- in the name of Allah -

 cloud 9

how many steps and stairs, bookcases stacked and ladders paired, would it take for me to once again, find my muse without being kept by ether razor-thin? I've wanted so often to take that journey, to find at its end my only abode, a place I've never been, yet a place I've always known. here I still chase that prick, that dainty thorn, that calls from within yet disappears once found, remnants laying seed, later as sadness to be reborn. the mortal coil, I've found, is to what seek a mortal foil, cherished thoughts burnt by worldly sun, as hopes once woven become by fated tapestry undone. it amazes me how every one around, takes in silent sip some secret, some self-told lie, an elixir for all their ills, perfect right before sleep at bedtime. to be not thus bound or weighted, a dream is all I'll seek, whether wisp or wind, in the midst of matter an atom alone, untainted and unscattered.

- in the name of Allah - 



just as every comet the flies across the galaxy, one day eventually finds its return path in orbit, so too do people also re-graze things they once knew as wholly as they once did. it occurs to me that I no longer am 'Nomad', a moniker for one always searching, ever restless, and aiming always to call a new place a home, at least for a short time. 

I belong, have always belonged, exactly where I am. though sometimes people make choices as subconscious reactions to stimuli in life, where and who I am are entirely deliberate aspects of my being. I always have time to re-examine myself, life, and the role I choose to have or not have within it. I chose to be with family after finding incongruity between me and the vast essence of sociality (something I'd rather call 'groupthink and otherwise doing what other people expect'). I have found a few who are not related by blood to me, but whom I can consider as close. maybe this is what everyone is always looking for, cognizant or not, of someone they can bring close to them and with whom they can share some meaningful resonance. I'd venture this is much easier than some expect, and more deep than most realize. often we distance ourselves from others, that this distance may serve as a shield from their problems and nuances becoming known to us, and that we may avoid the drama/hassle/discomfort such a situation would inevitably lead to. 

once upon a time, it was this way for me. I'd choose distance for the familiarity of what I already had, unwilling to bridge gaps made long by time. I find the reasons have changed, but my modus operandi remains similar: amongst people, family is at the top, followed by the few I've decided to get to know and have appreciated their camaraderie. as for those gaps in older relationships, I decided that it is better to let the past rest, then to be constantly reminded of what no longer is. there is no guilt or shame or malice underneath this motive, far as I can tell, but that I am not who I was before, and re-establishing those relationships automatically leads former companions to assume the past as a prerogative of the present - this notion is ludicrous to me, and unavoidable as people hinge on the past by nature and instinct. people change, they do not always desire the same things in the same way with the same attitude they have had in their past. time and circumstance force all to move forward, whether by choice or not. 

finally, why choose 'Dream'? it represents, for me, the last and final place that the creeping doom and malignancy of the world and all its corollaries cannot reach. I once knew a 'dreamer', who dreamed in fantastical, outlandish, magical things, those ideals seared in the core of every romantic's soul. love, emotion over pragmatism, at the root of ones who dream, is often the first victim of all human catastrophes, but the last one to ever receive aid or be noticed if missing. what I seek, and as it turns out, what I have always sought, is invariably beyond these mortal chains, something that I can only taste in dreams; thus my recourse becomes patience, that such bold visions may finally find their own canvas.

- in the name of Allah - 




sometimes we find that the very things a soul gravitates to are the very things that can cause it to slowly erode, bit by bit. recent experiences of hyper-contemplation coupled with a fairly unstudious nocturnal sleep cycle from last week have sort of put these things to the forefront.

the night is such a peaceful time, with none of the distractions and bustle and overpowering glare of the day. but it turns out humanity was not made for, and does not typically benefit from, an overindulgence of lifestyle that rises only in darkness and falls asleep only in night. even though one may speak of circadian rhythms, a thorough answer would add that souls need the physical light of the sun, and need to seek rest in the moon's dim shadow. it doesn't appear sensical at first glance, but my experiences recently and in times long past confirm it. 

