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Maroua Jaddou

@frames_and_notes

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by @frames_and_notes

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2 years ago

I'm not sure where to start with this book. Maybe here: I don't know a single person who has read it and didn't come out the other side transformed.

Ce que le jour doit à la nuit, by Yasmina Khadra.

When I read it, I was going through a difficult time. Health issues, a kind of stillness I hadn't chosen. And it's in that in-between space, caught between things I couldn't control, that this book found me. It made me fall in love with reading again. Really reading, not just flipping through pages. And more than that, it opened my eyes to something I hadn't been able to fully understand before: my destiny, and the actions I needed to take to move toward it.

Mektoub. That's the word that runs through the entire novel. What is written. What is meant to happen. But Khadra doesn't let you hide behind fate. On the contrary, he asks you: are you enduring your life, or are you actually living it?

The story unfolds in Algeria, during and after French colonisation. It's a love story, yes. But it's really a story about pride. About what it costs. About what it conceals.

This book taught me something I probably already knew but couldn't yet see clearly: pride, most of the time, comes from trauma. And that trauma gets passed down without anyone realising it, generation after generation, like a weight no one talks about because everyone is carrying it.

But here is what I really took from Mektoub, and what I want to pass on: what is meant to be yours is already yours. The hard seasons, the health scares, the moments where everything feels suspended and uncertain, they are not detours. They are part of the road. Every difficult experience is shaping you, building something in you that nothing else could. Resilience isn't a quality you're born with. It's something life carves into you, if you let it, and choose to use it as fuel rather than carry it as weight. by @frames_and_notes

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12 hours ago

Is alienation a condition, or is it a form of awareness?

For the longest time, I believed that feeling disconnected meant that something inside me was missing. That one day I would meet the right people, find the right place, build the right life, and this quiet distance would finally disappear.

I'm no longer convinced.

I think consciousness has a price.

The more intensely you experience existence, the harder it becomes to accept it without questioning it. You stop taking things at face value. Every certainty begins to feel borrowed. Every identity feels temporary. Every answer opens the door to another question.

And then something strange happens.

You no longer feel separated from people because they are different from you.

You feel separated because everyone seems to know how to inhabit life without constantly asking what it is.

I've come to realize that perhaps belonging was never the goal.

Maybe we spend too much of our lives trying to become understandable. We polish the rough edges of our minds, translate thoughts that were never meant to fit into language, and call that connection.

But what if some parts of us should remain untranslated?

Not because they're broken.

Because they are too vast to be reduced into ordinary words.

Maybe that quiet distance isn't an absence after all.

Maybe it's the space where the self refuses to become smaller just to feel less alone. by @frames_and_notes

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7 days ago

We spend our lives trying to become "someone." We collect achievements, relationships, memories, and versions of ourselves, believing that one day they'll merge into a complete identity. But what if, beneath all those layers, we still feel hollow? Not because our lives are empty, but because we've mistaken existence for presence.

Maybe the most frightening loneliness isn't having no one around. Maybe it's waking up one day and realizing you've become a stranger to yourself. You smile because you're expected to. You speak because silence would worry people. You keep moving because stopping would force you to ask the questions you've been avoiding.

Perhaps we were never meant to have all the answers. Perhaps the purpose of life isn't to become someone else, but to slowly return to the person we were before the world convinced us we had to be anything else. by @frames_and_notes

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8 days ago

I have to go for a while. Thank you for everything.
I just wanted my writing and the movies I loved to be seen--and they were, with great love and appreciation.
I'm afraid to say goodbye, but I must.
I won't be posting or active anymore.
Now, I'll return to being a nobody, while wishing you all the best. by @frames_and_notes

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a year ago

We don't realize how easily we are forgotten--how effortlessly we can be replaced.
To know that your life, your journey, holds little significance unless you become someone who leaves a mark, who is remembered... it's a sobering thought. But, even those who left a mark--are they truly remembered? Some are. Their names echo for a while.
But what about me? What about me?
If I were to disappear, I believe nothing would change. I carry so little significance. My life would end- just like that. Sure, some might mourn for a while, but eventually, everyone would forget.
So easily forgotten. So easily lost--forever. No one would even know I was here, writing this, crying my heart out. by @frames_and_notes

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a year ago

I can't stop...

