My Father's Pen
654
I have known it since I was young. My late father, then a school principal, gave me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966, to replace my dip pen, penholder, and inkwell.
He taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and how to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French.
He taught me to choose the best verb, the best sentence to express my feelings and reveal my emotions of the moment. He instilled in me the art of juggling with the taxonomy of verbs and, subsequently, the choice of the best tense for conjugating them. He never stopped repeating to me that the solemnity of the moment required a faithful reflection of the recount of events, whether actually experienced or imagined. He taught me to reflect on what I was going to write before drafting and consulting.
He had the art and manner of transmitting his knowledge to me with passion and love. He took all the time for this patiently, never reprimanding me for a spelling mistake or when I rolled my Rs. He knew that by doing so, he succeeded in setting me on the right path for drafting, narration, pronunciation, and written and oral expression.
I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our staff housing at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes.
This is how I began to write short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved.
I also kept my personal diary.
My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write.
My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time of my life. For me, it was a way not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised what I produced in writing from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward.
My "vocabulary" capital grew day by day.
I had gotten into the habit of writing in one go, without resorting to a draft.
Now that I am nearing seventy, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me.
For me, there is nothing surprising, because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students.
May he rest in peace and know that his pen is in good hands.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
November 27, 2025
Share:
My Father's Pen
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/558759552
My Father's Pen
688
I have known it since I was young. My late father, then a school principal, gave me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966, to replace my dip pen, penholder, and inkwell.
He taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and how to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French.
He taught me to choose the best verb, the best sentence to express my feelings and reveal my emotions of the moment. He instilled in me the art of juggling with the taxonomy of verbs and, subsequently, the choice of the best tense for conjugating them. He never stopped repeating to me that the solemnity of the moment required a faithful reflection of the recount of events, whether actually experienced or imagined. He taught me to reflect on what I was going to write before drafting and consulting.
He had the art and manner of transmitting his knowledge to me with passion and love. He took all the time for this patiently, never reprimanding me for a spelling mistake or when I rolled my Rs. He knew that by doing so, he succeeded in setting me on the right path for drafting, narration, pronunciation, and written and oral expression.
I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our staff housing at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes.
This is how I began to write short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved.
I also kept my personal diary.
My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write.
My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time of my life. For me, it was a way not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised what I produced in writing from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward.
My "vocabulary" capital grew day by day.
I had gotten into the habit of writing in one go, without resorting to a draft.
Now that I am nearing seventy, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me.
For me, there is nothing surprising, because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students.
May he rest in peace and know that his pen is in good hands.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
November 27, 2025
Share:
My Father's Pen
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/558239532
My Father's Pen
710
I have known it since I was young. My late father, then a school principal, gave me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966, to replace my dip pen, penholder, and inkwell.
He taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and how to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French.
He taught me to choose the best verb, the best sentence to express my feelings and reveal my emotions of the moment. He instilled in me the art of juggling with the taxonomy of verbs and, subsequently, the choice of the best tense for conjugating them. He never stopped repeating to me that the solemnity of the moment required a faithful reflection of the recount of events, whether actually experienced or imagined. He taught me to reflect on what I was going to write before drafting and consulting.
He had the art and manner of transmitting his knowledge to me with passion and love. He took all the time for this patiently, never reprimanding me for a spelling mistake or when I rolled my Rs. He knew that by doing so, he succeeded in setting me on the right path for drafting, narration, pronunciation, and written and oral expression.
I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our staff housing at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes.
This is how I began to write short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved.
I also kept my personal diary.
My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write.
My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time of my life. For me, it was a way not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised what I produced in writing from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward.
My "vocabulary" capital grew day by day.
I had gotten into the habit of writing in one go, without resorting to a draft.
Now that I am nearing seventy, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me.
For me, there is nothing surprising, because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students.
May he rest in peace and know that his pen is in good hands.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
November 27, 2025
Share:
My Father's Pen
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/558137766
My Father's Pen
730
I have known it since I was young. My late father, then a school principal, gave me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966, to replace my dip pen, penholder, and inkwell.
He taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and how to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French.
He taught me to choose the best verb, the best sentence to express my feelings and reveal my emotions of the moment. He instilled in me the art of juggling with the taxonomy of verbs and, subsequently, the choice of the best tense for conjugating them. He never stopped repeating to me that the solemnity of the moment required a faithful reflection of the recount of events, whether actually experienced or imagined. He taught me to reflect on what I was going to write before drafting and consulting.
