بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ

swear i'm still alive, still breathing, even as at times i want to let go of what gives me meaning, like a weathervane, with wind just oscillating me between the poles of salvation and dissolution. i can feel the heart sometimes beat, sometimes rush back to me, but what is my welcome gift? who is next to me that i may share? my Gift a bit ways off, soon iA she should be here, but life won't stop me imagining how scattered i've become, pieces eroded into the ether, with all i can't control always at front and center of attention. my self is whom i must overcome, not dive back to sleep when prayer's time rolls in, my threads, my ropes, not quite as tenuous, as when i last faced the abyss a decade ago: when i tried to reassemble the love of all lifetimes from the shards of the soul, but it's nearly as climactic as seeing my life's record echoed and scripted on doctor's notes, thus undying hopes of touching even a tiny part of love before i die became as simply one more unknown. my solidity is melting, ghost that i have always seemed, though once my Moon sparked me back towards life, perhaps unintentionally, reminding me of the goal of Firdaus i must keep, even less worthy i may be, for me to try surviving for now until Then, survive this in-between.