perhaps my own variations can be traced back to this, in how my sleep finds itself turned end on end every so often, relishing in its ability to be variable and finding serenity and belonging in either state. this is a tenuous disposition. in rare moments of (relatively) perfect self-clarity, I can notice the strings around my soul, the places it wishes to go, what pulls where. at some moments I can even see the threads of other places/times/events/writing/etc. its like a crystal ball without the ball but a simple linking of cause/effect/interactions between a thing and the state it finds itself in. these perceptions are wondrous, but where is their practicality? ironically I tend to find this clarity when I have aligned with day, but some of the things I learn from it seem to fit only or be relevant to when I am aligned with night. maybe if I was half-awake at night and half-asleep during the day I'd find the zen meaning of this? heh, I wish it were so simple, but the thought intrigues.

part of my conundrums, I have thought, find their root in how I have difficulty assigning meaning to various aspects of life. valuing the intangible as much as I do, and giving high preference to those things which cannot be seen and/or measured, I find myself very much disadvantaged when trying to quantify the material and my (ideal) relationship to it, in context of its transient/whimsical/fleeting/speck-of-dust nature. how can one come to love a thing when that thing will doubtless turn to dust, failing its function and appearance over time? do shattered-by-time loves lost have any value or meaning aside from the residual and permanent pain they seem to leave behind? how can one seek money, when its value in market terms, changes daily? when what it can buy tomorrow may be half of what it can buy today? how can material wishes prevail when they are all destined, by reality (not by anything supernatural), to fade and lose color and be riddled with holes over time? how can mortals retain such attachment to things that resemble their own comparitively insignificant and short lives, instead of to those things which transcend time through representation of ideas and ideals, both immemorial? I cannot develop this attachment/need/desire/drive/ambition that compels most humanity to grind and grovel, cower from others or tower over them; my nature only grants value to the ideals manifested that will surpass and live beyond their mortally visible frames. where does this, where can this leave me with regard to my place in the world, the universe? does a soul such as mine have a role to play, can it act alongside other actors on the stage, to make the symphony worth composing? where is the script for such a nondescript vagrant? these are the voyages of the starship Nomad...its continuing mission to always seek out its purpose and place in life...D:

- in the name of Allah - 

how much longer need I remain in this abyss? its prisoner and guinea pig, passing others by, my role only left to wander? I know not how others live, how they themselves reconcile, a truth or past one cannot forgive, while fate makes a mockery all their whim and wile. how can I resume my old naivete, when all hope it seems, is built strong as dust, only to be blown away? how can promise's fire once again be lit, if the only thing for it to stoke, lies beneath an ashen pit, already smoked? how many more times can the hamster's wheel be turned, before hearts become as frozen tundra, impervious to any and all concern? how many more illusions need be cast, before love has but one meaning left: to crush in hand any dreams one can have, "reminders" of patience or vigilance, bitter dawns across horizons spanned? how many times can fate cry 'wolf' before those cries are deafened, arraigned by an avalanche of tears, when one's own sanity comes to be threatened? for some in life there may come a time, when only one thing need be lost, for all the rest to lose sense of reason or rhyme. it may be a child or spouse, a car or job, a savings or house, but once this tragic moment passed- nothing matters quite as it might once have. blame the person for being weak or unprepared, sure, but some refuse to relent in realities scorned. they carry wills of iron undraped by gleam or hope, resisting the rust of ambitions, while losing half their souls. a fair bargain? one is never sure, some bargains are struck while ill, uncertain if for them exists a cure.