He had the art and manner of transmitting his knowledge to me with passion and love. He took all the time for this patiently, never reprimanding me for a spelling mistake or when I rolled my Rs. He knew that by doing so, he succeeded in setting me on the right path for drafting, narration, pronunciation, and written and oral expression.
I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our staff housing at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes.
This is how I began to write short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved.
I also kept my personal diary.
My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write.
My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time of my life. For me, it was a way not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised what I produced in writing from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward.
My "vocabulary" capital grew day by day.
I had gotten into the habit of writing in one go, without resorting to a draft.
Now that I am nearing seventy, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me.
For me, there is nothing surprising, because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students.
May he rest in peace and know that his pen is in good hands.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
November 27, 2025
Share:
My Father's Pen
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/557880158
My father's pen
807
I have known it since my young age. My late father, then a school principal, offered me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966. He thus taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French.
I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our official residence at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes.
This is how I started writing short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved.
I also kept my personal diary.
My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write.
My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time in my life. It was a way for me not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised my writings from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward.
My "vocabulary" capital was enriched day after day.
I had acquired the habit, to this day, of writing in a single draft without resorting to a rough copy.
Now that I am close to seventy years old, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me.
For me, this is not surprising because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students.
May he rest in peace and may he know that his pen is in good hands.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
November 27, 2025
Share:
My father's pen
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/556354050
✍️ My Father's Pen
922
I have known it since my young age. My late father, then a school director, gave me my first pen when I successfully passed my primary school leaving certificate in June 1966. He taught me how to hold it between my thumb and forefinger and how to improve my handwriting, both in Arabic and in French.
He taught me to choose the best verb, the best sentence to express what I felt and to reveal my emotions of the moment. He instilled in me the art of juggling with the taxonomy of verbs and subsequently choosing the best tense for conjugating them. He never stopped repeating to me that the solemnity of the moment required faithfully reflecting the narrative of events truly experienced or imagined. He taught me to think about what I was going to write before drafting and consulting.
He had the art and the manner of transmitting his knowledge to me with passion and love. He patiently took all the time for this without ever reprimanding me for a spelling mistake or when I rolled my R's. He knew that this way he succeeded in putting me on the right track for drafting, narration, pronunciation, and written and oral expression.
I often locked myself in my studio, which was in the garden of our official residence at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes. This is how I began to write small stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary sweetheart. I also kept my personal diary.
My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail high school, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write. My pen was a precious tool for me that allowed me to express everything I felt at that time in my life. It was for me a way not only to distract myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised what I produced in writing from a distance and had the art and the manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward. My "vocabulary" capital grew day by day. I had gotten into the habit, to this day, of writing in one go without resorting to a draft.
Now that I am nearing seventy, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me. For me, nothing is astonishing, because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an unparalleled teacher and school director who officiated for over forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students.
May he rest in peace and know that his pen is in good hands.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
November 27, 2025
Share:
✍️ My Father's Pen
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/554677286
Podcast#1 | Exposomics: Lifelong Environmental Exposures and Health Outcomes with Dr. Jacob Galan
952
During this conversation we explore the concept of the exposome, which encompasses all environmental exposures a person experiences over a lifetime. The discussion covers how mass spectrometry helps analyze these exposures and sheds light on gene-environment interactions contributing to health outcomes. We examine how environmental toxins are linked to chronic diseases and highlight how cultural and dietary habits shape individual exposure profiles. The conversation also discusses how artificial intelligence is transforming exposomic research, offering the potential for new health insights through advanced analytics.
We address the complexities involved in studying exposomics: the significance of protein structures, innovations in biological research methods, and improvements in mass spectrometry that provide richer data for analysis. Challenges such as finding exposomic markers and detecting elusive ‘ghost molecules’ are considered, as well as the interactions between environment and hormonal health—like changes in testosterone levels. They discuss the promising future of exposomics, focusing on integrating AI and biomonitoring to better understand and manage the real-life impact of environmental exposures on health.
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Podcast#1 | Exposomics: Lifelong Environmental Exposures and Health Outcomes with Dr. Jacob Galan
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/553954833
My father's pen
1002
I have known it since my young age. My late father, then a school principal, offered me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966. He thus taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French.
