The pleasure of laying the head out of fatigue differs from person to person, I remembered a friend saying that he could sleep on a rock when he was tired, and I remembered the case of another friend, he used to only travel with his pillow, he says, “I only sleep on it, and it is not comfortable for me to lay my head except In a safe place I know, you will find him from one airport to another, and he is “carrying” with that pillow, carrying it as he carries a baby, and if he put it in the bag, I took half of it, but my condition is between.. between the two friends, with incomplete philosophies in reading the place, so that I can sleep Rolling up, starving, and riding in a “raksha” if the means of transportation is not possible, but a high-level hotel is necessary in order for me to sleep with a clear eye. And that fluffy pillow, which looked miserable at the time, and I felt the mattress if there was any wetness or forgotten dampness, and the room, if it weren’t gleaming with cleanliness, the devil would have beat me to it.
But traveling to the cities steeped in history, which people have forgotten in the midst of contemporary times, and which continue to knock on the gate of collective memory among people who are loyal to tales, and evening narrations like me, are cities that differ, and do not like to compromise, so because you love them, you oblige you to give up your luxurious requirements, even if Your pocket is full, sometimes it’s worthless for money, it’s just glossy paper, and it can’t bring you a hotel room that makes you feel like a new retiree, you hear the hiss of the original white cotton for any movement or flip of you, it brings to your nose the smell of a feminine perfume like the dress of a girl you love, and you know how She hides some of it for you in places that you miss.
On the way to Tashkent, you patiently endured that road made of sweat and misplaced skill, and those semi-dark tunnels, which are not different from coal mines, and their mountains make you feel as if they were all created for wars and skirmishes, and that their plains were always a run for the horses that race the wind in those plains and steppes Far from sight, the road from Dushanbe, the Tajik capital, was meandering between the mountains and on their edges, which still inspire you with imaginary stories of slope and slip or a block of stone that kept rolling with the force of the fire chariot, and you want something to catch or run over, you close your eyes and open them to reality in order to expel that imagination You keep counting the hours until sunset, so the whole way forces you to stay overnight, just as the city of the great Tajik poet “Kamal Khujandi” “Khujand” compels you, and says: “I will go on a journey in awe of the night and the words of this dervish poet who loves the night, and who loves those who love.”
It was a hotel closer to the “musafir khana” or the khan, the one that the tall, weak and nailed driver of the car showed me to, and who is like the seller of maidservants in ancient times. I kept silent about him and said: It is a night, and we go out at dawn, I slept an hour of fatigue, and if those bright colors shake me from my bed, and say to me: Get up, once you imagine the room for me like a box of biscuits with its naive colors that resemble birthday balloons, so that the mouth is silent about its unpleasant taste At times it seemed to me like a box of English Macintosh chocolates scattered on its ceiling, scattered by that colorful old clown, there was a particular color that stuck together, and resembled the clothes of a novice woman on the road, you feel that he grabs your hand, and shakes you, colors screaming from satisfaction, and other deprivation Colors wanting to run away, they can’t stand their condition, the colors are miserable and others are crying. It was a night like a masquerade party or “Tamasha in Bambi.” She escaped from those colors that resemble little demons of clowns walking in the night of the city, and who alone knows, and knows its only color!
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