- in the name of Allah -
there are moments when no rain shines, when no sunlight falls, when every glance outside is competition, between being free or in dementia's thrall. life just wants to close its curtains, or open them and tease potential with no fear of consequences, but seems like the farther I try to see the sooner the near makes me stumble, mind a telescope but need of plain glasses to see what everyone else knows is common-sensical. sometimes this is a dungeon, at others plateau, all limbs chained to the wall, or sight blinded by a wall of things it already knows.
not as complete as I thought, most of me is here but some pieces still partial, trying to hold a cup of blown glass wrought without a handle, so easily whats inside falls away the moment it gets hot or cold - a tale read without ability to imagine or mold. the coup de grâce of ironies: most often the heart remains silent and I'd rather it be so, than let the pitiful state of what's outside become a closer thing than already it shows. no chance to mourn Alice, there's no glory down this rabbit hole, adventure be damned, just keeping sane at times the only path that forward goes.
12.27.2016
12.26.2016
- in the name of Allah -
"The living Aiel had only stopped singing over their dead a short while ago, haunting songs, sung in parts, that lingered in the mind.
Life is a dream—that knows no shade.
Life is a dream—of pain and woe.
A dream from which—we pray to wake.
A dream from which—we wake and go.
Who would sleep—when the new dawn waits?
Who would sleep—when the sweet winds blow?
A dream must end—when the new day comes.
This dream from which—we wake and go."
"The living Aiel had only stopped singing over their dead a short while ago, haunting songs, sung in parts, that lingered in the mind.
Life is a dream—that knows no shade.
Life is a dream—of pain and woe.
A dream from which—we pray to wake.
A dream from which—we wake and go.
Who would sleep—when the new dawn waits?
Who would sleep—when the sweet winds blow?
A dream must end—when the new day comes.
This dream from which—we wake and go."
12.22.2016
- in the name of Allah -
it might be those few written words are the last earthly ones from her I ever read, a memoir of all that came before, summed together neatly as the veins in a leaf. Allah knows the order to this Pattern, things falling in place even when to our eyes purpose looks all but lost or scattered.
perhaps those words are not the final mortal stroke, perhaps as yet I may still find some droplets condensing, extracting from the thinnest of airs a truth unending and unbroken. visions of tomorrow whirl amidst the possibilities, as rain to quench the drought and thirst of a soul trapped in a body it cannot yet leave.
sometimes I see those rivers underneath, flowing fast or slow in rush beneath our feet, imaginings without hindrance from every corner peek, just tips of bliss wrapped in dreams lived out in every moment's scene. crowns or glories, jewels or brocades, of every type in every shade, for purposes or fancies, both, to be pleasing made. among the moments in eternity I will treasure, to have you know a promise made was a promise kept forever.
it might be those few written words are the last earthly ones from her I ever read, a memoir of all that came before, summed together neatly as the veins in a leaf. Allah knows the order to this Pattern, things falling in place even when to our eyes purpose looks all but lost or scattered.
perhaps those words are not the final mortal stroke, perhaps as yet I may still find some droplets condensing, extracting from the thinnest of airs a truth unending and unbroken. visions of tomorrow whirl amidst the possibilities, as rain to quench the drought and thirst of a soul trapped in a body it cannot yet leave.
sometimes I see those rivers underneath, flowing fast or slow in rush beneath our feet, imaginings without hindrance from every corner peek, just tips of bliss wrapped in dreams lived out in every moment's scene. crowns or glories, jewels or brocades, of every type in every shade, for purposes or fancies, both, to be pleasing made. among the moments in eternity I will treasure, to have you know a promise made was a promise kept forever.
12.15.2016
- in the name of Allah -
Sometimes being me is like being a tuning fork, tapping silently, softly against anything and everything and seeing if any matter in existence has a sympathetic frequency. Just that the older I get, the farther it all seems to get away from me. Most don't have the care or patience to understand, even want to understand things, the way I might find the most joy in. With good reason, life goes by nearly the speed of light and such things take up time they'd rather spend on something more applicable, more profitable, more worthwhile. In the dawn of this new age of men, I've long felt a relic of bygone eras, ironically coupled with other vast reasons for the general out-of-placeness I've know nearly all my time living. So what does one born in the wrong century, the wrong millennia, do? After a point the heart and soul shut off externalities, almost like it's all white noise, fluff taking up ear space. Such a place is almost like being in outer space, beyond ice cold, nearly 0 kelvin where everything in between neurons starts to freeze too. Not particularly exciting, but definitely more problematic when the goal held needs so much vigilance, tending to. Alas that this road I need to make through has me crossing the path I hate to reach the point I love. What else could make it worth it I imagine, the saltiness and sheer scale of irony is truly amazing, breathtaking, palpable like a heartbeat. But that's what it is, the undercurrent of the road I have to walk to reach where I want to reach. To swallow the agony of distance, of not knowing both the state either of us are in and if my bones stay cohesive long enough to make over the bridge, this is part of how the picture of my destination, surrounded by all the things one dislikes, shapes out to be. No matter how often things tend to freeze, I'll just try to slip and slide my way across the rink and find you a pair of skates while I'm at it, iA.
