to betray it. I do not deceive them as you do. I am honesty and clarity. I do not let them down.
"You, the full half, wave a nonexistent treasure before the foolish. You lift their expectations into the open sky, only to crush them cruelly when they discover that your substance is no more than a temporary mirage. You are a decorated deception; I am an honest void from the beginning, and I will never betray anyone."
A Debate on Indifference and Suffering: The Strength of Pessimism
The Full Half: "You preach lazy indifference! You tell people to sit still and be pessimistic, while I call them to move and work. You hide your emptiness, weakness, and darkness behind these words, imagining they will protect you from my power, my glittering optimism, and my rosy dreams that bring happiness and stir people's energy. You are poor and can give nothing. What can nothingness and emptiness offer? You are a barren desert inhabited only by rats and snakes on its bleak sands, with wolves howling into solitude. You hide behind weakness and hang imaginary curtains around yourself, claiming to be honest and harmless. But you possess nothing: you are nonexistence, sadness, gloom, blackness, and darkness. I am splendor, a dazzling glimmer, and bright colors announcing the coming spring."
The Philosophical Argument: A Defense of Nothingness
The Empty Half(with a sage's confident gaze and deep intellectual composure): "You have just confessed, without realizing it, to your own naïve, childish arrogance and shallow, foolish enthusiasm. You speak with idiotic pride, like a glamorous fashion model in expensive clothes, walking along an elegant carpet toward her final steps—straight toward a deep pit hidden beneath roses the same color as the carpet.
"You slyly mix poison with honey, indifferent to the consequences. People fall while chasing your false pink mask. You yourself have admitted that you offer only rosy dreams and illusions. Truth glitters before them like a flash of light, calling out from afar and tempting them with bright, shining colors. They run breathlessly after this radiance, unaware that it conceals darkness, evil, and deadly poison wrapped in silver foil inside a luxurious candy. You are poison in honey, darkness inside what looks like brilliant light—or so it appears, and so you deceive the innocent and naïve who drown in your sea of optimism and rosy dreams.
"My honesty warns them from the start. You do not understand that clarity is the wealth of the poor, and transparency is the riches of nothingness, despite what you believe. I do not deceive or promise lies as you do. I show them the snakes playing in my land; I do not hide them beneath flowers and roses until they suddenly bite without warning. I show them the scorpion's venom from the beginning. I show them the barren desert, with all its snakes, scorpions, gloom, and pessimism—but it can also inspire them.
"I inspire work and effort. This is not poverty, but striving. My message is simple: here is reality as it is. Be careful, take precautions, and arm yourselves for the struggle so that you may win—or at least remain safe instead of living with regret. I compel them to strive rather than surrender to the deceptive complacency you encourage. You anesthetize them; I warn them. I make them work to turn my barren desert into a flourishing garden, heavy with blossoms and fruit, and I remind them to take every necessary precaution for their safety.
"I walk beside them quietly, step by step, with care and patience, whispering that danger may be approaching. They become more alert and cautious, stronger, more perceptive, and more insightful. I am a warning, not an anesthetic. I call them to work, think, and struggle, and not to be dazzled by glitter that leads only to regret and frustration. As long as they walk beside me, they are protected from disappointment and from running breathlessly after a mirage; they are protected from deception. They walk with me alert and watchful, rather than drugged by false hope. I urge them to leave their comfort zone, think, pay attention, strive, and take care.
"What does that have to do with your deception, false hopes, rosy dreams, and lies that leave behind only the dead, the suicidal, the murdered, the guilty, and the criminal? It is all because of you, you malicious deceiver! You tempt them into a trap, then stand laughing at their ruin with a miserable sense of triumph. What a fraud you are!"
The Full Half(with arrogance wrapped in insolence and contempt): "Do not deny it, my poor friend—or rather, my sworn enemy. The promises you call deceptive, false, dreamy, and illusory have benefited many people, including those you describe as dead, guilty, or destroyed. My so-called false promises have stirred the energy of countless people. Their rosy color gave them positive energy, made them dream and plan, and then act. Many achieved what you call my false promises: some amassed fortunes, enjoyed great success, and rose to the highest ranks and positions. They did so because they ran after me and my promises, which soothed and motivated them to achieve what they wanted."
