the slave's complaint

أَعُوذُ بِٱللَّهِ مِنَ ٱلشَّيۡطَٰنِ ٱلرَّجِيمِ، بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ

haven't forgotten, but it seems like some days are just floating, repetitions, reminders of objectives He's long seen fit to keep past the tips of outstretched fingers, some moments, resonance drops to zero, and i haven't any answers, losing sight of the questions, life and His qadr drowning out any semblances of what i would have chosen. 

the love i've found past couple years with His permission, suffices in the way a candle has a bowl to melt into whether or not its flame flickers or fades, whether i cast shadows on the wall or just imagine the sky was my aim, at the very least there is a minimum, a familiar ceramic to fall back into when the unresonated merely mimics being the old familiar foe of aloneness. i am not alone, but of the self, there are no places for me to pour in to, no bodies of water or flesh to intermingle in the same way i'd treasure and cherish...

there's something someone once said about, "sacrifice", and how when we accept or believe we've made it, it gives what's being given up a notion of sacredness, of something incomparably significant. i can attest this as true. my Moon is shaded, my Rabb sees fit for me so much of silence, ...when one such as the Twin i can't even tell is living, whether i was a mirage in her rear view mirror's existence, hated it is this apartness, can't even fathom in such instances my significance, and when such a question lingers when associated to a beloved, the hollownesses form their own substance, flowing in the veins unbeckoned, like pollutions of once-stated well intents.

cursed, perhaps, the pair of eyes that see potential unlived and unable to thrive, fuck this world is a mess of a hive, full of its bees imitating in least beautiful of ways what He made of nature, our honey is not sweet, rather full of poisons and fleeting imitations that bring forward our own demise. 

He wills me to live onward, wishes i suppose for me to continue asking, seeking, though He fashioned the road ahead and behind, fashioned the trials and gifts, fashioned the deceivers and liars, the wolves in sheep's clothing, fashioned every manner of instrument we could touch and thus turn into mechanisms manifesting greed and unsated desire, and the slave is intended to ask still, in this? this cesspool of avalanching inadequacy where the rulers are tyrants manipulating the masses and wills to their own intents and frameworks conspired? 

seems a stretch. if He cares not so for this life, the weight of a mosquito's wing it is said, then coolly ironic that humanity should face the smorgasbord of everything the opposite: so many instances where we must deliberate and discern, matters worldly and clawing at our attention, trying to dominate our concern. what always frustrates me most, my own ignorance, the limitation of sight whereby wisdom is never enough, where knowledge only insufficient for me, while random others He puts in places where the material at least is theirs for earning to provide. this test, this unending test, the catch-all simplification that conveniently encapsulates everything we're bound in, is just about never fair, the playing field is scarcely even, factors and actors from distances outside of fathoming pulling strings and so personal efforts are always thus pre-empted and encaged, how many dance to His tune, move their pieces on His board, unknowing the beginner's extent of how against them their fate was written? 

full of questions, absent answers, overloaded with ignorance, no matter how much is learned, it insuffices the inquirer.