Ever wondered how birds fly? They travel in packs; they leave familiar grounds for better territories. Birds who stay get locked up in the harshness of winter; they’re left behind. Why they stayed, I can’t tell you – but we can think it through, together. Do not worry about taking off, leaving your comfort zone, or letting go when time calls for letting go. Every beautiful thing has an end. How you choose to write that ending, however, is up to you. I wish you were strong, steadfast, focused. I wish you were courageous enough to stand tall under the pressure, bold enough to defend what was right – fearless, daring, dauntless. But, my little one, you were not like that. And you are not like me. This who I am. It’s a character: I never was afraid to lose. I think, and I know, you hated that about me. The people I felt didn’t belong, I just moved away from them. I created no excuses — neither that they were my compass pointing due North, neither that I was emotionally attached to them. I carried on with my life, boldly. Hurt, yes — but bold. Bold enough to walk away, brave enough to assume. Fear didn’t belong. Nor did hesitation, cowardice, falling back. But then again — this is who I am. It’s a character. There are things I can’t decide for you. I wish time proves all I said is wrong, for your sake, not for mine – I already am, me. Until that day, take good care of yourself; never forget who you are, never cease going after what is right, no matter what consequences that right bears, no matter what loneliness it invites. There is no such satisfaction as that of knowing you have done the right thing, as that of moving away from bad influence. Stick to you, fight for you, dream for you. I won’t be there to see it, but I wish from the bottom of my heart that you put to shame every single word I have just written. Oh, and, most importantly: Be Safe, Be Happy. ⚓️
I always pictured coming to Montreal would be a great spin-off to my research, but I feel, at times, that I am so alone. Let me put it this way: so lonely. I go back to an empty house, which I fill with things my own so I can make mine; I go for a walk on the street, snap photos which I’m happy with – I met a stranger on the street today, a man my dad’s age with no money for coffee – ; sit long hours on the lake; walk the distance as it is still not too cold; book for trips to fill my time; chat with my friends back in Beirut; get on it with writing my book, organizing my photography page; but then – I go back to that same empty house, which I try to fill with my soul. For the first time – the very first – I yearned for my mother to be around, and I remember, our talk in your office; I remember you talking about your Dad, that special unwavering link you both were privileged to have had, and I think of Mum: how I miss her by my side, around, cooking for me, having coffee in the early hours of morning with me, scolding me for that piece of clothing I was about to wear, giving me pieces of advice when I was in dead need of them, sitting by my side as we booked our next trip together, guiding me step by step when it came to my professional path – and I think. I think of my empty little house, and that Home, Home is always a person.
Please don’t use this photo without my prior consent. Thanks ¡
Please do not use this image without my prior consent. Thanks ¡