- in the name of Allah -



there's not enough spaces, not enough hello's, not enough faces, in a world only shadowed, for a soul made placeless. footsteps and oft-beaten paths, wandering as Alice once had, found so many mirrors, just never the one, the looking glass. with these eyes I look and I look, and the only thing I see, is the temporal and skewed, both waiting by time and fate to be took. the wider the vision, the deeper the lens, the more impossible it seems, for me not to pretend. so much joy and work, fruit and labor, the sinews of it all, threaded together for the sake of savor. even as turns to ash, the ambitions of man, studded in jewels, dreams only a Midas might have, before his curse, bore him in perpetuity sad. love love, marry marry, toil toil, though comes the day, when time for all past is but foil. cherry trees, tempting and adorned, knowledge once forbidden, a long irony's serenade, soliloquies' lament since humanity's beginning. our place, as it appears to be defined, is to struggle and fight, close old wounds by day, and open new ones by night, to love and contemplate its loss, to restrict our instincts, while making valleys lush from barren troughs, to avoid the glance, if not then keep from touch, holding back from falling trance, alas if hearts found love (or lust). all our motivations, every single impulse, shrouded in innocence, designed or destined, naught but failure's instrument. give the mouse just a tiny piece of cheese, see how long it wanders in its maze, before it learns to say 'thank you' and 'please'. are even mice so doomed, that they seek not a home to be free in, plotted against by all, lured by threats of hell and promises of heaven? savor this, then, that I envy the mouse, such a simple brain, all to keep its purpose sane. it wanders with no doubts or quandaries, simply moving about where food is found to fill its need. for all our advances, for as far as we may progress, there is no turning back the fact: we are still humans yet. our lives are woven by never-ending sorrows, dreams that stretch past their common sense, knowing full well they may never see the 'morrow. we love that which cannot be had, find no solace in our reach, though food and family both such hands retain, a fool's bargain too often with our souls we seek. still, I would rather float upon the seas, or drift across the dunes of sand, than rescind my right to walk by different means. there is nothing here for me to be had, that could not reach my soul untainted, no object with its meaning kept, no hope to hold without its luster fainted. one may wonder, then, always, why breath fills lungs not shallow, why heart deigns fit to fill veins with blood, while the soul finds no footing, only a grave which it had dug.

- in the name of Allah -


..still wandering through this fucking maze, missing all that which I once craved, am I zombie or am I slave? reminisce over that lost innocence, where things were simple and I content, so many tragedies, miniscule yet catastrophically, pulling apart the foundations of my need. religion calls perpetually, promising that it'll save my soul, yet no guarantee fate won't rewrite my book, alluring at the start, but all of me is what it took, at end a glutton devouring whole. run, run, along those paths, where most others now their savings have, invested full while minds wander dull, accepting soft excuses, as to why their supplications' useless. "its a thing delayed", "its a boon kept in bundles warm", all to justify why life's a bitch, ever to be scorned,  no matter where one's stayed, whether mansions or in caves, any hope kept afar becomes soon depraved. trust, oh friends, is to me a two-way street, where things I wish and my hopes, may in solace meet, but once a wish is lost and blown to wind, there's no turning back the clock, a diamond's dust to grind the truth slowly in: all of what once was has now shattered, broken glass in further pieces, across my cosmos scattered. I've no desire to be an ant on God's farm, to bide my time with all my fellow insects, judged for my burrows, while life to me pays no respect. I'm no king (or queen), no father, no husband, no one with significance teeming, just a soul wandering alone, sick of the "trials" supposed to make men whole. damn this catharsis, damn the penitent to hell, their salvation was always undeserved, though with egos never swelled. with eyes that perceive only recurring travesties, there is no glimmer left,  in this meandering for me. time shall end and so shall I, dreamless sleep I hope, to accompany until dawn appears nigh. 

- in the name of Allah -

what of those ropes whose twists and knots don't aid or abet, whose twine becomes a means to choke and burn while its true dangers haven't even been met? how do these implements become less a strategic self-defence and more a path to sought-after refinement and lessons well-kept? as I once thought and compared both ropes and chains, I felt it fitting that one might be mistaken for another as they can end up feeling the same, purposes of which sight may be lost, unable to see past the meaning of catharsis as suffering often carries unyielding cost. it isn't enough for Sisyphus to keep pushing the boulder, as each dusk falls the task is no closer to being over, such is the inescapable tragedy pervading all the truths we want to sugarcoat with medicines and holistic sanity. even were in his world the absurd less opaque and divinity obvious in presence, it'd still be near-impossible to fully grasp the rhyme and reason behind the prevalence of hatred and rule by the malcontent. maybe if that boulder were tied not by fate to his arm or shoulder, but to the top of the hill to remain eternally still, not tempting or teasing of abyssal doom but of obstacles imminently firm and evidently reachable. such is the box of Pandora's that he must open, to endure the gloom within and create a path by which hope can finally escape in, but never have such simple boxes been more tenuous, even as the lid creaks, the phantoms start to chitter and chatter, chirping up at the thought of a fresh soul to swallow whole and devour. how many times will the tragic hero shutter the case, debating in endless the means versus worth of escape, of whether even if past that mountaintop there remains any thing or person or place equal to all the torture and pain? alas, such is the diamond-blade of hope, capable of sundering sheer rock but whose sharpened edge may as well cut tendons from limbs with only one step mistook or one word misspoke, avalanches ever threatening but always there as reminders why climbers live not without rope.

