By: Manal Rabie
Caught in an abyss whose bottom cannot be seen, we are like souls stepping out of ancient books, searching for their first homeland. Every step in this darkness feels like a secret Sufi rite, testing within us the meaning of patience and of detachment. We are the children of passage, dwelling on the threshold between earth and sky, between a body longing to soar and a spirit afraid of losing the last warmth it still holds.
The abyss is not only stones and shadows; it is a deep mirror reflecting our hidden secrets, showing our hearts images from their former lives, as if we are in the presence of an ancient angel writing our names in the Book of Light. In this wandering we become strangers to the world and to ourselves, hearing the moan of our own silence as if it were an old chant, feeling our pain as if it were a ladder to another understanding.
Bewilderment has become a house we seek refuge in, as dervishes seek the shrines of saints; pain has become a companion teaching us to dwell in darkness without fear. Yet, amid the ruin, there remains a small flame—more than a mere hope, a memory of the first light—reminding us that whoever has tasted the abyss has tasted the secret of life, and that whoever has crossed the darkness knows that light is born from the heart itself. Thus, despite our fractures, we carry within us the seed of resurrection and continue walking on a journey that ends only with meeting our own selves on a horizon wider than any abyss.
