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By Dr. Adnan Bozan
There are realms between thought and feeling—spaces where philosophy meets poetry, where the scent of contemplation mingles with the tears of words. In this strange fusion, words become breaths striving to grasp the essence of existence, and tears bow in silent rituals before the unknown that never stops knocking on the doors of our questions.
Philosophy, that wise old woman, sits at the edges of life, contemplating the cosmos with the gaze of one who knows everything and nothing at once. She smiles bitterly at the absurdity of existence, then whispers: “Every idea is an echo of a long-lost dream, and every answer only deepens the confusion.”
As for the letters, they hang from the lips of poets, falling like autumn leaves, carrying within their folds the pain of distances and the longing of souls wandering behind meanings not yet written.
What makes thought weep?> Does philosophy cry when it fails to explain pain?
When logic cannot decode the language of tears, philosophy raises its hands in surrender, leaving it to poetry to express the trembling of the soul before the mysteries of the universe. There, in the corners of the page, words pour out in deep sorrow, as though searching for refuge from the vastness of being lost.
Each drop of ink is a gasp of thought.> Each comma, a pause between the sentence of life and the sentence of death.> Each period, a desperate attempt to close the door on unending questions.
In the depths of night, when noise grows silent, the philosopher sits before a candle that flickers as if breathing his questions. He watches its shadow dance on the walls, and understands that truth is nothing but a reflection—shifting with the angle of perspective.
He rests his hand on his forehead, sighs, then picks up his pen as if clutching a fragile thread connecting him to the understanding of the world.
He writes—but he knows every word he pens is merely a drop from a boundless sea.
As for the letters, they weep upon the chest of paper, pleading to be understood by eyes before they dry.
But can eyes truly see beyond the ink?
Can words ever carry the full weight of the pain hidden between their lines?
With every line written, there is a sigh.
With every idea born, a cry.
And with every text, a soul bleeds—finding no refuge but in language.
The fragrance of philosophy is like an old perfume—it clings to the soul but grants no certainty.
Instead, it leaves the spirit suspended between the question and the answer.
And the tears of letters—pearls falling on the cheek of the page—remind us that even when feeling is shaped by reason, it remains too vast to be defined, and far too deep to be captured in a single sentence.
And so, philosophy continues to breathe in the mind, and letters continue to cry in the heart.
And the human being—that ever-questioning creature—remains suspended between the fragrance of thought and the tears of feeling, searching for an answer that may never come.
Yet still, he writes—hoping that one day, in the lines he pens, he may find a refuge, or at the very least… find solace in the telling.