The Edge of the World

Author's name: Ahmed Al-Haqil

The first time I remember dying I was ten. I saw a girl who had just left her childhood, with a puffy neck, tall and complete, walking in the alley, followed by her younger brothers. She shouted at them, “Stop playing!” and disappeared behind the jujube tree at the corner. The next day, I wasn’t playing as I used to, and my brothers would ask me, “What’s wrong with you, you’re out of breath?” I would reply with contempt, “Why are you playing? Stop playing!” I would watch the corner, anticipating and trying to look like her, that I had just left my childhood, with a puffy chin and a slender figure.
Oh daughter of those who killed me
Generally speaking, most things do not live longer than a fly. The moment dies with its passing, pleasure with its extinction, whim with its diminishing urgency, dreams with the breaking of their oars, and the soul with its mood swings.
Man sleeps, and another wakes up. All the glories that were built, and the disappointments that were entrenched, may be wiped away by the blink of an eye and the nonexistence of existence, to wake up stripped of the glory that was built, liberated from the disappointment that was reaped. “Al-Nu’man the Wanderer” sits as a king on the balcony of his palace overlooking the landmarks of his grandeur urging on the shadows, to wake up wandering aimlessly, having left his kingdom behind and disappeared, trace after trace. “Muhammad bin Abdullah,” the agent of his wife’s trade, wraps himself in his bed covers, terrified by the horror of what he saw, chained with a weight: his exile that kept him awake wandering aimlessly in the deserts, to wake up as a messenger
A person sleeps, and sleep is a minor death, and another wakes up.