- in the name of Allah -

I haven't written so 'frequently' in a very long time, more than I can remember. Why am I back here again? Well, I don't really know. Fate has granted me yet another twist in what is already perhaps one of the strangest novels of truth ever pre-written.

It isn't as if I had concocted hope from a kettle of remote possibility, but it was merely the aroma of of 'maybe', the links of commonality that created more intrigue than need for caution. It was nice to have. Where is it now? I'm not sure, but I am not far from where I began. My gut experiences a twinge of sorrow, an upheaval of infinitesimal dismay that over time I've come to regard as reality's herald. For one such as me, a nomad trying to find his way in life, there are few roads made of concrete, most are paved with dreams. It is, perhaps simply, not my in destiny to follow each and every dream that graces my conscience, but that may be wherein the beauty lies: I can know of a thing, become familiar with its core, and ultimately find a medium of laissez faire where it is better to see than to touch.

I am not fated to have (for now) that which may reach my soul so easily, that which moves me as Allah's will moves mountains - as easily as dust blown by wind. Many fronts and angles and directions appear to me, each wanting its own private audience; on one hand is rebellious defiance, preaching its discourse of near anarchy from every constraining fiber of my being; on another hand is a temperate breeze, who nods in wisdom at the coming of such an event and knows that the only path to take is the one that goes forward with self-moderation; and there are other hands, some of Satan, some of angelic origin, that propel me this way or that. But like all nomads, I have only to keep with the wind as it sails, away from one typhoon into the arms of another.