The luxury of obsessions

This is the story of a neighbor who can't sleep because of his neighbor who didn't close his balcony curtains on a stormy night. It's also the story of Karen, who tried to fill the void of her fifty years with an elegant Chesterfield sofa, which soon became the outlet for all her frustrations. It's the story of Diala, who is angered by Facebook greetings. It's the story of the strong, independent Dima, who was seized by terror at suddenly being between two men in a remote area, momentarily forgetting all the rhetoric of strength and independence she espouses. It's the story of Ahmed, who is drowning in the whirlpool of his retirement, and the cancer patient who seeks a loving and compassionate look from his doctor, so that he is no longer just a case or a number on his patient list.
It's your story. Your story and his story. The story of all of us. Without complications, theorizing and pretense. Is literature other than our stories and concerns between the covers of a book? This is the story of a neighbor who cannot sleep because his neighbor did not close the curtains of his balcony on a stormy night. It is also the story of Karen, who tried to fill the void of her fifty years with an elegant Chesterfield sofa, but soon found all her frustrations resting on it. It's the story of Diala, who gets angry at birthday greetings on Facebook. It's the story of Dima, the strong and independent woman who was suddenly overwhelmed by fear when she found herself between two men in a secluded area, momentarily forgetting all the speeches of strength and independence she embraced. It's the story of Ahmed, drowning in the whirlpool of retirement, and the cancer patient searching for a glimpse of love and compassion from their doctor, refusing to be just a case or a number on their list of patients.

It's your story. His story and her story. Our story, all of us. Without complications, theories, or pretenses. At the end, isn't our literature our own stories laying between the pages of a book?