- in the name of Allah -
I asked for truth and knowledge and wisdom, being quite unprepared for the answer. what I found were the shackles of humanity's existence, the depths of everything permeated by injustice, inequity, corruption. we chose not when we would be born, how we will die, whether fortune or famine finds us. we chose neither parents nor childhood. every system that exists here, does so for our subjugation and enslavement, wearing whatever guise of good or ill it fancies. our history is littered with example: once mortal beings achieve power they seek only to ensure they keep it, that wealth becomes theirs, that those of lower status serve them to run their engine of industry. our laws and governments find most of their architects and puppeteers from amongst those who run the engines. institutions and purposes such as philosophy and sciences and arts all now kneel to the forces of economics, if it exists to further those ambitions then it is allowed to remain, else it is discarded in favor of something termed pragmatic or practical. economics, better described as the engine itself, only serves to keep itself going, that those who have wealth may accumulate more and more. if it did not serve this function the greed of men would do away with it until another more suitable system was found to fill the role. brilliant though it is, it appears only as a black hole to the ones who see the chains and aligned with ideals. the gravity from such a thing is so immense, so consuming, it tears apart most anything that ventures close, so long as that object has been torn from its illusion. for the ones who carry still their imaginary dreams and goals, the well never appears so dry or bleak.
on the one hand you find the deceivers consumed in hedonism, promising any lie that could possibly be imagined if only to become one of their company. a vast number of these lies are so blatant, so preposterous, they become known as lies soon as their utterance passes the lips. but for most people, it becomes easier to live with lies as they can be fashioned as comfortably and safely and seemingly benignly as possible. why focus on the ridiculously difficult truths when a million different distractions exist coupled with the ever-prominent consumption of intoxicants, allowing quick and easy dissociation from those truths? for their only virtue, I would count it being that these deceivers are so apparent. whatever means tried to disguise the truth it remains the truth if one removes all notion of fear or intrinsic bias. that is to say, if one has nothing to gain or nothing to lose from observing the most basic, unencumbered nature of this truth, it should be possible to keep seeing it, regardless of what coverings may drape it.
on the other hand is found the inexorable pill of faith, loaded with caveats about unknowable things such as the future and the penultimate wisdom that invariably surrounds all events. it promises equity in a future time, that all wishes will be granted, that all bridges sought earnestly will be built, in return for passing through a mortal existence fraught with peril and no control. what is missing here is certainty. one can walk the best of paths and find no salvation at their journey's end. many, many promises are made in return for willing submission to the creator's will, but there is no guarantee anywhere that any of those promises will ever reach fruition. the one and only salve offered by all of faith is hope, something you find in abundance when dreams can be dreamt but something scarcer than life in a graveyard when dreams have died. what can one who has seen both ends of this spectrum conclude? to have found a thousand promises empty, then what? how can one who hoped with all of hope and lost it all find again those dreams to be nurtured by faith? is the deja vu simply inescapable?
at the very very least, when dealing with deceivers I can accept and understand I am being fed lies, so there is no real issue with whatever consequence arrives. but the travesty of placing hope in faith and finding it barren, to be left wondering what was real or destined or imagined, being left utterly uncertain beyond imagining, what the hell can I find after this? is what faith shows the truth or a lie or whatever it wants to show me so that I follow a long-scripted road? it pulls so, so many strings, from the moment of our conception and creation, humanity was created in weakness and fault and desirous of self-destructive things. the very nature of our existence is corrupt, we corrupt the land, our hearts, the skies, every single thing we touch or even imagine becomes tainted- because that is how we were made. then we are told to climb an Everest's Everest of mountains to attempt to overcome our nature and find purity and light and truth. but the books do not mention the ever-present rockslides and avalanches and pouring mud and lava that will torrent down its slopes. so, not only was humanity created weak and singly incapable, but then the summits we are to climb are rigged to their utmost trying to destroy any who would dare the climb. the ironies here are suffocating, the call to rise while being given a broken and handicapped chess board to start with, entirely slanted with every fiber of the mountain rebelling with every step higher. the rock face quakes with the truth of reality, yet the only thing faith offers is that pill...trying to silence and subdue the pain, but it was the pain that reality and the climb itself created!