The Empty Half(with a sorrowful, sarcastic question): "And what about the others? What if you compared those who followed you and escaped drowning in their hopes and ambitions with those who drowned in your illusions, whose efforts shattered against your merciless rock of deception? You crushed their heads and bodies to pieces; some fell dead or were driven mad. Those you call victims of my gloom are your victims—the survivors of your deception who sought refuge in my sober sadness to protect themselves from your treachery.
"The gloom you accuse me of creating was made by your own hands—hands stained with the blood of the dreams and aims you slaughtered without mercy or pity. They found no refuge except in my warm, tender embrace. I had warned them from the beginning, but they ignored my call and ran, gasping, after your glittering deception. When you betrayed and slaughtered them, they returned to me in remorse and defeat, like a disobedient child who comes weeping into a mother's arms and begs forgiveness.
"Those who escaped you were rescued only by chance, fate, risk, deception, fraud, corruption, or wrongdoing—not because of you. They are a drop in an ocean of people you betrayed, deceived, and left dead or broken. You planted their despair, and I arrived afterward to harvest it, trying to remove its bitterness and replace it with truth to ease their pain.
"So what do you boast of, foolish, arrogant deceiver? I treated the wounds you inflicted. I call people to work, not merely to hope. From the suffering and grief you planted, I help produce art, beauty, and creativity. They came running to me with the thorns of your false roses embedded in them, and in my honest embrace they turned their pain into art. I made their sorrow a bridge of tears leading them to the highest peaks of artistic achievement. I turned suffering into art and beauty without cosmetic cover-ups or patches like yours.
"I taught them to see light emerging from the darkness of sadness and pessimism. I am beautiful, noble sorrow; I am a symbol of creativity, a flood from which they draw their art and invention until they reach the summit. Here I am, with no alteration, distortion, deception, or poison hidden in honey. I am here to heal, not to trick. I teach that suffering—the suffering you caused—can be a source of inspiration and beauty, and that sorrow and the cracks of life can inspire progress. I do not exchange or falsify the truth; I treat the wound. I am the physician who removes pain and turns the wound into a bridge to success, one people can cross calmly, confidently, and with dignity. I make wholeness from deficiency and permanence from the crack. I am the healing physician who sees beauty in sorrow and finds a motive and light in suffering, drawing thought from the depths without deceptive glitter or reckless illusion.
"So tell me, which of us is better? You are the murderous deceiver, the criminal; I am the healing physician. You are evil concealed behind a beautiful, imaginary mask, while I am the visible good that honestly points to the place of pain and presses upon the wound, forcing its owner out of comfort and laziness into effort, so that they may discover happiness inside their scars and creativity inside their pain.
"I am renunciation and indifference. My lack of desperate pursuit is what draws goals toward me. Your impulsiveness, recklessness, and deceptive seduction drive people away from their goals, erecting a terrifying barrier between them and what they seek, then throwing them into an abyss of ruin until they die slowly or take their own lives after the violent shocks delivered by your dazzling promises. In the end, they find only a mirage. What are you after all this? Evil, contempt, shame, and disgrace wrapped in a glossy, ornate covering, prettified and patched up with illusion and lies. You should have been ashamed from the beginning instead of boasting of your recklessness, fraud, and vileness. My crack is the driving force; your glittering promises are the deep abyss, the deadly trap.
"I call for intelligence and calm reason. I follow the principle of the teacher Cioran: the only way to obtain everything is to do without everything. I am the indifferent one who attracts goals; I do not chase them like a naïve optimist. When I work to fill myself, I do it quietly and patiently, in the spirit of Taoism, because I expect no reward from you, arrogant full half. I am the zero point that cannot be disappointed."
The Full Half(with anxiety, collapse, and defeat in its voice): "But I hide pain and failure beneath a layer of hope to keep life going! I did not mean to deceive or do harm. I only cover the shame of pain and beautify suffering with bright colors so the exhausted soul can find comfort and rest. I do not lie; I only adorn things. I make them beautiful."