Sometimes being me is like being a tuning fork, tapping silently, softly against anything and everything and seeing if any matter in existence has a sympathetic frequency. Just that the older I get, the farther it all seems to get away from me. Most don't have the care or patience to understand, even want to understand things, the way I might find the most joy in. With good reason, life goes by nearly the speed of light and such things take up time they'd rather spend on something more applicable, more profitable, more worthwhile. In the dawn of this new age of men, I've long felt a relic of bygone eras, ironically coupled with other vast reasons for the general out-of-placeness I've know nearly all my time living. So what does one born in the wrong century, the wrong millennia, do? After a point the heart and soul shut off externalities, almost like it's all white noise, fluff taking up ear space. Such a place is almost like being in outer space, beyond ice cold, nearly 0 kelvin where everything in between neurons starts to freeze too. Not particularly exciting, but definitely more problematic when the goal held needs so much vigilance, tending to. Alas that this road I need to make through has me crossing the path I hate to reach the point I love. What else could make it worth it I imagine, the saltiness and sheer scale of irony is truly amazing, breathtaking, palpable like a heartbeat. But that's what it is, the undercurrent of the road I have to walk to reach where I want to reach. To swallow the agony of distance, of not knowing both the state either of us are in and if my bones stay cohesive long enough to make over the bridge, this is part of how the picture of my destination, surrounded by all the things one dislikes, shapes out to be. No matter how often things tend to freeze, I'll just try to slip and slide my way across the rink and find you a pair of skates while I'm at it, iA.
12.04.2016
- in the name of Allah -
One of the most striking pains I've ever felt is when I'd be talking to a best friend or else someone very close to me, and while relating something that they couldn't understand, there was a sense that some barrier was there between us. To try and be understood, and yet fail in the attempt, to be blocked off from closeness because what I said was too different...how do words encompass this? I can empathize easily enough with others, account for their emotional/psychological states, but when it comes time to have such a resonance for myself, it evades me. There was a time it didn't, and Allah willing a time it never will again, but still life provides ample tests for me to stay wary: Like a wrestler not yet out of the ring but mind hazy enough to think it is, or like a rabbit racing from a hawk thinking its given up the chase, never seeing the shadow till it looms too close.
SubhanAllah there is no human feeling quite like resonance. I would call it the epitome of "love", but that would assume I understand enough of love. Not quite, never as much as I'd want. I suppose this underlies one of my primary motivators for Firdaus. To know again those frequencies, this time in their most perfect harmony. I have found it impossible to explain some things in life to another who hasn't felt it. How could one describe the sweetness of a mango to one who'd never tasted it? The feel of snowflakes to one who never touched them? In this way, my cage becomes most poignant, the need for sabr once more eminent. May Allah make it easy on me to keep the road to Him, ameen.
One of the most striking pains I've ever felt is when I'd be talking to a best friend or else someone very close to me, and while relating something that they couldn't understand, there was a sense that some barrier was there between us. To try and be understood, and yet fail in the attempt, to be blocked off from closeness because what I said was too different...how do words encompass this? I can empathize easily enough with others, account for their emotional/psychological states, but when it comes time to have such a resonance for myself, it evades me. There was a time it didn't, and Allah willing a time it never will again, but still life provides ample tests for me to stay wary: Like a wrestler not yet out of the ring but mind hazy enough to think it is, or like a rabbit racing from a hawk thinking its given up the chase, never seeing the shadow till it looms too close.
SubhanAllah there is no human feeling quite like resonance. I would call it the epitome of "love", but that would assume I understand enough of love. Not quite, never as much as I'd want. I suppose this underlies one of my primary motivators for Firdaus. To know again those frequencies, this time in their most perfect harmony. I have found it impossible to explain some things in life to another who hasn't felt it. How could one describe the sweetness of a mango to one who'd never tasted it? The feel of snowflakes to one who never touched them? In this way, my cage becomes most poignant, the need for sabr once more eminent. May Allah make it easy on me to keep the road to Him, ameen.