as if that aspect of reality was not enough, there is yet more. I would hate to have been born a female. imagine the hundreds upon hundreds of years of marginalization, of historic discrimination immediately attached at birth, long before a single choice of your own was made, to have been pigeonholed by so many civilizations and cultures as baby factories and home-makers, but especially being categorized as mere objects created for the amusement and endearment of men. what could possibly make that any worse? that the female nature appears created so it favors indulging the attention, that it was made to encompass adornment in all facets, almost expressly for sake of trying the hearts of men. when I try to conceive the disillusion a woman must feel over this, what she must face from the very beginning of her creation and being, I cannot fathom it. if I felt caged and helpless to direct my fate in the way of my choosing, then what must a woman feel, she who was caged at birth, who was raised to fit a particular purpose without any prior understanding or choice almost like an animal at a farm waiting for slaughter, before she could develop even an inkling of rational thought? how might she react to the ridiculous roles and burdens and stereotypes society thrusts upon her without any wrong or instigation on her part?
I have no answers to these questions, no answers to any of them. once I had a singular dream that I chose to let go, perhaps because I felt there was no path for me to make at the time where I could bring it into reality. since that era, I have slowly slowly found less and less in life to ground me, less and less I want to call home, less and less I can become attached to and find meaning in. when I was younger, the idealistic part of me decided that ego and ambition were too easily the tools of destruction, so I discarded them. thus, I've never really felt the need to ever prove myself to anyone, to have a serious, inborn competitive ambition to be more than others. I have always and only been me, from the days of ignorance into light into darkness, just me. you might call this depressing. there's no way to argue with that: reality is truly depressing if you open all the shutters and windows and doors. still, there is something I value- my parents and family, the ones who have always stood by me, always (eventually) accepted me regardless of what I was worth or what heights I reached or in what depths ensnared. their love for me has always been unconditional. it is probably the only reason I have not fully caved. the only reason at all.
as for the blog, I've noticed when things are going good and upbeat and positive and uplifting is when people tend to respond to posts more often. alas, this blog has not been that for years. I suppose if I cannot serve as a beacon to light, the least I can do is not be a signal to others into darkness either.
11.24.2014
11.03.2014
- in the name of Allah -
For most of my life, I had taken comfort in the notion that what was meant to be was meant to be, and what wasn't, was just an illusion the soul gravitated toward as a result of its own nature. As of late, this comfort no longer exists.
Humanity is such a fragile species, perhaps the most fragile of all in existence. Changing with the passage of seasons, responding with severe bias to heat or cold, needing to maintain not only a relatively stable ecosystem but also needing to cultivate internally-accepted notions of morality or causality, so that the wheels of the mind do not spin out of perceived control. It is likely, as one philosopher once put it, that religion plays a major part in this construct, in keeping the veneer of the human condition standing, by acting in some ways as an "opiate for the masses". Religion gives people hope when times appear bleak, shows them a path for redemption when guilt overcomes them, makes promises to them when the future seems uncertain. For much of my life I partook of this medicine, not out of fear or need, but because it aligned with my soul. My heart was with my religion, seeking the same things it did and responding as it would have. Then, life threw me a curveball, a pitch I never saw coming, never understood until I swung at it and missed so completely, I was left utterly bewildered. It was after that moment I began to fathom the true frailty of being human, of how completely one's hope can be self-consuming, that if left unfulfilled, it shatters the meaning of every neighboring constellation in a person's galaxy. If religion promised the objective of one's soul as reward for its acceptance, I never quite found it. And if that was never found, then what meaning was there left with religion? Did it wish for me to once again place within it my hope, leaving to chance what may become of whatever remained of myself? Incredible, and likely, impossible. An investment was once made, with basically 100% of available capital. Everything was lost from that investment, the goal and the hopes accompanying it. Some notions of consolation would have me recall some gibberish about things meant to be, or, about some good delayed or ill averted. How useful are these notions when one has nothing left to invest in them? How much meaning can they possibly have? The pain is not erased, the totality of what happened remains vivid, how then can such delusional thoughts be given any credence?