- in the name of Allah - 

how many compositions will I need to write, how much paper will I have to burn, to once again set these embers alight, to once again declare a lesson learned? how long can fumes fuel the flame, when all the wind has blown away, and life has all the torches tamed? could there be any such catastrophe, that one breathes it in again and again, a monoxide to steal away all one's dreams? imagine from this the state of blissful sleep, pouring away all the troubles of pasts un-lived, leaving no cracks in which phantoms may creep. I've had many such moments, alas but with eyes open, where the path I'd taken, was only one the Nomad could've chosen. it had so many thorns, not sharp or pointed, only unkempt truths too long avoided. had I to repeat that choice to let her go, to allow the winds of fate to blow their way, I'd make it all the same, even if I was to be but her astrolabe. how then could one, who'd tasted of a thing so great so little, dare or care to risk the heart again, when he knew the balance of life was a thing so fake, so brittle? for the ones born worldly poor, for the ones who needed truth and nothing more, there is no concurrent alchemy, to extract from earnest blood a means beyond gold or metallurgy. intentions alone cannot pave the roads, stoic hearts cannot tell clear from cloudy skies apart, and such is where my chasm lies, that within these truths, I could not have tasted love a little more, before from me it left to die. 

- in the name of Allah -


What would clouds be without rain, if no drops fell to earth, how would grasses grown green, where'd love blossom if not from hurt? why don't shadows ever complain to lights, how they aught to be seen more, whether day or night? no, each taking turns in the spotlight, playing their parts on stage, like fine wines never to be drank, adorning the covers of life's games. alas for roles, these never seem to have ending, each person or purpose, needing endlessly to be attended, whether refined or raw, whether hare or tortoise. how many patiently dawdle, time dwindling, looking for merriment or marvel, finding neither but distractions aplenty with truths entombed in sparkling marble. my ticks never tock for the social, no external needs impressed onto mine just because someone else's drink needs flavor or some rogue needs a purse to swindle, nope, my clock chimes only for reasons mine. in this I find no acceptance from any, though I desire it not I seek it somewhat as by nature intending, reflexively unadept at melding two discordant forces while neither has means or motive meshing. I envy the sky and the winds, the birds and the rain, they get to be free and fly and soar without weight or imagery imagined but untamed. gravity, amongst other such propensities, is an archnemeses waiting for Atlas or some such mythic figure to swoop down and carry meniality away from my dreams. laugh I must as life breaks each and every such candle I put to flame, that I mould but one more to breathe away its final wisps and resume this ever-tiresome refrain. onwards this pattern goes, in but infinite shades and hues, until my bill is paid and my soul finds what it has all along felt due.

- in the name of Allah - 

numero deux 
 
 were I able to turn back time, going back to those precious moments, when lights were still brightened, when torches carried purpose, I'd still untie your boat, let your raft drift free, for though well we paired, I had not coin with which to forge your destiny. I knew then not nor even now, which path is mine to take, for nothing's glowed as much, since my dream (you) was put to stake, thus I wander these shores an aimless ghost, with luggage only to remind, of that which haunts me most. let irony parade, let sarcasm fly, for all the inkwells dried, could not form you from memory into mine. there can be no consolation, for such a mighty loss, only a brighter light to outweigh the darkness, a new pain worthy of hope's steep cost. what damned me then, damns me still, may damn me til the end, were all those prayers and tears that I'd spent, wishing I had some left had they not all disappeared. it may one day prove true, that I was saved a worser fate, or reserved a far-away delight, yet in my mortal eyes, I can see but loss, of one thing for which I'd truly try. so many promises, so many hadiths, so many hopeful whispers said in bed before sleep, it seems all I have are empty hands, but its true, ghosts have no shape, how can their words have any meaning too? 

