By Adnan Bouzan

Do not complain about the wind… rather, learn how to read its face, and understand its hidden language as it passes over you the way memories pass through a heart exhausted by stories.

Do not complain about the days… they are not your enemy, nor did they choose to become your only path. They move on just as the wind moves across the fields: they do not ask about the pain of the wheat stalks, nor do they reproach the statue standing tall in the square. They do not pause before its silence, nor apologize to the branches bent beneath the weight of passing. They simply continue on—untouched by the burden of the journey, unconcerned with the fractures they leave behind. They do not see your tears, nor hear your inner trembling, because they were never created to console you, but to move you… to carry you from one state to another, from one form into the next, even when the transformation feels cruel.

Days possess no heart with which to be cruel, no memory with which to regret, no conscience that compels them to reconsider themselves. They are merely a deep mirror, reflecting whatever your soul hides within the shadows. If you approach them burdened by disappointment, they return you heavier still. But if you face them with a spirit that knows how to bend without breaking, they grant you a small space of light… a light that cannot be seen, yet is felt within, like a faint pulse refusing to die.

So why complain then?
And to whom should the complaint be spoken?

Time does not listen, nor does it stop at our doors to apologize. Life never returns to gather the scattered pieces of us left along the roads. Complaint is nothing more than an echo lost within a void that never answers, while life continues as though nothing ever happened, as though we had never cried out at all.

Do not grieve over the world… it was never truly a home for us, nor a promise of permanence. It is merely a long passage crowded with footsteps, a temporary inn where we place our weary bags for a moment, then depart carrying with us only what has become part of our being. Nothing in it remains, and nothing is completed exactly as we desire.

Everything within it is transient:

Joy is a shy guest that knocks softly upon the door, stays briefly, then leaves. Sorrow is a long shadow stretching so far we mistake it for eternity, only for it to suddenly vanish as though it had never existed. And dreams? They are wild birds unfamiliar with cages. They rest upon our shoulders for a fleeting moment, offer us their warmth, then abandon us to stare endlessly into the sky… searching for them on the distant horizon.

So why drown ourselves in what cannot remain?
Why burden our hearts with things already destined to depart?
Why cling to what slips through our fingers like water, only to stand astonished when we discover ourselves empty?

Learn to live lightly… to walk without dragging the weight of yesterday behind you; to love without fearing loss; to give without expecting permanence.

Live as though you understood the secret from the very beginning:
that the end is neither defeat nor loss, but a quiet return to a greater origin, to a meaning wider than this narrow life. Everything we pass through is merely a crossing, and everything we lose is only a hidden liberation from a weight we never realized we carried.

Do not complain about the wind… it is not your enemy, but your teacher, showing you how to remain standing, and how to bend without falling.

Do not complain about departure… for it is not the end of the story, but its transformation into another form.

Contemplate… do not lament.
Understand… do not break.

For within the depths of departure lies the secret of serenity, and within the embrace of annihilation another life is born—purer, wider, and less painful… a life measured not by what we possessed, but by what we understood while passing through.