I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our official residence at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes.
This is how I started writing short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved.
I also kept my personal diary.
My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write.
My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time in my life. It was a way for me not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised my writings from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward.
My "vocabulary" capital was enriched day after day.
I had acquired the habit, to this day, of writing in a single draft without resorting to a rough copy.
Now that I am close to seventy years old, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me.
For me, this is not surprising because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students.
May he rest in peace and may he know that his pen is in good hands.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
November 27, 2025
Share:
My father's pen
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/552382329
My father's pen
1002
I have known it since my young age. My late father, then a school principal, offered me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966. He thus taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French.
I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our official residence at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes.
This is how I started writing short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved.
I also kept my personal diary.
My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write.
My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time in my life. It was a way for me not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised my writings from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward.
My "vocabulary" capital was enriched day after day.
I had acquired the habit, to this day, of writing in a single draft without resorting to a rough copy.
Now that I am close to seventy years old, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me.
For me, this is not surprising because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students.
May he rest in peace and may he know that his pen is in good hands.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
November 27, 2025
Share:
My father's pen
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/552377114
My father's pen
1013
I have known it since my young age. My late father, then a school principal, offered me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966. He thus taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French.
I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our official residence at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes.
This is how I started writing short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved.
I also kept my personal diary.
My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write.
My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time in my life. It was a way for me not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised my writings from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward.
My "vocabulary" capital was enriched day after day.
I had acquired the habit, to this day, of writing in a single draft without resorting to a rough copy.
Now that I am close to seventy years old, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me.
For me, this is not surprising because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students.
May he rest in peace and may he know that his pen is in good hands.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
November 27, 2025
Share:
My father's pen
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/552373679
Reflection
1025
🧘 Reflection
Throughout my life, what I ignored as covetousness came to me willingly, without effort.
And everything I sought to possess ultimately slipped away from me, despite reinforcements.
Life only shows its generosity towards the one who doesn't care and goes without,
It humiliates the one who clings to it and holds on relentlessly.
The fire that burns the soul is soothed and eventually extinguished by detachment...
So detach yourself, for the one who lets go easily ends up possessing.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
November 24, 2025
All rights reserved
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Reflection
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https://bluwr.com/p/552028434
Reflection
1108
🧘 Reflection
Throughout my life, what I ignored as covetousness came to me willingly, without effort.
And everything I sought to possess ultimately slipped away from me, despite reinforcements.
Life only shows its generosity towards the one who doesn't care and goes without,
It humiliates the one who clings to it and holds on relentlessly.
The fire that burns the soul is soothed and eventually extinguished by detachment...
So detach yourself, for the one who lets go easily ends up possessing.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
November 24, 2025
All rights reserved
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Reflection
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/547665214
🖍️ Colouring
1108
I left my time
And I was quite happy about it
to rejoin the past
in order to snoop around
to better understand my destiny
deep in my subconscious
everything I wanted to reach without being able to:
the list was truly exhaustive
I left my time
And I was quite happy about it
despite the hazards and the drifts
I wanted to sort things out
in my life
when suddenly bewildered
and without warning
I had the idea
of choosing coloured pencils
which were a sham in my previous life
because they were beyond my means in primary school!!!
I was conscious but reckless
I simply wanted to learn to decorate my world
to colour abstract shapes, square or round
to flee this unbearable daily life!!!
I left my time
And I was quite happy about it
To draw the moon in black, the sky in red;
To freeze time and everything that moves
To put horns on my donkey
Just to embellish its skull!!!!
to draw many flowers 🌺
on my bedroom door.
I left my time
And I was quite happy about it
All this really made sense to me.
And I thought about it with emotion
Today that I have the coloured pencils
a reality and not a sham
the desire has suddenly evaporated
and my dream is not realised
the inspiration is no longer there
Alas, I no longer dream....
Dr Fouad Bouchareb
Tuesday, March 26, 2019
@à la une
#Laune
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🖍️ Colouring
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https://bluwr.com/p/547662872
Reflection
1226
Throughout my life, what I ignored as covetousness came to me willingly, without effort.
And everything I sought to possess ultimately slipped away from me, despite reinforcements.