The Empty Half(embodying the beauty of suffering): "I do the opposite. I strip pain bare! I reveal suffering as a weapon of awakening and a motive for self-discovery. I tell you, full half, that digging deep into the garment of suffering is where hidden pleasure and true happiness can be found. I am the true teacher who forces the heart to descend into its depths, purify the soul, and remove the false mask from supposed beauty. You are a naïve child. You do more than lie or decorate; you kill and poison. You are a deadly poison, a perfectly engineered deception at its most malicious. You feed people false hopes stuffed with every kind of illusion and poison, leading them toward failure and darkness. I, by contrast, am the logical pessimist who sees sorrow as a fine thread leading toward light."
A Cry of Choice
The Empty Half: "I call for conscious choice! I invite people to look at me and come into this emptiness, which will not deceive them. Let them learn that failure, pain, and suffering can become driving forces; that deficiency can be a singular kind of wholeness. I am the empty half, yet I am more truthful and intelligent, and creativity springs from my silent depths."
The Empty Half(in a calm, philosophically devastating voice): "You are not evidence, but a carefully crafted deception, naïve full half. You wave a treasure before people so they chase a mirage, only to discover on arrival that you are worth nothing. I do not call for passivity; I call for intelligent movement. I practice renunciation so that the goal may run toward me, instead of my panting pursuit ensuring that I am disappointed. You make life frantic and anxious; I make it contemplative and wise."
The Full Half(stammering, visibly tense): "But I give people hope for tomorrow!"
The Empty Half(crushing shallow logic): "What kind of hope? Yours is the cruelest form of disappointment! You raise expectations to the heavens, and when they fall, the fracture is twice as severe. Unlike you, I am honest. I am empty and promise no one anything. I am the zero point that teaches people to build themselves, slowly and patiently, with reason—not with the breathless excitement of a naïve child. Your optimism is a deficiency of awareness."
The Full Half(broken, finally aware of the weakness of its argument): "Ah, empty half… your evidence is irrefutable. I thought I was victorious because I was full, but now I see that my fullness was weakness, illusion, and disappointment that led to final defeat. I feel powerless before your truth and awareness. I surrender, in reason, to the wisdom of nothingness and the beauty of conscious pessimism."
The Empty Half (final word): "Look at me! I am the empty half, yet I am more truthful, more intelligent, and more certain. I invite you to enter this emptiness, which will not deceive you, and learn that deficiency is the beginning of a truly individual wholeness. I am victorious because I never ran after an illusion."
End of reflection
SECRETS OF THE NIGHT
In a corner of the city, where wet pavements met the dim glow of streetlights, lived a woman named Layla. She was strong and rebellious, drawn to art, literature, music, and the profound mysteries of the night.
Layla(gazing at the star-studded sky): "Night, you are my only friend. In you I find shelter from the storms of the outside world. No one understands me as you do."
The Night(whispering gently): "Why do you refuse love, Layla? Why do you keep your distance from men and choose solitude?"
Layla(smiling sadly): "I have tried love, only to discover the pain it carries within it. Every experience was a harsh lesson, and every man held a secret that wounded me. I refuse to become a victim again."
The Night: "But love is not always pain. It can be a refuge; it can be inspiration. Do you not see how the stars dance in my sky?"
Layla(contemplating the stars): "I see them, but I prefer to dance alone. In my dance I find freedom; in my words I find my voice. I do not need a man to complete me. I am complete as I am. I find myself in solitude. My solitude completes me; it does not diminish me. It opens worlds to me, not just one world. I find life and wholeness within myself, in the emptiness of my solitude—a space that I see and feel as the summit of fullness.
"True deficiency and emptiness lie among these masked people, behind their false human faces. I find loneliness only amid human noise, hypocrisy, empty courtesies, and their ridiculous displays. I become a feather tossed about by the wind, battered by people's words and hateful voices, heavy upon my weary self. People exhaust me with their stupidity, lies, pursuit of self-interest, deceit, and hypocrisy. I find myself only in your warm embrace, night. I take refuge in you and confide what lies in my heart. As I contemplate your silent stillness, I find honesty in it. I contemplate the silence and emptiness wrapped in your dark cloak, where your silver stars shine.