I keep writing about you.
As if ink could hold you closer than my arms.
As if words are gonna burn through.
As if I could rewrite the ending into something sweeter.
I keep writing about you.
Because this love in my heart is too large for ribcages to contain.
Too big to be said in a sentence.
Too heavy to stay locked inside.
I keep writing about you.
As if I'm trying to fill a void.
As if I'm deluding myself that you're not absent.
As if letters could bring you to me.
I keep writing about you.
Until your name becomes a language only I can understand.
Until the papers turn into a graveyard, for all the things I never said.
And I'll keep writing about you.
Because silence kills me.
Because writing about you is like breathing.
I can't force myself to stop. by @frames_and_notes

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a year ago

Here, we live in a silent universe, where our most important questions go unanswered, leaving us in a constant pursuit of meaning and purpose.
Do we truly know if we have meaning or purpose, or are we aimlessly drifting --consumed by the indulgences of modern life?
Meaning or not, we do not fail to struggle and strive. It seems we always find a creative way to escape despair--whether through embracing the absurd or clinging to the meaning we create. As Sartre said, "Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself."
Even in the face of a meaningless world, the absurd offers a kind of solution. Though life may seem unknown and our questions may lead nowhere, it still holds an intrinsic value-- one that emerges when we choose to live it fully and embrace our fate for what it is. by @frames_and_notes

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a year ago

I met different people with different roles in my life, some left a remarkable scar, and some left an irreplaceable room in my heart, but both are blessings.

Some taught me to not leave myself where they abandoned me, and some taught me to begin in the place where I was left wounded. Somehow, I appreciate how they all helped me to become the person I am now. by @frames_and_notes

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a year ago

Sometimes, I don't want to disappear...

I want to learn Spanish,
write with my left hand too,
paint endlessly,
speak the language of love,
collect seashells and cry at sunsets,
run along the beach,
bake cookies and cakes,
light candles and read,
scream from rooftops until my throat bleeds.
But how do I do anything,
when all I can think of is nothingness.
And when my thoughts find no home,
I disappear. by @frames_and_notes

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a year ago

It's been a while, I missed you all. 🤍🥀

"I wonder,
do I love you because you look like the moon, or is it because you feel like it.
Because when I look at you I don't just see beauty,
I remember it like I've known it before,
in another version of myself that existed in your arms.

Your beauty anchors me but,
it's your soul that keeps me tethered.

We are just two souls too tangled with each other,
to ever come undone--
that even if distance steals our days,
even if life teaches us to forget,
our threads are stitched too deep,
into the fabric of who we are.

And maybe...
maybe I don't love you because of the way you look,
or even the way you touch.
Maybe I love you,
because when I'm with you,
I feel like less of a stranger to myself. by @frames_and_notes

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a year ago

في داخلي...

في داخلي مدن هجرها سكانها على حين غرة..
فلم تعد تسمع صيحات الأولاد في شوارعها، ولا أذان المساجد ولا أجراس الكنائس..
مدن تحكمها الرياح من كل النوافذ..

في داخلي مدن بلا إحداثيات..
قرى موبوءة أسقطت عن الخرائط..

في داخلي الكثير من الحطام الذي أود أن اتقيأه..
لكن منافذ الصرف الصحي قد سدت بسخام الألم..

في داخلي كاتبة تهوى سرد الاوجاع على مسامع المنكوبين..
إلا أنها تخشى الإفصاح عن عظيم آلامها..

في داخلي أنثى تنكسر فتأكل كسرها..
متينة رغم تمزقها، جبارة لقدر ما جبرت نفسها..

في داخلي طفلة سلب مني حق حضانتها، لأني على قدر كبير من التشتت و الضياع..

وفي داخلي أنتم يا من تقرأون كتاباتي، ولازلتم تشعرون بدفئها رغم صعيق معانيها... by @frames_and_notes

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a year ago