- in the name of Allah -


Alhamdulillah, I got the chance to talk to the friend referenced in my last post. We levelled things out, and eventually I could find nothing at fault in his observations. If I see a blue colored fish and I call it a different shade, am I wrong for calling it as I see it? I do not think that is the case, so what's done is done, and iA we both move forward with better understanding.

In other news, my dream machine PC is finally finis. The OS finally got activated, after some hassle with the product key (why a new, legit key would have issues is anyone's guess). It looks so awesome just sitting there, now I wonder what I'll use it for lol, games?!, but surely there's something out there, more productive, that could use all those gigs of RAM and giga's of CPU hertz. It's all good. I find lots of gratification in simply being a collector sometimes, even if that which is collected is not often used. Can it not exist or be held simply for the sake of what it is, without being tied to purpose? Just a reflection of my persona there.

I've been thinking of writing something entitled "This World and I":

a wisp on the wind; a leaf blowing away while the cold forces its way in,
carried aloft while flapping its wings; dreams, nearly lost, starved and paper thin;
paths they've tarried seem not like ones I can follow, ambitions they have seem
to me but foreign and hollow; loving the dollars and cents, grasping for power and
pence; my hold on this ground is tenuous at best, any moment its liable to give way
letting me be free of its gravity and at last finding of rest; I don't have the internal
flicker or frenzy, to prize myself for honor or respect to eyes not of mine directly;
my naysayers may say nay till they've reached their death beds, their words were
only ever echos from places unpaved, apparitions of coffins left unclosed; alas,
this understanding leaves me little company, outside of culture and a stranger to
society; I might reach here and there for someone to understand me, but too
often those attempts remain doors shut, holding par in the stead of tragedy; really
I find it to be about wavelength, never finding another one with the same strength,
hitting or missing, games of Russian roulette going on in the head; fortunately for me,
games they remain, never costing me an arm or leg, but simply a heart I can only
pay willingly; it is the price of admission after all, one can never be half-cocked or
stand half-tall; inevitably, my orbs turn to the future, a future I can't imagine,
studded with beauty and happiness at levels I can't quite fathom; a Hur, perhaps,
one I might toast with a wine hitherto unknown, delicious and peerless, beheld by
one with a glow, laced in silk, a sight befitting of thrones; such is the road painted by
my imagination, a thing this world could never offer without being strangled in
limitation; conformity is all they ask, a gift I can never give, enormous is its price,
when all I long for is without fetters to live.