A Love Story

The philosophies of life and death meet in a hospital in a majestic, human, emotional procession, through which Al-Qusaibi’s meanings and expressions woven with threads of escalating pain when confronted with death, creeping in as an inevitable reality, from which there is no escape. At these times, there is attack and retreat, escape and confrontation, defeat and victory, fantasy and reality, illusion and truth, proclaimed by the love story of Mr. Aryan lying on his bed, which represented his final stop in this life. A story and a character that Al-Qusaibi carries, whatever he likes to sing: “I wrote your name on my death. I wrote it in the absence of death…” And to narrate what was stirring inside him like a hurricane on the pages of politics during the years of the hurricane. He grabbed the picture of the leader, removed it from the wall, threw it on the ground, and stood contemplating it. Then he began addressing the leader: “Oh, you murderous butcher, how long will you continue to kill innocents?” And he whispered whatever he wanted about love and its issues in the abode of pleasure, as if Al-Qusaibi were a fugitive in the corridors of humanity at moments of emancipation, where there is no oversight or accountability, and where the images of life in all its colors, with all its social, moral, physical, spiritual, philosophical, and scientific dimensions, throb with the rhythm of life in the hours before sunset. Al-Qusaibi, with the eye of a contemplative, at that sunset, draws the picture… but with the colors of his pen, which fragments, expressing expressions from its depths, carrying the still pain and its repercussions, the soul in the space of farewell to life and its repercussions, and the spirit in its stages at the approach of absence.