It is distinctly possible that this ordeal may serve as proof against me as I am judged. Ironic, isn't it? The ones who live and the ones who suffer should furnish the court with their own blood and tears the very evidences used in their conviction. If that is not cosmic irony, I don't know what is. To be created only to be destroyed over and over a thousand times till infinity. To be given from fountains of ambition or desire only to be instructed on living as ascetics. When will these ironies end, the cyclic tragedies of being human ever cease?
For most of my life, I had taken comfort in the notion that what was meant to be was meant to be, and what wasn't, was just an illusion the soul gravitated toward as a result of its own nature. As of late, this comfort no longer exists.
Humanity is such a fragile species, perhaps the most fragile of all in existence. Changing with the passage of seasons, responding with severe bias to heat or cold, needing to maintain not only a relatively stable ecosystem but also needing to cultivate internally-accepted notions of morality or causality, so that the wheels of the mind do not spin out of perceived control. It is likely, as one philosopher once put it, that religion plays a major part in this construct, in keeping the veneer of the human condition standing, by acting in some ways as an "opiate for the masses". Religion gives people hope when times appear bleak, shows them a path for redemption when guilt overcomes them, makes promises to them when the future seems uncertain. For much of my life I partook of this medicine, not out of fear or need, but because it aligned with my soul. My heart was with my religion, seeking the same things it did and responding as it would have. Then, life threw me a curveball, a pitch I never saw coming, never understood until I swung at it and missed so completely, I was left utterly bewildered. It was after that moment I began to fathom the true frailty of being human, of how completely one's hope can be self-consuming, that if left unfulfilled, it shatters the meaning of every neighboring constellation in a person's galaxy. If religion promised the objective of one's soul as reward for its acceptance, I never quite found it. And if that was never found, then what meaning was there left with religion? Did it wish for me to once again place within it my hope, leaving to chance what may become of whatever remained of myself? Incredible, and likely, impossible. An investment was once made, with basically 100% of available capital. Everything was lost from that investment, the goal and the hopes accompanying it. Some notions of consolation would have me recall some gibberish about things meant to be, or, about some good delayed or ill averted. How useful are these notions when one has nothing left to invest in them? How much meaning can they possibly have? The pain is not erased, the totality of what happened remains vivid, how then can such delusional thoughts be given any credence?
It is distinctly possible that this ordeal may serve as proof against me as I am judged. Ironic, isn't it? The ones who live and the ones who suffer should furnish the court with their own blood and tears the very evidences used in their conviction. If that is not cosmic irony, I don't know what is. To be created only to be destroyed over and over a thousand times till infinity. To be given from fountains of ambition or desire only to be instructed on living as ascetics. When will these ironies end, the cyclic tragedies of being human ever cease?
11.01.2014
- in the name of Allah -
In life, not every thing is meant for every person in similar measure. There are those who can consume enormous amounts of food and not gain weight, while others gain weight from even the smallest of meals. Then there are those whose experiences can help shape them into role models or reformers of societies, despite those experiences being tragic or horrifying; conversely, there are those who never knew adversity or its meaning, yet became the worst linchpins of industry and politics. The same things for different people can have starkly varying effects.
For one person, to love might mean stepping into a shallow pool with no risk foreseen. For someone else, to love meant diving into an abyssal trench at the very bottom of an ocean, facing constant threat of drowning or blindness or loss. Can any impartial observer say that love is equally fitting for both of them? It wouldn't be possible, would it? Some things, if felt too deeply or taken too far internally, can simply carry too great a risk for one person than most others. There isn't a cure, either medicinal or spiritual, for a matter such as this. It is simply an inherent aspect that an individual has, akin to being born with a specific gene than cannot be spliced away due to its inconvenience or tragedy or stigma. For one such as this, they can only be reached or discovered by others through sonar, as they must live at a different depth than most, a depth far down enough to suffocate the pain and avoid hearing the sound of joys in which they cannot share.