"I know how to live through your precious hours. I wish they would never end beneath the scorching sun of day. I see honesty in your stillness, silence, and darkness. Under the moonlight, your quiet corners seem to whisper to me of the people who filled the streets, roads, and alleys throughout the day with the noise of their lies and deceit.
"There was the vendor bellowing as he chased money, raising prices and cheating with his scales to profit. There was the young man meeting a girl and walking with her through crowded streets, only to lure her behind trees away from the noise, deceive her into giving him a kiss—or more—and leave her running after him in alarm. There were murderers and criminals, thieves and prowlers, filling the streets all day with lies, sweat, filth, crimes, falsehood, deceit, and cruelty. Innocent animals wandered among them, confused and unable to find help. All they found was a man carrying a stick to whip a mule or donkey into moving faster as he wished. They saw a cat or dog searching through rubbish for a scrap of spoiled food, while human beings passed without the slightest concern. Some even threw stones at the animals or beat a cat to drive it away from a shop, home, or possession. What scoundrels they are!
"But you, tender night, seem to record all of this in your nocturnal memory and store it in your treasury of calm and stillness, colored by the silver light of your moon and studded with your sparkling stars. You reveal people's secrets to me, expose them, and seem to tell them: 'Silence! Be quiet, humans. Go to sleep; perhaps you will never wake. I have come to silence you and quiet the evil with which you polluted the earth all day. You ruined it. Now be quiet and sleep. Leave the streets and roads; retreat to your beds. The voice now belongs to me; words give way to my stillness and calm.'
"This is how you whisper to me each night, dear night. Truths hidden and dissolved beneath sunlight and human clamor are revealed. You bring them forth honestly through your stillness. Your silence is the greatest witness against them. Their fingerprints appear clearly on roads, walls, houses, balconies, and streets in your calm and quiet. Through silence, you reveal what they committed all day, keeping it as a secret between us beneath your moon's light and the sparkle of your stars. You tell me what they did by day. You are my friend, the hand that comforts my shoulder and wraps around my chest with tenderness. I find myself only in your stillness, escaping the human noise that engulfs me during daylight. I lose myself in that din until your gentle hands come to lift me onto a carpet of moonlight and carry me far away from people and their daytime clamor. Their day is theirs, not mine. I belong to the night; I am a nocturnal creature. You and my solitude are the two friends I have chosen, and I need no others."
The Night: "But solitude is heavy, Layla. Do you know the danger hidden in an artist's isolation? You might lose yourself in the shadows of your own thoughts."
Layla: "I know. But do not worry about me, tender night. I know very well how to enjoy you and my solitude in your depths. The night has its own people, and I am one of them—one who knows how to enjoy its hours and fill every minute with pleasure. I know how to return to myself within the folds of your stillness, and how to flee toward you from the reality of the day. I know how to live you as I wish, not as foolish humans want me to.
"You know, night, that I do not fall asleep quickly, and I do not want to lose a single minute wandering through your quiet hours, your sweet music, your magnificent symphonies. Sometimes I think, sometimes remember, sometimes smile and contemplate, and sometimes I feel pain.
"With you, night, I see a separate world, a reality unlike the harsh, coarse indifference of daytime. By day I see a cruel man holding a thick stick and whipping people to make them work—by any means, whether through theft, cheating, deceit, or murder. But with you, I find a different world, inhabited by another kind of being: more transparent, more delicate, more harmonious, like a musical scale. I am one of your inhabitants, night. I wish you would never disappear, that the sun of your day would never rise, and that your hours would stretch on and on.
"Your roads are long, and your paths cover the earth. Everything in you surges fiercely: feelings, tears, and sincere confessions far removed from the noise and crowds of day. Everything in you is silent yet eloquent, honest and transparent, whispering with a freedom rarely found by daylight. Night, my friend, you reveal feelings as they truly are. That is why I chose only you as my friend and was content with you instead of all humanity—especially that detestable creature called a male, or a man, if he deserves the name.
