تراويح مسجد السلطان حسن

"The Type"
by Sarah Kay


If you grow up the type of woman men want to look at,
You can let them look at you.
But do not mistake eyes for hands,
Or windows for mirrors.
Let them see what a woman looks like.
They may not have ever seen one before.

If you grow up the type of woman men want to touch,
You can let them touch you.
Sometimes it is not you they are reaching for.
Sometimes it is a bottle, a door, a sandwich, a Pulitzer, another woman -
But their hands found you first.
Do not mistake yourself for a guardian, or a muse, or a promise, or a victim or a snack.
You are a woman -
Skin and bones, veins and nerves, hair and sweat
You are not made of metaphors,
Not apologies, not excuses.

If you grow up the type of woman men want to hold,
You can let them hold you.
All day they practice keeping their bodies upright.
Even after all this evolving it still feels unnatural,
Still strains the muscles, holds firm the arms and spine.
Only some men will want to learn what it feels like to curl themselves into a question mark around you,
Admit they don’t have the answers they thought they would by now.
Some men will want to hold you like the answer.
You are not the answer.
You are not the problem.
You are not the poem, or the punchline, or the riddle, or the joke.

Woman, if you grow up the type of woman men want to love,
You can let them love you.
Being loved is not the same thing as loving.
When you fall in love,
It is discovering the ocean after years of puddle jumping.
It is realising you have hands.
It is reaching for the tightrope after the crowds have all gone home.
Do not spend time wondering if you are the type of woman men will hurt.
If he leaves you with a car alarm heart.
You learn to sing along.
It is hard to stop loving the ocean,
Even after it’s left you gasping, salty.
So forgive yourself for the decisions you’ve made,
The ones you still call mistakes when you tuck them in at night,
And know this.
Know you are the type of woman who is searching for a place to call yours.
Let the statues crumble.
You have always been the place.
You are a woman who can build it yourself.
You are born to build.

http://www.kaysarahsera.com/

Sarah Kay - Type

اواخر سورة الزمر - عبدالبديع محمد غيلان

سورة يس، الرحمن، الواقعة، الملك بصوت القارئ علاء عقل - صوت هادئ و جميل ما شاء الله - BACAAN QURAN (1

والذي أطمع أن يغفر لي خطئتي يوم الدين  خالد محمد الشحات 🤍🕊️

ريفو - موسيقي تصويرية - النهاية

كبروا الله اكبر لاتهابوا الحاقدين(MP3_160K).mp3

أحلم بالشهادة  بلال الأحمد|

تلاوة مميزة من سورة آل عمران{محاكاة الشيخ علي جابر}عشاء الثلاثاء 8-3 #ماجدالزامل-الإدارة-


رحلتُ إلى بحار العشق حُلمي

أضمُ لروحي الحَرَا يداهُ

أُعانقُ طيفَهُ فأهيمُ شوقاً

وحباً زاد في قلبي لضاهُ

ولكنْ حارتِ الأشواقُ بيناً

ولا أدري عُيوني هل تراهُ؟

فَرحت أناشدُ الظلماء أيني؟

فهذا الليل ضيعني خطاهُ

فلا خبرٌ ولا أملٌ يواسي

وعزفُ الموجِ أرعبني صداهُ

سَأشكو الحُزن ياأمواجُ إني

وحيدٌ مثقلٌ مما دهاهُ

فيا موجي ولم يبقى سوانا

أليس الحزنُ في عيني تراهُ؟

فكن أُنسي أسوقُ لك المعاني

فإن القلبَ كبلهُ أساهُ

وإني تآئهٌ في بحر حبٍ

وكم قبلي من العشاقِ تاهو

فوا أسفاهُ لقياهُ سرابٌ

ومن يلقى السرابَ إذا أتاهُ؟

ويا لله كم كثُرت جراحي

وضاق بفسحةِ العليا مداهُ

أُريد الحب في قلبٍ شريفٍ

خُذيني يا بحارُ الى رُباهُ ,,

رحلت الى بحار العشق

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up.

I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.                                    

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.

The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.

The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach.

The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started. 

By Meggie Royer

تراويح مسجد السلطان حسن

Bi Sso