In life, not every thing is meant for every person in similar measure. There are those who can consume enormous amounts of food and not gain weight, while others gain weight from even the smallest of meals. Then there are those whose experiences can help shape them into role models or reformers of societies, despite those experiences being tragic or horrifying; conversely, there are those who never knew adversity or its meaning, yet became the worst linchpins of industry and politics. The same things for different people can have starkly varying effects.
For one person, to love might mean stepping into a shallow pool with no risk foreseen. For someone else, to love meant diving into an abyssal trench at the very bottom of an ocean, facing constant threat of drowning or blindness or loss. Can any impartial observer say that love is equally fitting for both of them? It wouldn't be possible, would it? Some things, if felt too deeply or taken too far internally, can simply carry too great a risk for one person than most others. There isn't a cure, either medicinal or spiritual, for a matter such as this. It is simply an inherent aspect that an individual has, akin to being born with a specific gene than cannot be spliced away due to its inconvenience or tragedy or stigma. For one such as this, they can only be reached or discovered by others through sonar, as they must live at a different depth than most, a depth far down enough to suffocate the pain and avoid hearing the sound of joys in which they cannot share.
10.03.2014
9.26.2014
- in the name of Allah -
On Rain
Even on days dry as summer leaves, or when echoes from guns fill the autumn breeze,
Even when war tears apart the peace, or when famine quells potential in its bosom brief,
Thereafter always comes the rain, to wash away in steady rhythm, the blood and pain.
Even on days dulled from stifling winter cold, or when laughter rings from tragedies untold,
Even when greed rips open unhealed scabs, or when nature takes its course from wrath,
Thereafter always comes the rain, to spell the sorrow, as in a silent pictured frame.
Whether in drizzle or downpour, maelstrom or monsoon, for any season not in tune, there's always rain to envelop the mood, a steady cleanse of humanity's grief, soothing wounds whence they could only seethe. Inevitable as wind, unkempt by needle of compass or whim, rain rides the waves with clouds just barely heaving, until a time comes to unload the burden and release what's within. Always falling, always wet, giving life to both soil and soul, no matter the presence of decay or regret. Rain restores and shines, joining with the light of sun to sprout rainbows from gloom or grime.
- finished on 9.26
On Rain
Even on days dry as summer leaves, or when echoes from guns fill the autumn breeze,
Even when war tears apart the peace, or when famine quells potential in its bosom brief,
Thereafter always comes the rain, to wash away in steady rhythm, the blood and pain.
Even on days dulled from stifling winter cold, or when laughter rings from tragedies untold,
Even when greed rips open unhealed scabs, or when nature takes its course from wrath,
Thereafter always comes the rain, to spell the sorrow, as in a silent pictured frame.
Whether in drizzle or downpour, maelstrom or monsoon, for any season not in tune, there's always rain to envelop the mood, a steady cleanse of humanity's grief, soothing wounds whence they could only seethe. Inevitable as wind, unkempt by needle of compass or whim, rain rides the waves with clouds just barely heaving, until a time comes to unload the burden and release what's within. Always falling, always wet, giving life to both soil and soul, no matter the presence of decay or regret. Rain restores and shines, joining with the light of sun to sprout rainbows from gloom or grime.
- finished on 9.26
8.24.2014
- in the name of Allah -
In the grand scheme of things, my place is actually quite small. What a great relief! As goes my place, so are my personal concerns few and clear. In great contrast to the giant storm this world won't stop leading itself into, a perspective that finds me grateful to my Rabb that I can still see after all this time, after all my contradictions. Even when one's own grand purpose isn't clear, meaning and value and worth can still be found in the most mundane of relationships and connections. These are the most precious aspects of life, the ties that connect our descent into this existence with the path that leads us out of it.