"I chose myself. I chose to be me. I write my poems, paint my pictures, and play the strings of my heart. The darker it gets, the more inspiration I find. In you, night, I discover refuge, where I can become whoever I wish."
The Night(deeply moved, in a melancholy musical tone): "You reflect a unique beauty, but remember: in every darkness there is light. Yet I wonder each night, as we whisper to each other: are you afraid to open your heart to a man again?"
Layla(confident and defiant, gazing deeply into the night): "I fear nothing. I have simply chosen to live in my own world. I do not want to be bound by other people's emotions. I want freedom—to live my moments as I please. I chose this willingly, with my full consent, and I believe my choice is wise and brings me happiness."
The Night(whispering with admiration and encouragement): "Your freedom lies in your strength. But remember that life is not only solitude. A day may come when you feel longing, when you need a partner with whom to share these secrets."
Layla smiled gently, her sweetness dissolving on her lips like a piece of rock candy.
"Perhaps. But until that day, I will keep dancing with you, night. I will write you my secrets and sing you my dreams. You are my refuge and my friend. Within you, dormant consciences awaken; your pillows bear witness to everything I tried to conceal of my distress throughout the day. With you I break free from daylight's chains, soaring like a bird in your sky, like a butterfly fluttering through your silver fields.
"With you, night, a new passion is born every time—a mad confession, a decision made firmly during the day that soon collapses and loses its power with the last ray of daylight, when your footsteps begin knocking at the earth to announce your captivating arrival.
"With you, night, I know the difference between one hour and the next, and the flavor of each. I know when the call to prayer begins, when it is time to listen to and enjoy the voice of Fairuz, and when to end those melodies with a musical piece that breaks your rare, beautiful silence and adds to its beauty—a piece that surpasses all words. Only with you do I know wonder, because I belong to your world. With you I become intoxicated by words. Beneath your folds I flirt with the moon, and the stars flirt with me every night. With you I live a complete life that lacks nothing, a life in which I have done without everything and everyone, without ever leaving my balcony where your moon appears, or my bed shining with your silver stars.
"Only with you, night, do I understand that the happy ones are the people of the night. The night alone."
At that moment, the night wrapped Layla in its warm embrace, as if whispering that a world of success, glory, and goals still lay before her. It assured her she would reach what she sought, that she differed from everyone around her, and that she wrote for tomorrow and for the future. She was its favorite shining, passionate star, a star beyond the ordinary, and every secret she carried contained a kind of immortality.
End of reflection
STUBBORN DENIALScene One: The Sermon
Sheikh Hassan stood in the mosque pulpit, his voice thundering beneath the golden dome, his eyes flashing with fire.
Hassan(quoting a prophetic saying): "...The eyes commit adultery, and the adultery of the eyes is looking!"
He continued, raising his voice: "Woman is nakedness; her hair is temptation, and her body is a fire that burns away faith! Remember the Prophet's words—peace be upon him: 'I have left no temptation more harmful to men than women.'"
The congregation nodded in agreement. Some murmured, "Amen." But among the last rows sat Yara, his former colleague. She was wrapped in a black cloak as dark as a moonless night, and a matching scarf covered her head. Yet golden strands had slipped free and flowed over her shoulders like a waterfall, escaping the restraint of a hair clip. Outwardly, she had been compelled to wear the hijab to enter the mosque. Beneath the cloak she wore a blue dress that brushed her smooth, pale knees; the uncovered curves of her legs seemed to glow with a white light bright enough to illuminate the women's section.
The women listening to Sheikh Hassan's sermon from the screened gallery turned toward her. Yara covered her bare legs and gathered her golden hair after receiving their fiery looks, full of resentment, envy, and disgust at her presence.
Yara did not wear the hijab by choice. She had put it on merely to gain entry to the mosque, even though she did not pray and had little trust in this religion—or in religions generally. She was skeptical of them all. To her, religious rituals were crumbling, outdated myths that held back progress and civilization. She saw people living by the fantasy of an imaginary being with supernatural powers who supposedly controlled everything. What a display of dependency and naïve thought!
