Were it not for jogging in travels, deliberating in solutions and standing, in order to store something for the future of days, we jog through distances, contemplate places and people, ask for something that remains for us to remember and remember, we pay a lot to learn from life, we make friends with strangers, even if we pay the price for those relationships, we would not be satisfied with staying and accepting a situation The constant, always the one who wants the new and the renewed ventures towards the transformed, this is the state of the one who wants to understand life and live it as he desires, not as others desire, and this is the case of the one who does not want to go alone and miserable at the end of life without memories that are said and returned, the sociability of loneliness, the crutch of age and the weight of steps The pillow of restored dreams, the source of laughter and tears that suffice and dry when you stand alone with wisdom and guidance and try to decipher the talismans of life and age, so that things are equal for you, and you become like a child who does not recognize a roof, and is not limited by limits, life has become clear or simple as a drink of water.
Memories remain the instigator of resistance, and not giving up easily and slowly. It remains the thing that man has worked hard to make and form, to be his support and support when the weight of the constants moves, balances and values are disrupted by virtue of the rotation of life and the succession of generations. Because it is his provision when everyone flees, and there is nothing in front of man except that store that he tired of, and now he rejoices, asks him, and does not make him like others chew the “angel’s milk” in boredom and regret, because they did not appreciate the meaning of man storing memories and memory for people and places and life experiences and challenges of the soul. Before oneself and before others, even small and reckless hostilities for which he has paid the price, and sometimes paid it dearly, become one of the memories that one enjoys in the autumn of life.
The only ones who missed the matter, and did not realize the value of some things in different stages of life, are now pounding the earth with regret and heartbreak, because they cannot buy memories after the human train stopped at its last station. Nothing is clear but the silence of the walls, and the clocks that move slowly kill patience. And that empty head of stories, tales and experiences, and worlds still dancing in it with all its noise and hustle, nothing in those voids without any memory of a friend, or perfume of a woman, or a place that hides warmth, alone now devoid of memories, wrestling with their fleeing shadows, not followed by a ghost of The enmities of the past age, and the pains of women sleeping in the folds of memory, do not tire them, nor tire them from the mistakes of work and experiences, and trying to hold things and shake them when things needed a storm or when places needed to be shaken, even if it was by demolishing the temple on the heads a victory for the principle, biased to honesty and promise, and pardon that Do not become defiled by a person being wronged, and pointing at you with a finger, a finger that you wished to remember God or to be cut off!
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