Why have I adopted 'Rain'? It is something I have always loved, found quietude and solace in. Maybe in my present evolution, it represents my state most accurately without any standard deviations. My past hasn't changed, what I lost then has not been regained. But I have concluded that, in keeping with 'me', I must allow the love from my past to persist onwards. I won't let it fade into ether, a consequence of choices and the paths this world carves into us. Nope, that love will remain mine for as long as I live, perhaps finding the yang to its yin in a more beloved incarnation. Dreams are nice as well, the bedrock of our soul and cornerstones of the heart. Alas though, it's possible to become lost within a dream, potentially fated to never discern real from illusion ever again. I can't have that, not if I can help it. Who could I be if I wasn't always trying to find the truth?
In the grand scheme of things, my place is actually quite small. What a great relief! As goes my place, so are my personal concerns few and clear. In great contrast to the giant storm this world won't stop leading itself into, a perspective that finds me grateful to my Rabb that I can still see after all this time, after all my contradictions. Even when one's own grand purpose isn't clear, meaning and value and worth can still be found in the most mundane of relationships and connections. These are the most precious aspects of life, the ties that connect our descent into this existence with the path that leads us out of it.
Why have I adopted 'Rain'? It is something I have always loved, found quietude and solace in. Maybe in my present evolution, it represents my state most accurately without any standard deviations. My past hasn't changed, what I lost then has not been regained. But I have concluded that, in keeping with 'me', I must allow the love from my past to persist onwards. I won't let it fade into ether, a consequence of choices and the paths this world carves into us. Nope, that love will remain mine for as long as I live, perhaps finding the yang to its yin in a more beloved incarnation. Dreams are nice as well, the bedrock of our soul and cornerstones of the heart. Alas though, it's possible to become lost within a dream, potentially fated to never discern real from illusion ever again. I can't have that, not if I can help it. Who could I be if I wasn't always trying to find the truth?
7.04.2014
- in the name of Allah -
It's been a few days since Ramadan began, but all I find is an ever-increasing discordance between myself and what role I am/choose to play in 'life'. The things that this deen has always called me to, a moral compass, temperance, patience, justice, wisdom, essentially all the ideals I hold dear, seem so at odds with what reality I find playing out before me, like a broken record that will not stop playing its tune.
For my own sake, the sake of my sanity, of holding things in perspective, I will delineate what I see as the roots of this misanthropy. We (humanity) had no choice in our creation, no choice in our existence, and no idea what road each of us follows. We are given a plethora of means to calm and subdue our fears and ignorance, platitudes labeled variously as 'faith' or 'hope' or 'science' or the like, sometimes even a medicinal approach is taken, all in an effort to blot out the dissonance between how we find reality as being and what we imagine it aught to be. Some of us will live as 'sinners' for all our lives, only to have a 'change of heart' or an 'epiphany' at our death bed, thus to be granted salvation. Lovely, such apparent mercy. Conversely, some of us will live our lives as 'saints', only to have our 'true colors' revealed upon time of our death, thus sealing fate of damnation. What a crazy trifle it can be, eh?
For most people (I presume most since I don't know of any who walk the path I do), this is not a big deal. There are infinite ways of disguising the malaise, which manifests either physical or spiritual, as most either seek conformity/order or hedonism/desire. What happens when one inherently seeks neither? I could answer this with, "me", but that doesn't help explain or describe this point of in-between I seem stuck in. I suppose being an observator doesn't help matters, taking consistently the approach that gives me the widest angle with least bias. It's like seeing the whole of humanity as stuck in a giant maze, lab animals who are to be occasionally poked and prodded and zapped, until we find the right door in the maze to proceed further until its end...an end I conceive like a huge morsel of cheese. Or like an ant on an ant farm, slowly making tunnels until we find our way to the surface, only then to realize the roof is still shut and that's just how big our universe is, because, well, that's just the way it is, being ants and all. We're given all the means to our salvation in one hand, and all the means to our destruction in the other. What results when you take those two together? I find only chaos, unpredictability, irrationality, ultimately nothing but ignorance.
