She may have been over accustomed of how life looks like through the years, yet like the sun that she sees in its rebirth, its meaning would seem to appear new every morning. She still wonders. How old is its “age of innocence” when she starts to grab a quill and mirror its definition transcendentally reflected in a tabula rasa?
Perhaps, there are some things that her heart understands but her mind can not fully comprehend. Maybe, that is why she writes.
To her, everything has a voice. To her, this world is made up of billions and some uncountable stories– told and untold. “Maktub“, she reads in Arabic . It is written.
As long as she has breath, as long as her blood is alive as the crimson; as long as her heart beats the rhythm of her soul, she will never run out of ink.
(Excerpt from a Forword I wrote for a literary folio published in 2008/ Edited 2012/2014)