Echo

أَعُوذُ بِٱللَّهِ مِنَ ٱلشَّيۡطَٰنِ ٱلرَّجِيمِ، بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ

 

 

some days words come to mind, waiting to be written, but there's no pen at hand, no keys near to be typed on, so they whisper to the wind, whisper to their Rabb, of matters wish i fully understood, but incompletion is like the permafrost of life, even when it's melting, even with the warming globe, some wisdoms remain hidden from us, even when obvious is how matters seem to unfold. have to restrain the nafs, find contentment in the wait, between periods of sufficiency, sandwiching moments that seem as frail and frozen lakes. i know He holds all my vision, encompasses its every shade, from joy to madness unrestrained, all held firmly in place, so i teeter not on that brink, walk not close to an edge, try to realize the limits, and keep back my limbs from not listening, though parts do scream, painting landscapes and scenes, sometimes everywhere in the mind, then taunting me with their captured unrelease, so then my blood flows but has no outlet, no brush to manifest the canvas, and i am real but it seems made of something not able to savor worldly substance. i know, even if ever something i said or did, didn't make sense to you, you'd still understand, still grasp it, because you grasp me, and to be held and beholden, not as slave but lover so bespoken, that is our treasured aim, our rarefied wish, to find company in that cloud, when this life is so grounding, at times so devoid of joy and mirthless; company of the Muse with her Spark: this, the apex of what it means to be as human.