- in the name of Allah -



It is among the most curious of oddities that I should ever be one to chase another's dreams, that I should take for my self and my own aims those held or imagined by someone else. Throughout my adult life, if I have been either somehow reminiscing over not having she-who-will-always-be-remembered, or I have been, in one way or another, trying to assert some sort of independence or distinctiveness from the collective hive-mind mentality that humanity (and cultures specifically) seems to propagate so well. From paths that others, notably family, try to lay out for me, I have rebelled and sought my own little sanctuary amidst the madness that is groupthink and (perceptably) mindless march toward uniformity in existence (ie all must walk the same path with the same routines). Maybe I am also subconsciously fighting the inherent boredom and monotony in those things, trying to find even in my earth-bound feet wings with which I might never stop dreaming. 

Some solutions for my case might be easy to implement, were it not for the fact that there is no pull for me here, no anchor in this mortal plane that can hold my ship stationary. I have always tried to resist the contemporary lures of men, of those things that bind and distract them (money, wealth, power, ego, etc). Some resistance works, some does not (particularly women, but I can blame that on biogenetics, right?). However, the result of the mostly successful resistance is that the common denominators for which men toil and trouble themselves (family, influence, children, etc), do not hold sway over me. Thus, because I cannot have those same kinds of anchors, I am much more likely to find myself adrift in this sea of ever-changing whim and wonder. 

Once upon a time, I had found myself an anchor, without actually realizing it of course. She was a wonder, not necessarily eye-catching to the untrained eye, but for one who had taken a peek into her soul, it was as if there was a supernova to watch, with me as its only observer. She knew me, called me an onion with many layers past which one had to peel (only much later did I realize: onions also cause one to cry by their nature, a telling notion I would think), felt with my own existence a resonance which I do not think fit to ever try and duplicate again.There was a certain degree of preciousness to the entire relationship, which was all too brief and full of reality's impositions, but a degree that nonetheless desired only its own preservation, at least in memory, of the innocence, naivety, dream, wonder, and bonds that two juxtaposingly complementary souls can share. 

What is there past this, except the unswerving dose of sobriety that reality can bring, polluting the whole of memories and trying to fixate its own path as the one worth taking?