By Dr. Adnan Bozan

Life is not what we live, but what we heal from.
Art is not merely color on a cold canvas, but a silent pulse carving a path to the heart when all maps are lost—sending music through our veins, inaudible, yet tear-stirring.

And reading... oh, reading!
It is not words lined on paper like soldiers in a morning drill, but windows flung open to worlds no human has ever walked—mirrors in which we see faces we've never known, and souls we've never met within ourselves.
With every book, a new mind is born. With every sentence, layers of dust fall away from the buried questions inside us since the beginning.

As for coffee, it is not a black drink in a ceramic cup,
but a sacred ritual—a secret prayer exchanged between us and this ever-changing existence.
It feels like a sip from the warmth of memory,
or a taste of the silence of mothers when they no longer have words to say.

And philosophy… that wise madwoman!
She does not come to offer us answers,
but to ignite wildfires of questioning within us—
to redraw the maps we thought were unchanging.
She unravels the illusion of certainty, not to rob us of peace,
but to build in its place a deeper awareness,
and a serenity born not of ignorance, but of reconciliation with the unknown.

All that we do in this life, if we truly love it,
is an attempt to restore what cannot be seen:
With art that heals sorrow,
With words that illuminate the mind,
With sips that awaken memory,
And with questions that reorder us anew—each time we shatter.

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