Life only shows its generosity towards the one who doesn't care and goes without,
It humiliates the one who clings to it and holds on relentlessly.
The fire that burns the soul is soothed and eventually extinguished by detachment...
So detach yourself, for the one who lets go easily ends up possessing.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
November 24, 2025
All rights reserved
Share:
Reflection
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/544789741
Reflection
1326
🧘
Throughout my life, what I ignored as covetousness came to me willingly, without effort.
And everything I sought to possess ultimately slipped away from me, despite reinforcements.
Life only shows its generosity towards the one who doesn't care and goes without,
It humiliates the one who clings to it and holds on relentlessly.
The fire that burns the soul is soothed and eventually extinguished by detachment...
So detach yourself, for the one who lets go easily ends up possessing.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
November 24, 2025
All rights reserved
Share:
Reflection
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/543755207
Reflection
1327
Throughout my life, what I ignored as covetousness came to me willingly, without effort.
And everything I sought to possess ultimately slipped away from me, despite reinforcements.
Life only shows its generosity towards the one who doesn't care and goes without,
It humiliates the one who clings to it and holds on relentlessly.
The fire that burns the soul is soothed and eventually extinguished by detachment...
So detach yourself, for the one who lets go easily ends up possessing.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
November 24, 2025
All rights reserved
Share:
Reflection
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/543734308
Reflection
1340
🧘
Throughout my life, what I ignored as covetousness came to me willingly, without effort.
And everything I sought to possess ultimately slipped away from me, despite reinforcements.
Life only shows its generosity towards the one who doesn't care and goes without,
It humiliates the one who clings to it and holds on relentlessly.
The fire that burns the soul is soothed and eventually extinguished by detachment...
So detach yourself, for the one who lets go easily ends up possessing.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
November 24, 2025
All rights reserved
Share:
Reflection
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/543567510
Reflection
1343
🧘
Throughout my life, what I ignored as covetousness came to me willingly, without effort.
And everything I sought to possess ultimately slipped away from me, despite reinforcements.
Life only shows its generosity towards the one who doesn't care and goes without,
It humiliates the one who clings to it and holds on relentlessly.
The fire that burns the soul is soothed and eventually extinguished by detachment...
So detach yourself, for the one who lets go easily ends up possessing.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
November 24, 2025
All rights reserved
Share:
Reflection
copy:
https://bluwr.com/p/543563687
Going Forward: An Exercise in Focus.
1942
It has been half a year since finishing the design and “publishing” my first modest game.
Find the link to the actual game at the bottom of this article. It's free, no download necessary.
The aftermath of Creating this game can be summarized simply: I still play and enjoy my game.
Nobody else plays it since I didn’t go to any lengths to advertise its existence. Which doesn’t bother me at all.
But it does go deeper than that.
The exercise of creating the game, writing down the rules and having people test it, along with the task of building upon the feedback with refined iterations of the rules, it all forced me to make a choice between my comfort zone and what lies outside of it.
I very much had the option to keep a functioning game recorded exclusively in my mind, and to keep to myself about it (or maybe blog about it). But instead I disciplined myself to produce a product that others can experience in their own way and on their own time.
There are two main take-aways from this choice:
1) Regardless of whether others do play the game or not,
I have created something that can “be pointed at.”
Something tangible, observable and measurable. This feels like hopping over a fence; I had made nothing before, and now I have made something. Going forward from here, this fact will not change regardless of what course of action I choose next.
2)I have felt the feeling of reaching outside of my comfort zone and subsequently expanding it by the smallest increment. Which means that going forward from here, while I may have unfamiliar territory ahead of me, the act of crossing into unfamiliar territory is becoming familiar. This is a great personal improvement overall and just like the first point, regardless of what I choose to do next, this will not change.
The next highly uncomfortable step for me at this time will be to promote and maybe even market something of my making. I do have a batch of ideas in that regard that are just waiting to be put into action:
- “try before you buy” weekly evening events at one of my local board games shop, which have the kindness of allowing people to self-promote their homebrew games.
- Attempt to contact Mark on YouTube (Riffle Shuffle and Roll) to see if he’d be willing to feature Bully Takedown on his channel.
- Another game I’m working on (ooh secret project) could be packaged as a prototype and pitched at conventions.
- The secret project could be, gasp, pitched to a publisher once it’s finished and packaged as a prototype.
