- 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.
1.16.2013
1.04.2013
- 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.
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.