Yet she dared not say any of this openly. She lived in a merciless society that might kill her or imprison her; at the very least, it would ostracize her and shower her with looks of revulsion and loathing. Though she was confident she was right and believed she had scientific and logical evidence to support her view, she kept quiet. She was educated, well-read, and a researcher at a scientific research center. Inwardly, she often mocked her colleagues: how could people work in scientific research and still believe religion's nonsense and myths, unsupported by any logical or scientific evidence? These were nothing more than tales and claims without proof.
But she limited herself to silence. A passing glance, a momentary look of surprise or anger, was the most she dared offer—an expression that seemed to deny the reality before her, as though the beliefs her colleagues defended with such passion were merely fantasies, driven by the fear of the unknown into which they had been raised, by greed for reward, and by fear of punishment. It was the carrot-and-stick principle. Yet all the while, believers remained certain and stubborn, as though they had died dozens of times and seen conclusive evidence proving their convictions.
Sometimes Yara sympathized with them; at other times she feared them. She was forced to flatter and pretend in order to protect her own life, the safety of her family, and those she loved. She did not even dare tell her relatives about her doubts and thoughts.
Then Hassan's voice rang in her ears. She watched him from the women's gallery, preaching with fervor. She had come only to see him—or perhaps to challenge him, to wield the power of her femininity and announce that she could bring him to his knees in a contest he was bound to lose. Perhaps she had come to mock his words, which he delivered with the confidence of someone who had conducted hundreds of scientific studies and conclusive experiments to prove them.
He had been her colleague at work. His office had stood beside hers before she resigned for good, choosing to devote herself to research online. Yara disliked the constraints of employment and preferred independent work. She had resigned after enduring insinuations, gossip, and spiteful hints from her male and female colleagues.
Now she stared at Hassan in silent defiance. Her beautiful, sleepy eyes—framed by long, naturally captivating lashes—sparked with amusement, mockery, indifference, and a sense of victory. The sermon ended, as did the prayer she had performed more out of playacting than conviction; she had never believed in it. Men and women streamed out of the mosque into the street.
Then his eyes met hers for an instant. Hassan felt as though lightning had pierced his chest. His blood boiled, his heart shook, and the earth seemed to tremble beneath his feet.
He swallowed, his voice trembling slightly, and remembered his own sermon: "Let them wear loose, flowing clothes and be modest, for modesty is part of faith..." Yet he continued to look at her despite everything, denying to himself what he felt. "No... I do not love. I am not infatuated. Love is desire, and desire is the fire of Hell."
Yara's voice echoed in his memory—her doubts about religion, her opinions, and her rejection of what he held to be true. She had confided these things to him alone. Though he rejected her ideas, he had kept her secret out of fear for her safety. Whenever he remembered her laughter and the sweet ring of her voice, which struck his heart before it reached his ears like a golden anklet flashing with the brightness of a sharp blade, his feelings collapsed. A tightening band seemed to close around his throat, silencing him until words dried up. He found himself defending her and covering for her.
She knew she could bring him under the spell of her beauty and femininity. But he always fled, while she laughed; he ran from her like a terrified mouse. He was the dignified sheikh, a man who would never yield or soften before such a temptation. He was fortified by religion against this wicked devil. How could he ever surrender? Impossible!
Yet Yara enjoyed tormenting him. She knew that he was hers in his heart, and that he concealed his weakness behind the mask of religion. Inside, he was a lovesick, devoted, passionate man. Outwardly, he denied and resisted; inwardly, he remained in endless torment.
He continued to ask himself, trembling with fear: Did he desire her? Then came what seemed to him the obvious answer: No. He neither loved nor desired her. It was impossible that he could be in love. He had a wife and children. His wife was virtuous and religious. How could he love a woman who rejected everything about religion that he regarded as truth and certainty? Had he gone mad? Was he possessed by a cursed, rebellious devil?