 

- in the name of Allah - 


As another Ramadan rolls around and that peculiar time of the year is once again here, my dissonance between the present and my past looms as large as ever. Muslims are truly such curious people. They believe in beautiful, sometimes fantastical ideas, yet when it comes to the integration of such beauty into the world in which they live, there is a sort of disconnect, as if they expect that the image of everything and everyone they see will or somehow should reflect that inherently out-of-place idealism, without actually processing the reality of what happens around them in life. Take for example as divorce, one of the saddest realities facing the modern world. Muslims seem to emanate a belief that it is an impossible, ever-distant concept, something that could never pervade their perfect little castles of world-belief. Yet all too often reality comes along to crush these antiquated and utterly naive notions into dust. Not just this, but there is also an expectation, similar to the American Dream concept of the mid-20th century, whereby the notions of "white picket fence", "2-3 kids", and "9-5" job first gained widespread popularity, an aspiration everyone aimed for and achieved, according to the myth perpetrated unto the children of the baby boomer generation. Everyone thought they could simply follow the protocol of going from Pre-K > Kindergarten > Elementary > Middle/Junior > High > College > Graduate school > house > Marriage > kids > etc, and that there would always be jobs in the economy to support this trend, no matter how many decades it lasted. Alas! All quotas must one day be fulfilled as job sector growth could never keep up with the influx of every succeeding graduating class, and it is unfortunate that the (immigrant) Muslim generation has realized(?) this fact a decade or two too late. One of the biggest dangers of idealism is that it can effortlessly weave itself into delusion at the drop of dime, without anyone becoming the wiser. I would posit that Muslims today are the most susceptible classification of people to this vulnerability. Perhaps it is an ingrained trust in Allah that is taught as to be a bit of an opiate for harder times, when things aren't looking up, that people need not open their eyes to the truth but weakly hope that somehow these problems will solve themselves. I'm not sure most people know how to differentiate between what is truly tawakkul (reliance upon God) and what is actually an opiate in different form being taken to simply dull of the pain of harsh realities. For the record, I do not know how to make the distinction myself, it appears just too eerily familiar that one is the same as the other, so I try to avoid needing either to quell anything I may feel. Consequently, there is the result of me choosing to be who I am today, a highly disillusioned, disenchanted, disenfranchised, utterly cynical Nomad wandering his own desert because this barren world absolutely has no warm pastures for him whatsoever. Part of the frustrations I have with Muslims in today's world is that I see in them foolish and naive idealisms that I held once in myself (somewhat paradoxically, I still love dreams and believe that the child-like innocence with regard to knowledge and the world is the most precious elixir in existence), and I cannot stand to see who I was in the mirror, that ignorant fool who expected so much (in reality, it was maybe 1-2 things in all out of life: the girl, maybe the job and own place to go with it) yet due to timing being a bitch could never could see that dream come to fruition. Life happens, but everyone reacts differently to loss and none can the take the role of judge for someone else's fate. Given my rocky road at the present, how likely is it that I can once again see and believe again in great and fantastical things being within mortal grasp? (the immortal grasp has never been in question, it is this world and this world alone with which I have always had serious beef - so as a relief I can still count myself with those who believe in Allah...anything less than this and truly, the universe may as well implode :O 

Sigh. Ya Rabb, guide me to You, but make this road exceedingly easy, with many pit-stops along the way so I can find my way and get directions when I need to, ameen. 

- in the name of Allah - 


imagine the tears of trees who would weep if they could speak, telling stories of how their sisters and cousins faced bedlam and assassins by the dozens, how much green have they seen fall to earth, endured the leaves as they turn to dust and vanished with time and hurt, such a cruel fate it must have been to stand silent, unable to scream or whisper while axes and death were rampant. just as easily as all those countless leaves fell of their once-wholesome trees, do vanish and crumble the dreams of any who grow old in reality's teeth. I must find again those precious seeds, the essence of life and purpose all rolled into one neatly stacked paper sheet, processed and procured, yes, but its example eminent as a product through hardship refined and assured.

