- in the name of Allah -


Reading over the past words I’ve written, it’s pretty easy to see how up until now my destiny’s been scripted. Ask me a thousand times if I’d believe that some dreams could be impeded by glass ceilings and I’d tell you you’re crazy, but that’s precisely how it seems. Can’t predict a game much less life, tripping over possibilities with hardship the only thing in sight. But damn, how ignorant was I back then, thinking I knew how to handle people, knew how to give the words of comfort, when all I did was build black holes so other people’s dreams along with my own would eventually fold. Its wickedly fantastical how life seems to me now an eternally vigilant sabbatical, the shades over my eyes but for some damn reason I’m still not blind; I see clearly the pits and the falls but I go willingly without another motive to stir from an impetus of apathy, to the point where another claims its insanity. So I’ve come to know, from everything I’ve been through, what it is that I’ve learned all along: I’ve learned that I know nothing, that every assumption I’ve made is rooted in folly as it was probability all along without basis in the complexity of reality. As Nightcrawler once posed the question to Logan, would it hurt so much to see the world through different eyes? To maybe wake up one day in relief rather than having a feeling of pain inside. That could be my prescription right there, that what I see isn’t what’s really there but a mystery my subconscious loves to make as taunting for my fear. The can of worms opens and the sight isn’t pretty, notions of time and space go fuzzy as all becomes one in a senseless haze of panic strangely without worry. Words fail to describe how self loathing can carry a soul to its grave prematurely moping the loss of something never had but imagined, my world a visor of supposed protection dissolving away as the depths internal yearn for what has yet to happen. Maybe that’s the savior: the chance of a tomorrow effervescently ever-present, sometimes radiant, sometimes purgatory’s final descendant. Darkness consumes its own direction, as it can’t be sustained in a soul always leaning on idealism’s predilection. As the falling fall and become the fallen, strings from behind pull slowly, back to a point where it’s only a simmering cauldron. But what remains of those assumptions and theories?