I want to tell my story before its ink runs dry.

I find myself drawing again.

I draw eyes, doors, waves.

I draw an old man carrying a child who hasn’t accepted the idea that playtime is over.

I draw a lost young man, drowning in the baggy clothes of adults.

I draw a hotel whose owner admires its crowds, not understanding that a visitor stays a few nights and then leaves, never to return.

I draw a circus owner playing with a monkey.

I draw a bed, beneath which lies a graveyard where lost dreams are buried.

I contemplate what I’ve drawn, and I find myself present in everything.

I am the child, the young man, the old man.

I am the hotel owner and his guest.

I am the visitor and the resident.

I am the circus owner and the audience.

I am the circus owner and the spectators. I am the monkey and the drum.

I am the one who dug the grave, and I am the one who wept.

I am the one who buried the dreams with my own hands.

I despaired of achieving them.

I gave up after clinging to them.

I turned off the lamp, and the colors turned to a somber black.

I tried to erase the traces of the dreams, but they returned after sleep.

Life stirred within them for a few minutes, to remind me of days gone by,

and they asked in sorrow:

For what sin was I buried?

— Ahmed Essam El-Din