Salwa

The letters did not want to write the words, and the words did not want to form the sentences, and the sentences did not want to line up to become a book and tell the story of a love that did not end in failure and did not end in success.

Perhaps the difficulty of writing this story, this tale, or this novel, is that it is still churning in the heart despite its endings, despite its scattered remains. And the pain is doubled by the absence of any kind of love or care after it. It is a void with a void unto a void. I do not know where I am going, and I do not know where I am returning to, but it was a shock in every sense of the word. Just as God saved me from the military, I killed myself at Salwa.

This is the truth of the matter: I am the one who killed my soul, soul against soul. And I apologize, for I cannot continue writing.