- in the name of Allah -

Sometimes when writing it is easy to forget that not everyone has an insider's perspective, that metaphors or language used with its intended meaning in mind can be interpreted differently or missed altogether by those on the outside looking in. It's a distressing thought when writers have the awareness of it (that is, when they emerge from their thought bubble and remember that in fact other *people* will be reading what they write). It's with this in mind I will try to elaborate my present mindset and give the universe some clarity as to why I insist on being me and nothing else. 

From the outset, it should be obviously stated: I take things, every thing, much more acutely than most people. I "sense" subtleties in language, word choices people make, inflections in their speech, body language, delays in response, and various other kinds of things that may or may not be actually present, and not all things are sensed immediately, some happen after reflection at some later point in time. I'm not some super-genius when it comes to these things, I just process them very much, occasionally too much. 

The best way to understand that would be the expression: "walking on eggshells". If people (white people mainly, I've noticed) walk on eggshells, then I would hear the sounds the cracking makes (metaphor intended). Not only this, I wouldn't ignore the cracking as most people would be prone to do: instead, it would consume me to try and discern the motive behind this reluctance on the part of another, to try and understand why they would feel this way. Most often the case is people are afraid of confronting hard truths, especially in the case of others, but ironically most when concerning themselves (this kind of self-delusion is probably a worldwide epidemic). 

When you have a personality that natively processes things (events, culture, politics, etc) at either an acute or macroscopic level, and then combine that with a desire to comprehend anything or anything deemed mysterious, well you have a recipe for something very, very strange: me! When certain truths are reached in life, every person faces a challenge as to how to react to them. You might deem some of my perceived truths as imaginary or self-created, but they are 99% evident for the most part. I will draw the caricature of a few truths for clarity's sake.

One of my biggest peeves over the years has been the notions of culture, how it forces people into obtuse and obscure and irrelevant traditions simply for the sake of "its how its always been done". To take a personal example, the culture of my parents, who immigrated from Pakistan as first-generation Muslims in America some decades back. Being prone to reading between the lines, it was never really hard for me to see the kind of culture that was, the kind of male-dominated patriarchy where knowledge of truth was relegated below the level of 'political correctness' or what was deemed fitting respective of someone's level (ie someone of status was given more leeway with regard to getting away with things, with the inverse true for the poor or less fortunate = in short, clout and the worth of human beings was assessed by the amount of land/wealth/male children they possessed). If you told someone old school from this culture the color of sky as blue, if they had some interest in the opposite being true, they might try to pull some insane, utterly vague and useless argument to convince you otherwise that they were still right. As if this tendency wasn't frustrating enough, the level of nepotism and societal decay is compounded by this kind of thinking, part of the reason why the Pakistani government is so riddled with corruption and no one can possibly fix it (because the culture itself has been broken, for quite some time). 

Back to the point, how was I to resolve myself (my lineage being irrevocable) with what I saw in front of me? To go even further down the rabbit hole, I had the split of the "East" and the "West", notions developed only by people who couldn't think of any better labels lol. Part of the East was the Muslim part, which tried to establish harmony and take solace in the notion of "take the best of both worlds and leave the rest" - a most beautiful notion if I ever knew one! But alas, reality never plays out as fairy tales. To be able to pick and choose, really as if human beings had such a choice: we will be who we were 'meant' to be, as our personalities always have been, gravitating towards the very things our souls pull us to, regardless if our minds were deluded enough to think such trains would not reach their station. Nope, they will. It is a matter of time before anyone who is truly a liar comes to lying, before a preacher's true skin shows and his pedophilia emerges, before the true colors of the snake reveal themselves. Whether one is truthful or not, whether one would compromise principles for the sake of dollars, whether one would give their own blood and sweat and tears for ultimately futile pursuits, whether the object of true loves was chased in vain, all of these will come to pass for each of us, in spite of howsoever we try to fool ourselves. 

