The edge overlooking the world - Ahmed Al-Huqail

The first time I remember being in it was when I was ten. I saw a girl who had just left her childhood, with her neck stretched out, tall and well-formed, walking in the alley, followed by her younger brothers, and she was shouting at them: "Stop, enough playing," and she disappeared behind the sidr tree at the corner. The next day, I was not playing as I used to, and my brothers asked me: "What's wrong with you?" I replied with contempt: "When do you play? Enough playing," and I watched the corner, waiting, trying to look like her, that I had just left my childhood. The chin-strong girl, well-built, the daughter of those, killed me in general, most things do not live more than the lifespan of a fly. The moment dies with its end, pleasure with its extinguishing, impulse with its shrinking insistence, dreams with their oar-breaking, the soul with its mood swings. A person sleeps, and another wakes up. All the glory built, and the disappointments that have taken hold, can be wiped out in the blink of an eye and the absence of existence, to wake up stripped of the glory that was built, freed from the disappointment it harvested. "Al-Nu'man the traveler" sits as king on the balcony of his palace overlooking the landmarks of his greatness, urging him into the shade, to wake up wandering with his face, having left his kingdom and disappeared without a trace. And "Muhammad bin Abdullah" is busy as a broker for his wife's bedding trade, terrified by what he saw, bound by the weight: his exile that kept him awake, wandering with his face in the wilderness, to wake up as a messenger. A person sleeps, and sleep is a small death, and another wakes up.