Scene Two: The Dream
That night, Hassan slept restlessly on his white pillow.
In his dream, the question surrounded him, clouded and unresolved: Could it be that I love you? If loving you is only a possibility, why has my blood surged so wildly? His throat seemed to close around the answer; even his mouth fell silent and died as he dreamed. "My heart has fled behind your veil," he murmured, "to kiss whatever it can reach of you." He kept asking himself: Do I love you?
A version of the poet Nizar Qabbani appeared, taking Hassan's own form and speaking in his lyrical voice:
"I do not love, I do not fall in love… I do not desire you—no, no..."
Hassan was astonished at himself. What a master he was at running away and denying! He had perfected the art of fleeing from her and displaying rejection before other people. Yet inside, every glance, every step, every whisper, every change in her voice made him paint beautiful pictures of her behind closed doors.
Sometimes he confessed his love to himself in secret, as thieves confess their crimes before judges. Then, suddenly, he would deny it, reject it, curse it, and insult it—as though he were an accused man behind bars, condemned to death after admitting his terrible crime, only to deny it at the last moment and pretend that he had been joking or insane, or that torture had forced him to make a false confession. This was how Sheikh Hassan always persuaded himself.
He would wake, seek refuge in God from the accursed devil, perform ablution, and pray, asking God to forgive his sins and accept his repentance for this invasion of his heart and every cell of his body—a force that seemed to overpower him without mercy or restraint.
But the dream returned again and again, like a malignant illness that refused to leave him. Thoughts pursued him through sleep. Yara appeared before him like a fresh flower or a dewdrop resting on a rose in the early morning.
He saw her sitting at her old desk at work, laughing and whispering, her eyes gleaming like two stars. He approached her and touched a strand of her golden hair.
Hassan in the dream(with Nizar Qabbani's voice of love):
"If you drown in the river, my beloved, I will drown with you.
If you burn in love, my beloved, I will burn with you."
At night the pillow wept beneath his head, and stars floated above his bed. He whispered to her, "If a million people love you, I am one of them. If only one person loves you, know that it must be me. If no one loves you, know that I am dead.
"When I met you, I made peace with the world. I forgave those who had been absent and excused everyone who had left. Since I met you, nothing seems worth anger—except one thing: your absence."
In his dream, that was how Hassan spoke to Yara from the moment she first resigned from work.
Then he saw himself suddenly grow cold and move away from her, whispering in a trembling voice: "I am afraid of the things that touch my heart, so I always run away from them—and from you. You are a sin, a curse of the devil wrapped in the beautiful white garment of an angel. You are my only naked truth, the cause of my ruin and God's anger against me. I must run from you. I will run, surely."
Then he took a step toward her, sorrowful and confused. "Why did you resign? Why did you leave work? How could you be so cruel as to throw me into the depths of ruin? I told myself it was an ordinary separation. Its effect would fade with time—or perhaps it would never fade. It was only a normal parting. But the question that keeps tormenting me, however often I try to expel it from my mind, is this: how did you manage to extinguish me when I was always the one who lit your way?"
Scene Three: A Conversation with the Pillow
Hassan laid his head on the pillow again, brushing it with his fingertips as though touching Yara's soft cheek.
The Pillow(in a calm, mocking feminine voice): "Why are you sweating, Hassan? Is it because of your fiery sermon, or your feverish dream?"
Hassan(muttering): "Be quiet. You are only a piece of cloth. Do not try to deceive me or bring me under your spell. I am a believer, a pious and devout man of religion. I do not love or desire. Impossible, impossible."
The Pillow(confidently, with a blend of sarcasm and defiance): "I may be a piece of cloth, but I am padded with your whispered words and your loud, passionate dreams. True, I am cloth, but I am also soaked with the tears you shed until they wet my stuffing. I am an eyewitness to what you confess about her in your sleep. I feel your heart pounding wildly when you imagine her. I hear your nocturnal whispers: 'Yara...' Do you not ask God to protect you from the temptation of women? Why, then, do you secretly ask her to tempt you?"