Given that inevitability, I cannot express the full amount of disgust and repulsion I feel when I hear about the idyllic sermons and lectures and advices of Muslims with claim to knowledge here in the 'West'. They continue to try and espouse something innately beautiful, Islam, in a manner wholly insulated from the land in which they physically live, pretending that their problems are so easily boxed and shelved, simply by saying a few words, the vast differences between their morally-centered way of life can be rescued; impossible to be so easy! Part of me shudders at the apparent naivete of the "religious" people these days. They keep on living, walking, breathing, laughing, going about their lives as if they have no idea of the chasm that lies at their feet, that what they apparently love so dearly has so much at odds, in some basic levels (capitalism vs morality, who knew), with the very place they call home. I'm no stranger to delusions, having had to fight off my own for so many years (losing a first real love to 'real life' being a primary stimulus), so I can tell when they are being pushed aside rather than dealt with or accepted. 

All of that leads me to my current frame of mind: where or how can I fit in such a world? Few things are as they seem, truth so often bent to fit people's immediate needs and desires, countries led to destruction on the basis of mercurial economic whims that may change from decade to decade (see: Afghanistan vis a vis Russia/US). Is my need for survival for great enough that I can mentally overcome these inconsistencies and forgo them for presently greener pastures? It doesn't look like it, hence the root for all of my recent writings, perhaps the story of my life. 

Alas !

- in the name of Allah - 


underneath the moon

just as passing shadows on a midnight summer's eve, cast forth by clouds finding still their road by heaven's leash, my breath calms to winter's tune, now at last opaque with respite given form both false and true. as prior puzzles procure their pause, sight is bronzed in darkness, with eye each eye obscured by willing gauze. crooks and cheats have such simple paths to follow, either evasion of authority or greed of riches ringing hollow. but those who care not for the means of such labels, nor the sordid deeds of their requisite, find in questioning their staple, an endless search for the unenviable perfectionist. ideals, those grandiose things of fancy, pursued by both kings and paupers, but damned to hell by human fallibility, mistaking for gold mere shiny coppers. how often must cry the sun, to see such potential wasted, as each morning rises, but yet people with its light, move still in patterns aimless. accrue all the coffers and counts, levy the ledgers and lists, but be ever certain to revoke the rights and make rife the rifts. ironic indeed, one that might envy the shadow, might envy the ghost, whose legend is safe in books and histories foretold the most. so much hope, wrapped up in burdens, prayed not to sink its sailor's ship, alas for wisdom lost or never had, that smarter moves were not made than this. not all shores remain as bright as mother's lands, some siren songs turn out too strong, unwrapping from serenity's gift the final strands, as with pandora, hope is all it ever was, or ever had.

- in the name of Allah -


Almost 3 months, yet it feels like much longer since I last wrote. Maybe I can put into words again my present state and fill in the gaps between then and now. 

The inevitable gulf of disillusion between how I see the world and how it is wont to be reflected by a semblance of "Islamic" idealism seems to grow only larger. Just as the conflicts on the world stage, namely middle eastern and african, seem only more grinding and endless. The world just slips farther and farther down the rabbit hole of its own desires and destruction, as selfishness replaces virtue ad inifinitum and ultimately those who care can do little else besides defend their own little corners of the pie. 

It is strange, there is no sense of depression I have in myself, as I might have in times past. There is only a growing sense that the bridge between what I see and what I long for will never be built for as long as I draw mortal breath. This leads me to finding myself almost entirely absent any true wishes or goals of a worldly sense. The irony is, I cannot even long much for a blissful afterlife at this point; the fabric of the heart which allows it to stretch and encompass any or all impediments to its desire's fruition...looks to be ripped beyond repair. For me, if I cannot long for a thing, I find myself unable to follow the road to its acquisition or have sight to see it clearly. The most basic gift in this predicament is the fact that many of my most intrinsic qualities align by nature towards a fairly religious, 'virtuous' tint. So that most whatever good I find myself doing is because it is what I would myself ordinarily do, not a self-commanded compulsion towards a commandment from Allah.

