- 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.
8.23.2013
8.18.2013
- 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.
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.
8.14.2013
- 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.
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.
8.03.2013
- 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?
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?