- Eventually maybe I could even start posting on some socials, wincing merrily along the way.
Any of these steps are unspeakably uncomfortable for me.
Maybe that’s appropriate for pitching to a publisher or at a convention, but the others seem more accessible despite the disproportionate feeling of discomfort regarding those options.
This is where it all becomes an exercise in focus.
Clearly anxiety is hijacking my imagination and taking me into mental headspaces I have no business being in. As a wise fictional character in an animated movie once said: “focusing on what I can control here and now” will be the key to going forward.
I will be starting a dev log soon for the aforementioned secret project, to keep track of the creation of such a thing as a prototype.
Let’s call it Project Contraption for now.
As for the game I published, here it is below. It's called Bully Takedown.
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Going Forward: An Exercise in Focus.
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🏰 Sandcastle🏰
2076
It often happened to me that I would draw my dreams on quicksand
which ruthless waves, crashing upon the shore, came to destroy
to erase all hope
and preserve my setbacks
Yet, I was naive and unaware
My pretensions vanish and disappear in a few moments
My apprehensions resurface nonetheless
Consequently, I remain distraught for a long time
and cry over the ruins of the quicksands
Dr Fouad Bouchareb
All rights are reserved
Agadir, November 18, 2025
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🏰 Sandcastle🏰
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https://bluwr.com/p/529460949
Being a doctor...in my generation!
2105
Medicine was an art practiced without flaw
by a rare horde of people dedicated to their lauded work, who often remained stuck in the hospital
to be that lifeline of oxygen and life.
We remained clear-headed. We weren't greedy at all.
Our medicine, whatever anyone said,
and in all honesty,
brought honor and happiness. It was our reason for being. Without it, we would be nothing but poor people, ultimately given over to doubt
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
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Being a doctor...in my generation!
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Growing Older: A Joyful Perspective
2384
Growing older is not a pain in the ass.
No offense to the late Bernard Pivot.
Growing older is hilarious.
I would even go further:
Growing older is exciting,
it is soothing,
it is marvelous, it is fantastic, and it is rather reassuring.
Growing older is a boon and an unprecedented opportunity to watch your children grow up and grow old...
Growing older is a gift from heaven and a blessing from God to enjoy your grandchildren by playing with them, having crazy fun with them, and almost becoming children with them...
Growing older is marvelous and simply fascinating to keep seeing your childhood friends, to persist in joking with them, and to share memories and adventures experienced together...
Growing older is an ideal opportunity to discover other cultures, to travel, and to treat yourself again and again...
Growing older is becoming wise, it is sharing experiences, it is advising the younger and the less young...
Growing older is helping your neighbor, it is assisting others...
Growing older is the time to meditate, to dream, and to pray for this world that is becoming crazier and crazier...
Growing older is expecting nothing from others but responding to the expectations of others...
Growing older is being serene and confident in the future and never fearing what lies ahead or the bad tomorrows.
Growing older is being optimistic and always seeing the glass as half full.
Growing older is having faith and believing in the goodness of God, who alone programs all things.
Growing older is defying age and its wrinkles and its share of weaknesses, illnesses, and crises...
Growing older is facing life and its uncertainties...
Growing older is waiting patiently and serenely for the sound of one's own knell (or funeral bell)...
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
May 8, 2024
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Growing Older: A Joyful Perspective
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The Value of Authenticity
2577
This is our problem. 👌
What value does friendship have without sincerity?
What value does reading have without understanding?
What value does writing have without evoking emotions?
What value do words have without meaning?
What value does discussion have without logic?
What value does a smile have without pure intentions?
What value does a commitment have without loyalty?
Too often, we make friends without being sincere,
we love without being faithful,
we talk a lot without acting, and we promise without keeping our word.
Dr Fouad Bouchareb
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Agadir, November 15, 2025
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Complaints to God
3034
💔 Complaint to God
O, you who struck me with arrows of betrayal
And want me to understand the cause of the harm
You think the wound has been bandaged
And that I have moved past the injustice
And forgotten that its puncture is still bleeding?
The heart still weeps from its burning pain
Despite the passing of years and seasons.
How astonishing she is, and her audacity,
How she narrates delusions,
And how life increases its smiles for her,
And how her eye finds comfort in sleep,
And enjoys dreams,
And thinks she is receiving blessings,
While she is the one who humbled stature and nations.