Part of the issue has always been a strong sense of not quite belonging in this place, in a world where not only do injustices roam free uncontested, but also when cultural dispositions are too deeply ingrained with personal egos, so that a previously well-intentioned act or idea is tainted with a baser human-ness. For years past counting, I have been an opponent to culture and the kinds of things it imposes on people who make claim to it. A few times, I thought I had won the war; to my dismay, those small victories were merely battles, and now looking over it all, I see that the vastness of culture will win out far longer than my short lifespan. It will win the war. 

And so, my place as I see it diminishes beyond anything I can share or show others. My little corner of the universe isn't very large or difficult to describe, but when a person's aspirations become so far and distant from those around him, then there is no convergence on the roads of understanding, only a series of re-appearing forks. I have subconsciously (and now consciously) adopted fairly asocial/aloof tendencies, presuming that because the road I take is not one that can be shared, pitstops of socially-constrained visitation are superfluous. There are some inevitable exceptions, such as family and those I encounter in work/life. Epiphanies do still come, though perhaps more rarely now, but it can supposed that such as one to lead me from my disillusion exists and may yet follow.

Still, the name of 'Nomad' could not be any more fitting. 

- in the name of Allah -


?

I am a man of sticks who dreams in stone, often of wishes with sins washed, seeking in gloom a glimmer to gleam like suns in eons past have shone. Sometimes parables and metaphors hide inside my meanings and make understanding as treacherous as trap doors, but such is the beauty of words- some capture light while some shine darkness without reserve, leaving the one watching outside puzzled or perturbed. Still, why write letters in sequence if not to find and bring meaning to their existence? To have an elevation from simple things, leaping past the cosmos and into the hearts of human beings. We look up at the stars, imagine whole other worlds, yet see ourselves in all of these, looking without fail for companions and the divine to fill in the missing parts to our souls. My path meanders more than most, brim with contradiction, at times defeating my own intentions, yet clarity to all this confusion brings closure and serenity pure of delusion. I haven't yet found the dance I must do with this world, how each we must pattern our steps and cajole our turns out of twirls, but mastering my own self seems to have become the best road-map I could ever have discerned. Thorns abound and allies have been left behind, but visions expand and allow me to see what was destined to follow the present in hand. Creatures such as I, who wonder and wander in imagination seeking solution to life's all-to-acidic equation, have not many near to hold close, but the precious ones for certain are dear to behold. Forgive me, old friends of mine, I've gone forward in my time without some of my past to carry on my back, I'd have none of those implicit decrees to concur with some circle's whim on how to be. In this our sight likely differs, each seeing alternate patterns and shades from life's leaves, but as seasons change so do the hearts of men when finding out who to be.

- in the name of Allah -


A new year, yet I see such similar spins on things.



A Fish With No Bowl

while wells run dry and and lake beds turn to fields of dust, shrinks the world from a vast, flowing space to a patch of barely growing shrubs, deprived of life but still colored green, struggling to capture moisture and sun while vultures soar overhead, eyes sleek and gleaming. not every thing living found its path in peace and carefree seeming, many are those struggling to breathe, to lift heads above sand and from storms simply fleeing, no chance to worry about any decade of tomorrows, not enough seconds in minutes to see the sparkle of stars in skies and catch in glee their glimmers. alas for me to find myself in a world of losers and winners, where one consumes another to eat and sleep and stay warm in winters, I question my own tendencies, wondering the source of their ambivalence, whether chemical or neural or something of my soul inherent, where are the next steps if one felt "hell is other people"? if souls are sold without even knowing what made them whole or really in them? looking only with eyes and keeping shutters on hearts, opening doors but keeping from mirrors so far apart? once I imagined this to be misanthropy, but for people I have no hatred, only a sense of sadness and pity, for the world to be so spacious yet with vision so tunneled and specious. ironic words from the mouth of a fish roaming its imagination, lost from the bowl it once called home and now finding many paths to ruination, but it knows that somewhere, far out past the rivers and streams and lakes now all dried in their place, lies its ocean, a beautiful treasure holding safe all the hopes-that-once-had-been.