Conflit
His spark for reading and exploration began to return after years of losing the pleasure of books and writing, crushed beneath the weight of harsh reality and heavy family burdens.
He started rearranging the letters of his alphabet, searching for meaning in words that had lost their essence, in values gone astray in the alleys of a burning, materialistic world.
He was hunting for an unknown wisdom, for things and names he had never dreamed of "Haruki Murakami, Andersen…"
He stepped away from the world of material things, dreaming of building a new world , his own, or perhaps theirs together.
The blue-eyed woman reminded him of the legendary blue-eyed women of his Arab ancestors.
To him, she was a balanced soul: calm, hating noise and meaningless chatter.
A personality that sparked his curiosity.
He saw her as a fortress of intellectual history and wisdom, rivaling the civilization of ancient Greece.
He studied her glittering eyes, with their unmoving waves behind them – calm – and her silent lips, holding half a smile, half a mystery.
Was it sorrow, or a secret known only to her?
He greeted her with his usual emotional impulsiveness, showering her with words about her captivating beauty and the sorrows he imagined hidden behind it.
Moments later, her lips broke their chains and spoke with her usual calm.
But her words were a storm , a wave that struck her kingdom, and its echo reached him all the way in Jendouba.
The bridges he had built in his heart crumbled to dust.
He approached her, calming her storm, apologizing for the wounds his words had left.
He told her they had to leave those places behind, for death was inevitable there.
She calmed slightly and asked:
"Where is this new refuge? Where do we escape to?"
He reassured her:
"There is a world in between I am trying to build – a city of your wisdom, with rivers of emotions flowing beside it. I cannot live outside them, just as fish cannot live outside water."
They rose. They ascended. They left, their hands clasped together.
To her, it was a simple, necessary touch, a lifeline.
To him, it was an embrace of the soul.
In that new place, time stopped.
No signs, no names for the streets, no familiar language.
At that height, she chose what she loved: calm and depth.
He tried to feed her hunger for knowledge with discussions about Camus, Andersen, and the treasures of his Arab roots
" Zarqa’ al-Yamama, Antara and Abla…"
Meanwhile, he couldn’t find what would feed his own hunger.
Too shy to ask her for affection, he stole what he needed secretly from the depths of her eyes.
Their journey began.
He was an open book, one she could read however and whenever she wished.
He, however, didn’t even know her name.
She told him her nickname: Sofia.
He searched for it and found it symbolized strength and wisdom , exactly how she saw herself, and how he saw her.
He reassured her she could live her own story without losing her shadow or making sacrifices.
They walked together, touching the green landscapes and the sweet waters.
He rushed forward as his emotions always did, while she walked with heavy steps.
He didn’t know if it was boredom, caution, or perhaps a wisdom only she understood.
They rose higher until everything beneath them became the size of dust.
Only their laughter and wild cries rose with them, echoing like mad souls in the sky.
Until she felt pain in her joints.
She winced. He winced with her.
She cried silently: "I’m exhausted. I can’t sleep."
His soul screamed: "Are you okay? Do you need medicine?"
With her usual wisdom, she calmed him:
"Don’t worry. I’m used to this. I’ll see a doctor. I’ll heal."
To her, it was ordinary pain.
Perhaps she hid the truth of her suffering.
But to him, it was the pain of her soul – a soul he could see but never dared to touch.
She was the Lady of Wisdom.
He was a servant to his own emotions.
But can a master love her servant?
Can a servant marry his queen?
He drew her closer, aching to see her suffer.
That night, she writhed in pain, and he stayed awake, his sleepless eyes watching over her, whispering endless prayers for her health.
Then morning came.
Her blue eyes shone with a smile that lit hope in his heart.
They sipped their coffee, still carrying the quiet colors of the night, black like musk and walked together again.
They ran, jumped, played like children, outpaced their shadows, and laughed until they forgot both the length and brevity of time.
Night fell. Exhausted, they sat shoulder to shoulder.
His emotions flared. He gathered his courage, collected his scattered words, and confessed his love.
She resisted. She fell silent. She hesitated.
He pleaded with the Lady of Wisdom for patience, begging her to grant him at least the gift of waiting.
She smiled and agreed, not to love, not to intimacy, but to wait.
Perhaps time would change something within him.
He rejoiced. Their thoughts intertwined before their hands did.
They entered their room.
She lay on the bed of calm, wrapped in her values.
He lay on a mattress of longing, covered by years of yearning for love.
He brought her a cup of coffee and a red rose in one hand, and with the other touched the bare part of her back, wishing she could understand what his heart was screaming:
"I love you. I love your warmth. I cannot lose you."
He moved closer, wanting his lips to meet hers, to draw love and paint hope for a better tomorrow.
But what he thought was salvation became danger.
She erupted:
"There is no good in you. You are a slave to your desires. You can never be a master. I love another. I whisper his name every morning. He is a king, like me."
He read the name burning in her angry eyes: Deception.
"I will marry him," she said, "and I dreamed of having a daughter with him. I will call her Insight."
The servant collapsed.
He raged against his queen, calling her mad.
"You will be mine! You are my destiny. If your fate is heaven, I am its guardian. If your fate is hell, I will burn there with you!"
But the Lady of Wisdom unleashed her wave once more, burning their city, destroying his dreams.
He was left gathering the shattered pieces of his body and the dying fragments of his soul, haunted by the ghost of broken love and failed marriage.
Perhaps, to her, the marriage of the Lady of Wisdom to the Servant of Emotions was forbidden in the laws of her life.
To him, it still seemed possible, though he knew deep down that the fruit of such a union had been born dead.
He tried desperately to revive it, while she saw its death as salvation.
To her, it had died because it was born without a mind.
To be continued…