So, to the Lord of the Kaaba, I pray and complain of injustice,
For her injustice was a bad omen,
Not blameworthy,
For she is an ill omen that does not deserve a word from me,
Not even a greeting, nor peace.
So, to God I complain and plead for a judgment,
For Glorified is He, He is Wise and All-Knowing.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
All rights reserved
October 28, 2025
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The Lost Necklace
3048
The Lost Necklace
How beautiful is your dentition
Which sparkles like a necklace of diamonds
So Desirable and appetizing
When I kiss you and embrace you
With fervor and grace
I savor your saliva like such fine milk
Where musk and wine mingle
O apple of my eye
O gift from the heavens
It is you I love and desire
Your presence is a true pleasure
What must I do to attract you and please you?
When you fled
My insomnia deprived me of your smile
Suddenly the gleam of the necklace eclipsed
And I found myself sick and lost
To the great dismay of my messenger
Will you return one day?
Will you keep your promise?
Who will transmit my poetry?
Perhaps one evening the South wind
Will bring you my message
Which confesses my feelings and my pledges
My sorrows and my misfortunes
And the slender hope
Of seeing the gleam of your dentition in the dark one day
Dr Fouad Bouchareb
Inspired by an Andalusian music poem
Quoddam El Hgaz El Kebir
November 8, 2025
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The Ultimate Dance 💃
3110
The Ultimate Dance 💃
He whispers to me during our waltz
Words and beautiful phrases
He holds me tight in his arms
And takes me into extraordinary dreams
And the tears from my eyes...
As if by magic, illuminate earth and sky
He carries me to all corners of the dance floor
In this sweet evening between music and choristers
And I, like a child in his hands
Like a feather in a trance to the rhythm of the refrains
He offers me the stars and the moon and his hand
He hums hymns for better tomorrows
He offers me the sun
He offers me summer and its warmth
He promises me years of happiness
He tells me that I am unique
And that I am worth more than all the stars and Sputniks
That I am a treasure
The best picture on board
His words intoxicate me
To the point of making me lose the rhythm of my steps
Words of love that I don't know
Which restore my implacable femininity
He builds me a sandcastle
That I inhabit for a few unforgettable seconds
Then I return...
I return to my table
Just with memorable words
Dr Bouchareb Fouad
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November the 6th, 2025
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Dreams
4408
Dreams
Every morning when I wake up
I remember my dream
I think I saw it in my dreams
I'm caught in a fear that eats away at me
And my heart is beating with fear and desire.
Unfortunately, the unfolding of my dreams is unremarkable
A collection of illogical events
All my memories with her fade like autumn leaves
who yield to the caresses of the breeze
And they ended up washing up on the ground wet with my tears
Witnesses of my misfortunes
I sailed against the winds and tides
Looking at the horizon
In search of a country that would inhabit me
But in vain
A kind of forward flight
It doesn't bode well
What memories born in pain
I apprehended happiness
I hoped with glow
I waited patiently
But it's been a long wait
Very long
Feeling the storm approaching
I hung on the mast
And then I landed at the first port of oblivion
I fell into alcohol and its alchemy
And suddenly my dreams resurfaced
I was shaking and not standing there anymore
And nightmares haunt my targeted nights
And replaced my shattered dreams
Dr Fouad Bouchareb
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October 24, 2025
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He thinks
4622
He thinks....
He thinks that in his nailed hands
I'm nothing but a toy.
I don’t think I’ll go back to him.
Today, everything has changed —
As if nothing had ever happened.
And with the innocence of angels from the skies
in the look in his eyes,
He tells me: I am the keeper of this place,
And that I am his one true love.
He brought me flowers.
How could I not accept them?
And all the naivety of youth
I found again in his gentle smile.
I no longer remember... the fire in your eyes.
How did I find myself in his arms?
I laid my head on his chest, proud,
Like a child returned to their father or mother.
Even my long-abandoned dresses
danced at his feet, all of them.
I forgave him… and asked how he had been.
And I cried for hours under his armpit.
And without thinking, I gave him my hand,
So it could sleep like a bird in his.
And I forgot all my hatred in a fraction of a second.
Who said I held a grudge against him?
How many times did I say I’d never return?
And yet I came back.
My return is wonderful.
