Death

Only two types of people stop me in life... the strong one who cannot be broken by anything, and the miserable, collapsed one who cries over the ruins morning and evening. Since childhood, I have been stopped by the solidity of the first and the fragility of the second. I wonder what could lead a person to the point of petrification, breaking everything that passes in front of him and not breaking, an unbearable cruelty... or like a paper napkin being crumbled by a drop of water or a gust of wind. These questions kept wandering and wandering inside me, until one day I realized that rude visitor, who burns the earth and has no mercy on the sky. He comes in different forms, but he brings you to one conclusion... a cockroach tragedy, with either a stone or a handkerchief left behind. The scoundrel visited me wearing one of the most horrific... His costumes... “Death”... everyone fears it, we have all always feared it, but when it visits you and takes a dear person from you, it shakes you... it destroys your life. I was waiting for the storm to blow with a calm that I had never experienced before. I saw my father’s body leaving the house with his eyes closed in infinite peace. Around me was a raging storm, and I was standing like an idol. My father came out. After a few days, the storm passed, and I knew inside me that when I looked in the mirror, I would see. Someone... All I feared was seeing another stone... I raised my gaze and put my eyes in front of the mirror... I felt the features of my face and did not sense the hardness of a stone, nor did I feel the fragility of a handkerchief... Oh my God, what is this sponge? . Yes, a sponge. My storm left behind a sponge... It does not break what it goes through, but it absorbs it with passion... It tries hard to write about love, but it fails... Because every time it intends to write... it stains itself and the paper with the crowding of what the sponge has absorbed... it absorbs pain. Whoever you embrace and throw away... it keeps moisture away from other tissues so that they do not tear... and faces stones with a soft, unbreakable consistency. Death, death is not the last of our journeys in life. It is another life. I am not talking about the world of the isthmus or the other world. I am talking about our world in which there are the weak and the strong! The broken and the broken! The oppressor and the oppressed ! The wretched and the deprived! From hearts exhausted by fatigue, insomnia and staying up late taking their souls, and thinking paralyzing minds from hearts. I am tired of carrying the wounds from hearts that have become numb from frequent slapping, painful beatings, and cruel heartbreaks from hearts made stronger by fate. Striking is stronger, like iron, hammering makes it stronger, but we should not forget that continuous hammering on iron reshapes it, so do hearts. Traumas and disappointments reshape them and make them stronger, so they become hard hearts. Petrified and without feeling, as if they were stones that do not shake for anyone, do not yearn, or yearn, they have lost their beauty and essence. Some hearts are softened by frequent shocks and beatings, so they become softer than paper and more soft, gentle, tender and sweet. These are merciful, kind and compassionate hearts. They laugh at the slightest joke and joke, grieve and cry for every situation that hurts humanity, and get angry, upset and revolt when human dignity is touched by evil. These hearts are not touched by death. If the body dies, what you did and made remains immortal. It stands tall among the people, even if it was bad, it goes away, carrying with it all kinds of gloating and insults, and removes from the people heavy anxiety and migraines that make the eyes red. As for the pure and pure heart, it is like a cloud where a benefit comes. The old misses it before the young. Hearts come to it with supplications, mercy, and alms. Death is the death of hearts, not death. Bodies: There are hearts whose bodies are among the people, striving while they are dead and carrying their bodies to the pyre.

Death is not the death of the body, but rather the death of feelings and feelings.

When death comes to you, you must be prepared for it, for it will not give warning if you prepare from now.

Always hasten to please the Most Merciful, for the grave Beginning of reckoning, do not despair, for incapacity is a defect of a person in the time of youth, and it is a hasty one if there is time left in life, for death knocks on every door, for the fire is lonely for its passengers, and its destination is a depth of darkness in which sighs are heard in torment.

Provide for what is necessary. Death is the appointed time for the servants, and repent of what you have committed while you are alive, and be careful before you sleep. You will regret it if you leave without food, and you will be miserable when the herald calls you. Would you be content to be the companion of a people who have food, while you have food without food? Even those who died at this moment thought death was something far away, so they asked for forgiveness a lot.

I am amazed at someone who wishes death for himself because of a trivial situation that aroused his anger. Listen to the silence of the graves for a moment. I do not think you are ready for it.

This world is a dream and the afterlife is a wakefulness and the middle between them is death and we are in the middle of dreams. This is a reminder and peace.

From the book Life Excerpts