Hassan: "I do not love her! She is an unbeliever. She does not wear the hijab, mocks my religion, and attacks what I hold sacred."
The Pillow: "No, a thousand times no. You are the one who is lying, deceiving, and evading, just as she does."
Hassan replied with manufactured arrogance and weary defiance: "The devil is whispering to me. It is her devil."
The Pillow: "No, my friend. It is your heart—the heart you chose to turn into stone, only to discover that it is glass, shattered by her name. Remember the day she resigned? You stood at the office door for five whole minutes, staring at her empty desk. Then the fragrance she had left behind reached you, and you felt as though you were in a temporary paradise."
Hassan: "My heart is a traitor."
The Pillow: "I am a witness. You are a traitor to yourself."
The pillow seemed to quote Nizar Qabbani:
"Tell the one who pretends to be pious,
who performs devotion and chastity,
and fills the world with shouts against love—
tell him: come, let us share the great lie,
for you love women as I do."
Hassan, his voice broken, asked his heart, "Do you know her?"
His heart laughed at him. He could not understand why it behaved this way or why it would not answer. It simply kept laughing, as though mocking him.
The Pillow: "And what do you tell yourself at night, when you are alone with me and with her image, which never leaves your eyelids?"
For a moment the pillow fell silent, then Hassan whispered, "If they knew, they would stone me with words before they threw stones."
The Pillow: "Will you keep whipping yourself? Will you keep denying that you are human before you are a sheikh? Look into yourself as you look at the congregation from the pulpit. What do you see?"
After a long silence, Hassan replied: "I see conflict. A man who is harsh with himself to please his Lord, while his heart disobeys Him."
The pillow spoke again:
"Love is nothing but a confession
that one woman can bring down a kingdom of men
and turn history into a blank page."
Hassan sighed and pleaded, his breath burning: "If only she were a believer... if only she wore the hijab..."
The Pillow(mockingly): "Do you love her hijab, or do you love her? If she removed it, would she stop being Yara? Remember her eyes when she challenged you, as though she were reading your thoughts from an open book. Were those not the moments that made you love her? Her difference, not her similarity?"
He fell silent. The clock showed three in the morning.
Hassan(barely audible): "I adore her."
He said it at last, and a chain inside his chest broke.
The Pillow(with proud certainty): "At last, you have confessed."
Hassan: "But it will remain a secret. A secret between you and me, between me and the night, between me and God, who knows everything."
The Pillow: "Do you think denial can hide it? Have you not read in your own books: 'Whether you conceal your speech or declare it, He knows what lies within the hearts'? He knows. He knows that you persist in denial."
Scene Four: Morning
The call to dawn prayer sounded. Hassan rose, performed ablution, and prayed. But today his prayer was different. As he prostrated, he whispered:
"God... I know this love is forbidden. But Your knowledge of me is greater than my denial. Forgive me—or punish me—but do not let my heart split in two."
He put on his white robe and turban and looked into the mirror. He saw a man carrying a secret no one knew, a secret named Yara.
He went out to the mosque, where worshippers greeted him respectfully: "Peace be upon you, our sheikh."
"And upon you be peace," Hassan replied.
Yet he knew that, since the previous night, a part of him was no longer entirely their sheikh. Some part of him admitted, if only in secret, that a woman he considered an unbeliever had taught him a harsh lesson in love and passion—one he would never have learned throughout his life, perhaps not even by its end.
In his bedroom, a small patch on the white pillow, left by the tears he had shed that night, testified that even the hardest hearts could melt when confronted with their own truth. As he rested on the pillow, the witness to his heart, he kept asking it desperately whether he loved her. His heart laughed, and his chest tightened around the secret. He continued to plead and ask.
His heart answered with sincere longing: "You worship her instead of the God before whom you kneel. Why do you resist, deny, and conceal it?"
Still, he would stand in the pulpit and warn against looking at women.
And at night, he would remember a gaze that had blossomed in the eyes of a woman who did not cover her hair.
"I will remain here, on the edge of the chair,
waiting for a letter from you,
or a glance,
or an excuse—
anything that might serve as a beginning."
End of reflection