To my first love.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
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Toulouse, May 29, 2025
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He thinks
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The judge of love
4429
Oh you judge of love
Be merciful to me
Don't condemn me until you've listened to me
I am a victim as always
I swear it out loud
She's the one who makes me sing
And play tricks on me
As before and always
And pretends to be up
Mr. Judge Believe Me
And before you say
and to judge me with your law
Remember, yes remember
That you too were mistreated
By your lover many times
And you felt what I feel
Despite your good faith
So be merciful to me
And do me justice for once
Otherwise in your law I will lose my faith
I was what you are, you'll be what I am
Dr Bouchareb Fouad
June 4, 2024
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Palace of the Kasbah
5158
Malaga, Palace of the Kasbah
Each time I wander there,
a strange phenomenon occurs
it seems I can hear the murmur of another age,
an extraordinary idyll,
from a past not so distant,
suddenly extinguished,
leaving a feeling of the unfinished,
of an era that left its mark,
of which Arabs and Moors still speak,
and nearly every spirit recalls
those of noble souls
and proud Iberian Spaniards.
In the gardens, I seem to hear melodious songs,
of lovers and beloveds
sharing cups of wine,
pure juice of the vine,
and mugs of beer,
behind stone walls
as if it were yesterday
sole witnesses of a past they hold dear,
hidden from the envious eyes of pawns,
to the great dismay of spies and the curious.
Suddenly rises the voice of a singer,
sweet and marvelous,
healing the wounds of every broken heart
that no physician, however wise,
had ever managed to cure.
O Andalusia, land of a glorious past,
of wondrous tales and shining episodes!
The Palace of the Kasbah still stands proud,
rising high through time,
faithful to its noble heritage,
awaiting the resurrection of its Caliph
and his courtiers.
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
The Palace of the Kasbah
Malaga, September 16, 2022
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Palace of the Kasbah
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Love!
5590
Love!
(Inspired by Jalal Eddine Rumi)
Love is destiny.
We hardly ever choose the moment to love;
It happens one evening… or one morning.
It comes by pure chance,
Leaving you confused and dazed.
The day you expect it the least,
You never saw it coming from afar.
It strikes in the blink of an eye,
Without an appointment,
It makes you gentle,
It makes you lose your reason.
It makes you flee your home.
Like fire, it burns with passion.
Love at first sight is common—
Each will have their share, their portion.
Without logic…
Yet it’s beautiful, despite all we endure.
It’s a pure feeling,
When it is sincere.
It’s magic,
It’s fantastic.
Despite its pains and sorrows,
Its sleepless nights until dawn,
It is life’s elixir,
Ecstasy without end.
It comes to you as if by magic,
Lifting you away from everything,
Besieging you from everywhere,
Taking over your soul…
And driving you mad, sooner or later!
Dr. Fouad Bouchareb
El Médano / Tenerife
August 24, 2025
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The Neighbor of the Valley
5308
The Neighbor of the Valley
(Inspired by the song of Fairouz — “Ya Jarat al-Wadi”)
O neighbor of the valley, O joy,
O turmoil of my soul,
Your memories and dreams haunt me still,
Calling me, claiming my whole.
In my dreams as in my waking mind,
Your love remains, ever near;
And the memories softly resound,
Echoes of a past still clear.
I passed again by the gardens,
So green, so full of life —
There where I once met you,
Upon that sunlit hill.
Faces and eyes smiled upon me,
And in their breath I sensed your scent.
My weary soul revived at once,
She who had mourned her fate
Since the day you went.
Never before had I known
The sweetness of a lover’s embrace,
Until the day I gently held you close —
You, the red-haired grace,
Whose supple form bent softly in my hands,
Like a slender branch swayed by the breeze,
And whose cheeks, out of modesty,
Blushed with tender unease.
The language of words fell silent then,
Yielding to the speech of eyes;
Mine spoke to yours
With the passion love implies.
The stars and the heavens, our only allies,
Bore witness to us before the skies.
And when night came, I held you again,
Caressed and kissed you
Until the breaking of dawn —
Before we drifted apart, forlorn.
Since that day, there has been no yesterday,
No tomorrow, no day after,
No time thereafter.
The flow of time has ceased forever,
And was condensed into that one day —
The day I basked in all your favor.
Dr Fouad Bouchareb
Rabat, October 11, 2025
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