Very simple, and very good.
Source: Creative Criminals
Agency: Young & Rubicam, Lima
"My cousin Helen, who is in her 90s now, was in the Warsaw ghetto during World War II. She and a bunch of the girls in the ghetto had to do sewing each day. And if you were found with a book, it was an automatic death penalty. She had gotten hold of a copy of ‘Gone With the Wind’, and she would take three or four hours out of her sleeping time each night to read. And then, during the hour or so when they were sewing the next day, she would tell them all the story. These girls were risking certain death for a story. And when she told me that story herself, it actually made what I do feel more important. Because giving people stories is not a luxury. It’s actually one of the things that you live and die for."
Neil Gaiman (via inkheartsilence)
Being kind, considerate, thoughtful is underrated. I’m grateful for the few people I know who are beautiful inside, and are still able to see outside themselves. People who notice the little stuff, who’d apologize when they step on your foot, who’d say please and thank you, who’d ask for even the small things nicely not as a birthright. I appreciate properness, and I appreciate people who know that being friendly and being rude are different things. I appreciate people who think before they take the last piece in the dish, who ask before the change the channel, who don’t invade personal spaces with their sounds and smells and opinions. I appreciate people who aren’t blunt and who understand that goodness costs nothing.
I think there are worse things in life than my social awkwardness.
March 1st always was a bad date for me, it signaled the end of winter and the start of ugly weather. Dust, heat, sweat, insects, the season of death of loved ones.
But 2 years ago this changed when something happy started in March. Yet, March 1st is still an ugly date. Only this time it’s more personal.
Oh simple thing, where have you gone?
Tired of small talk
He once tricked Samir Sabry into thinking he’s Indian.
He once tricked a Kuwaiti airport officer into thinking he’s French.
Every single day, he used to greet me in the morning asking “نمتي كويس؟”
He used to kiss my friend’s hands (when we were barely 12) and address her as mademoiselle.
He had the most beautiful perfectly manicured fingers.
He was a perfect ballroom dancer.
He talked openly about faith and doubt.
He had the biggest heart I’ve ever seen on a man, and enormous energy for love. I know I’m not just saying so, because I hated a lot of other traits he had.
For as long as I remember, he recited surat Yassin everyday for his parents who’d died 30 years earlier.
He taught me how women should be treated, and how not to accept mediocre treatment.
He was a great grandfather to my nephews. The best.
He was so tender and soft hearted, that in his last days he actually used to carry little sugar packets in his pocket on the way to the mosque to feed an ant colony he discovered. Crazy but cute.
He turned heads wherever he went (not always something I was proud of).
He was a wonderful storyteller.
He was great at all board games, and used his paternal authority to take extra turns at video games with us.
He swam, rode bicycles, and played basketball with my friends when he was older than any other dad, and with a sick heart that couldn’t keep up.
He taught me to dream and to love.
This year, in a couple of months, it will be 18 years. It never goes away, we just learn to embrace the longing and celebrate the memories.