The luxury of obsessions

This is the story of a neighbor who can't sleep because his neighbor didn't close his balcony curtains on a stormy night. It's also the story of Karen, who filled the void of her fifties with a Chesterfield sofa, and on which she quickly found solace for all her frustrations. It's the story of Diala, who gets annoyed by Facebook greetings. It's the story of the strong, independent Dima, who was terrified by suddenly finding herself with two men in a remote area, momentarily forgetting all the strength and independence she claims to uphold. It's the story of Ahmed, drowning in the whirlpool of his retirement, and the story of the cancer patient who, like a mechanic, longs for a loving and compassionate look from his doctor, is no longer just a case and a number on his patient list.
It's your story. Your story and his. Our story. All of ours. Without the risks and theorizing of the deposits. And what is literature if not our own stories and anxieties between the covers of a book? This is the story of a neighbor who can't sleep because his neighbor didn't draw his balcony curtains on a stormy night. It's also the story of Karen, who tried to fill the emptiness of her fifties with an elegant Chesterfield sofa, but quickly found all her frustrations leaning against it. It's the story of Diala, who gets angry at birthday wishes on Facebook. It's the story of Dima, the strong and independent woman suddenly overcome by fear when she found herself between two men in a secluded place, momentarily forgetting all the speeches of strength and independence she had embraced. It's the story of Ahmed, drowning in the whirlpool of retirement, and the cancer patient searching for a glimmer of love and compassion from his doctor, refusing to be just a case or a number on his patient list. It's your story. His story and her story. Our story, all of ours. Without complications, theories, or pretensions. In the end, isn't literature our own stories lying between the pages of a book?