Ammar Awaniy Living.home.night.
Ammar Awaniy Living.home.night. Yesterday I fell asleep late, too late... Yes, but I was asleep! What else can I do besides sleeping? I hate to go there, to disappear in an invisible world that forces me to fight my loneliness every day, while the walls of my room know how to strangle me without feeling. Only dark and dusky visions live in this dream world, in which our old songs are sung relentlessly. Just as they should not be sung, without sensitive rhythm, without tact, but most importantly - without any love! But yesterday it was different.... I don't know what had changed, what was new or what was the reason for it. Maybe because I drank a glass of my cheap wine before I went to sleep? To this day I drink in shame, without company... Mostly on my own. Strange, isn't it? I mean, even though I'm all alone in my little room, I swallow it in shame, because I think I feel that my faithful mother somehow knows. I am far away from her here and yet I am ashamed of my drinking here!! In my new dream, the songs this time were more beautiful, calmer and more familiar. They were more human in a way than before. Why not? My father's voice gave them a divine touch that they had not had before, as if from an uncertain top. He sang it as if he was reciting a Koran verse or a Christian psalm. In this humble room I did not see my father, but I heard his singing, which echoed graciously from the white walls. Then she came, my mother. The place around me began to become somehow brighter and brighter, like a path to salvation. The air was cool, wonderfully cool and refreshing, filled with the scent of an extraordinary mixture of jasmine and mint. She smiled when she saw me. Her usual soothing smile with bright eyes that sparkled like a magical sky filled with shining stars, like a merciful sun. She sat down next to me, said nothing. How beautiful is sometimes the silence that sanctifies the simplest paths in search of salvation. I learned from myself how my mother made the atmosphere of the room more pleasant, how she made the shadows of the tree branches coming from outside, painted by the sun on a wall in the room, become pleasantly soft. I laid my head on her thighs, just like I used to do in my childhood. She gently combed my hair while smiling and singing a sweet song of the legendary Fairuz.
155
