Maktub
Any creation carefully preserved in the silence of time waits to meet its soul that will decipher its true meaning.
All the facts of human history, all the events, big or small, we consider as having happened in the past. But they are repeated every 1001 years, in as many days and as many nights. The immense novel of the world, only the scribe managed to include it in a holy papyrus which, in the last instance, is nothing other than the same hope in immortality for millennia. If it had not been so, and if it had been otherwise, then everything would have been swallowed by the sand of the desert which concludes the journey of the divine among mortals.
Moreover, the last limit of the conqueror of this world does not refer to the limit of time, to the miraculous path to eternal life, but to the entire spiritual expanse of the world mastered only by the power of the secret word, Maktub. Of course, the scribe did not suspect that his steps would lead him to the place where his first ancestor had grown up, whose name concealed a deep meaning, hidden under the number 8, as a symbol of infinity. Three times in a row, his steps trampled the holy ground, where the Word came to life and where, later, the word inspired the fantastic element of the 1001 nights.
Thus it was written, and it could not have been written otherwise. The holy hand of the scribe, so often blessed, led his pen to the search for truth, at least in eternity, shattering the borders destroyed by Alexander the Great through endless wars, and always returning to the unique moment when the holy word found its purpose again in the Maktub. Of course, on this holy word, preserved for an added enlivening of the world always retold, the thick dust of the centuries that have passed has not settled. And the scribe, experiencing the miracle of the world through the language that speaks it through so many voices and through so many stories from the 1001 Arabian Nights, had to realize in moments of danger that his hopes are always limited, but never perish.
To what extent can giving up immediate recognition lead to the creation of lasting work, by relating to the spiritual impact of the divine legacy?
Long ago, in an oasis forgotten by the world, under a sky studded with stars, a scribe painstakingly drew sacred verses on a gilded parchment. Above him, only the flicker of an oil lamp fought the darkness, and the silence of the night was broken only by the rustling of the wind through the palm leaves. In front of him, a row of parchments bore the marks of times long gone, stories for which the ears of his contemporaries no longer had the patience.
The scribe knew that each engraved word had its own destiny, a reader yet unborn, a soul that would find in those lines answers that were not meant for his generation. He did not write for the many, nor for applause. Few crossed his threshold, but those who did left transformed by the beauty of his writings. Each story was an offering to eternity, a gift that would travel beyond the sands of time. One night, when the full moon cast strange shadows through the tall windows, the scribe stopped writing and contemplated his life's work. At the end of a sentence, he looked up at the stars and murmured: "He who is gifted with the gift of reading divine signs is the one whose writings few read. But he continues to write for the few, not for the many, not for the glory of the lost work, but for the eternity of the found work."
Indeed, the one gifted with the gift of reading divine signs is the one whose writings few read. Written differently, but always in the sense of the unique Maktub, the scribe's words will reach the wisdom of those for whom the world is the path of the miracle from which eternity is born. And never again will the immense expanse of land, conquered by Alexander the Great, be able to become an object of division between generals, as soon as the holy word will destroy all enmity. In the end, the eye that seeks hidden signs will manage to decipher more than letters, finding divine calls to fulfill the destiny written through Maktub.
What remains of a creation when no one is there to look at it, in correspondence with the soul of a creator who put into it the entire essence of its divine origin?
Nothing has changed in 1001 years. Even the desert wind that passes through my soul makes me feel that I write not only with ink, but with the sap of an eternal calling, as if each word had been woven directly from the fiber of the universe. I know that my lines, so simple and yet profound, are not for everyone, but for those wandering souls who will one day discover, in the shadow of a phrase, the light of their destiny. Each grain of sand is the reflection of a star. And yet, I write not for glory, but for eternity, as a craftsman carves an infinite column that reaches the sky, without asking if anyone will admire it.
Right now, when I raise my eyes to the stars, I feel with immense longing, with such a deep connection to the creative soul, I feel that each constellation whispers to me the same truth: "What you create today is not for your eyes, but for the eyes that still dream of seeing."
The true greatness of a work does not lie in its immediate admiration, but in the survival of its idea unaltered over millennia. Thus, I realized that time is still within the reach of the pen which, through a sort of mysterious alchemy, changes what seems immutable. And no! I am not willing to share all my secrets, such as the places where the seas of the East once flowed into the endless Ocean, but I will stay away from such a costly enigma. The future is important, and I will write it for myself, for the world to come, for eternity, for it is written that what was meant to be will happen. The deep meaning of creation does not lie in the moment of its birth, but in the echo it leaves in eternity.
Three times the scribe stepped on the holy ground consecutively, three times he had the same dream, three times he saw the signs hidden in the language of the stars, three times he deciphered them in the coffee grounds. What he saw remains unseen, but in the very near future, their truth will come to light. The world will be led again by a descendant of Alexander the Great. He will not be a saint, he will not be a magician, nor a scientist, nor a politician. He will be a greater soul, with his sword curved towards the light. The one who passed through the whirlpool of fire, the one who escaped all dangers. The one born in a small and distant country from his ancestors, the humblest of all, will soon know the greatest wealth in the world. The one who overcame all temptations, the one who defeated all curses, the one who fought the holy battle and defeated the Darkness.
The call of creation becomes the leader's most precious gift when his mission does not require ephemeral glory, but the fulfillment of a written destiny.
Maktub symbolizes ineluctable destiny, beyond the limits of time. It symbolizes the power of faith, beyond material boundaries. It symbolizes divine will, beyond the boundaries of mortals.
Of course, the desert speaks only to those who know how to listen. The one who wrote the path of Alexander the Great became both a participant and a hero in the travels of Dionysius of Phocaea. So his hand, like a divine compass guided by the eternity of time, continues to draw lines towards an unseen but certain horizon.
Only in this way does the spirit connect between generations, even when it travels from one continent to another: through the power to fulfill the destiny written in the stars, Maktub. The one without any power will unexpectedly embrace the greatest power in the world. The Darkness feared him, even before he was born. All the nights of the 1001 years of darkness have passed, and what will follow will be the light of eternity.
