Time is a rope to which humans cling, pulling man while he firmly believes he is the one pulling. The counting of days, months, years, decades, and centuries is a meter invented by people to measure their steps on earth, with numbers they spread over the carpet of their times. The density of counting, with its numbers, is created by the speed and weight of life, including its misery or happiness. When man toiled long hours to obtain a meager sustenance that kept him alive, time was mountains that humans carried on the shoulders of their existence. Today, we carry time in a small device we strap around our wrist, called a watch, whose price announces the value of its wearer.

These days, the world is experiencing a compounded congestion, exploding with people's cries of joy, sorrow, and terror. The war in our region called the Middle East does not calm down except to reload more machines of fire and destruction. Place and time for us have become the Middle Fracture; a fracture in minds, souls, and on the ground, not the Middle East. Peace agreements on paper, and talk of peaceful solutions that smell of humanity, brotherhood, and good neighborliness, while daggers are held in hands behind backs. Ships do not cross the water, farmers are without seeds and fertilizer, but weapons are present, speaking, and acting. How does death become a goal colored like twilight, accompanied by anthems and holy mobilization speeches, while the suffering endured by humans is a delusion unseen and unheard by those who order the shooting of those without whip or voice? Our Middle Fracture has reached the soil, bodies, and time, and its counter is without devices on wrists and heads. Television is a box seen and heard by billions of people, of different races, languages, homelands, and religions, and in front of it sit adults and children, male and female, broadcasting to them details of what moves or is said on the planet. It is news of wars and disasters that are preceded by the word 'Urgent' in red. In these days we are immersed in, human paintings are drawn on color screens. World Cup football matches, where battles take place on green rectangles, between 22 wrestlers confronting each other with their feet. Players with names that shine and fill mouths. Each has a price that gives many a shiver of envy, jealousy, and even anger upon hearing it. Billions run on a green carpet, and each leg has its price, and the goal net is the mouth tempted by the ball's morsel. In the stadium stands, thousands dance and sing, each group cheering its national team. The defeated are covered with the dust of sadness and frustration, while the victor is surrounded by breezes of veneration and elevation. The World Cup, with its various matches, where players from large and small countries, rich and modest financial capabilities, confront each other, is a forum where violence is tamed and transformed into a spectacle that dazzles eyes and moves hands in applause. In that faraway world; the United States, Canada, and Mexico, where the global football battles take place, the earth shook near them in Venezuela, with a violent earthquake that has so far killed about two thousand people, and more than fifty thousand others are under the rubble. The global conscience was shaken by this calamity, and thousands from various countries rushed to work on rescuing the afflicted buried under heavy rubble, and the players in every World Cup match stand for a minute of silence in solidarity with the victims of the terrible Venezuela earthquake. In the Democratic Republic of Congo, the terrible Ebola epidemic has erupted, and the victim counter does not stop.

In a few days, the whole world lived through depths of events of different colors, stirring excitement, disasters, joy, sorrow, and pain. What all humans experienced in a few days, those before us did not live in decades of their lives. Shall we say that the counter of time has changed, and that the density of time moves and changes without stopping? The poet Zuhair bin Abi Salma said: "I am weary of life's burdens, and whoever lives Eighty years, without a father, you will become weary." Our great poet, who grew weary of the life he lived over eighty years, what did he see in it, and what did he do, eat, drink, and wear? Certainly his days were similar, as he lived in a tent moving among his tribe's encampments, eating tharid (bread soaked in broth) if he found it. What he lived in all his years, which he grew tired of, does not equal a single day of what today's human lives. The poet Nizar Qabbani said: "Do not ask me to account for my life, Indeed, the talk is long, my lady. All the ages I have lived, as if My life is millions of years." We can place the measure of time between two parentheses: the first poet, Zuhair bin Abi Salma, and the second, Nizar Qabbani. The great literary poet, Elia Abu Madi, placed man in the arena of years, saying: "Say to the one who counts the years boasting, O friend, the secret is not in the years, But in how man lives them, In wakefulness or in deep slumber. Go, count thousands of years on pebbles, Can you count a semblance of virtue for a pebble?" The Italian novelist Alberto Moravia wrote a novel titled 'The Weariness' (or 'Boredom'), expressing his sense of existential emptiness, trying to regain his feeling of life. And before them, the poet Abu al-Ala al-Ma'arri said: "Life is all weariness, so what is astonishing Except for one who desires more increase."