A common refrain is that 'who are we to question our Creator', or 'what else can you do' (ie 'except run the wheel like a good little hamster'). I will never have enough knowledge or understanding, at least in this mortal life, to legitimately question my Creator, but that does not and cannot stop my soul from instinctively reacting like it's been placed in a very strong base, constantly looking for me to donate my electrons, only problem being that I'm not acidic enough and so there isn't much of myself, if anything, that I can give. Just as no one can question or cross-examine the pain a finger feels when stabbed with a needle, it is just an instinct the soul has, an implicit reaction to its environment, a reaction immune to moral dissection. As for the second refrain, I have no clue what can be done for it. Other than the occasional struggling to comprehend and angst arising from an inability to do so, there isn't much room for maneuvering.
Among the ones who would steer clearest of this rabbit hole, I expect some notion like 'think of science or only the tangibles'. What a call that is. I love science, it endlessly seeks more knowledge, to correct and refine itself until it can arrive at some irrefutable certainty for any given field or subject. One thing science can never do, however, is be used to prove a 'moral right' or give justification for anything other than naturally-observed phenomena. The very second science is used to cross that line, the worst kinds of terrifying human delusions become suddenly plausible (ie recall the pseudo-science used by Nazis in their propaganda war, so that they could rationalize their bigotry and xenophobic arrogance). So, politely to such sane suggestions, I would have to say no; 'science' cannot clarify this boiling cauldron.
All of this only brings me back to where I began, seeing no solutions, only questions, questions so colored with my experience of loss, that I sometimes see only clouds even on the clearest of days. Is there a way to manage this precipice, without forcing one's self to indulge of its coping mechanisms? Can a line be drawn even if the sand cannot be felt, or worse yet, gets blown away by the slightest of winds?
It's been a few days since Ramadan began, but all I find is an ever-increasing discordance between myself and what role I am/choose to play in 'life'. The things that this deen has always called me to, a moral compass, temperance, patience, justice, wisdom, essentially all the ideals I hold dear, seem so at odds with what reality I find playing out before me, like a broken record that will not stop playing its tune.
For my own sake, the sake of my sanity, of holding things in perspective, I will delineate what I see as the roots of this misanthropy. We (humanity) had no choice in our creation, no choice in our existence, and no idea what road each of us follows. We are given a plethora of means to calm and subdue our fears and ignorance, platitudes labeled variously as 'faith' or 'hope' or 'science' or the like, sometimes even a medicinal approach is taken, all in an effort to blot out the dissonance between how we find reality as being and what we imagine it aught to be. Some of us will live as 'sinners' for all our lives, only to have a 'change of heart' or an 'epiphany' at our death bed, thus to be granted salvation. Lovely, such apparent mercy. Conversely, some of us will live our lives as 'saints', only to have our 'true colors' revealed upon time of our death, thus sealing fate of damnation. What a crazy trifle it can be, eh?
For most people (I presume most since I don't know of any who walk the path I do), this is not a big deal. There are infinite ways of disguising the malaise, which manifests either physical or spiritual, as most either seek conformity/order or hedonism/desire. What happens when one inherently seeks neither? I could answer this with, "me", but that doesn't help explain or describe this point of in-between I seem stuck in. I suppose being an observator doesn't help matters, taking consistently the approach that gives me the widest angle with least bias. It's like seeing the whole of humanity as stuck in a giant maze, lab animals who are to be occasionally poked and prodded and zapped, until we find the right door in the maze to proceed further until its end...an end I conceive like a huge morsel of cheese. Or like an ant on an ant farm, slowly making tunnels until we find our way to the surface, only then to realize the roof is still shut and that's just how big our universe is, because, well, that's just the way it is, being ants and all. We're given all the means to our salvation in one hand, and all the means to our destruction in the other. What results when you take those two together? I find only chaos, unpredictability, irrationality, ultimately nothing but ignorance.
A common refrain is that 'who are we to question our Creator', or 'what else can you do' (ie 'except run the wheel like a good little hamster'). I will never have enough knowledge or understanding, at least in this mortal life, to legitimately question my Creator, but that does not and cannot stop my soul from instinctively reacting like it's been placed in a very strong base, constantly looking for me to donate my electrons, only problem being that I'm not acidic enough and so there isn't much of myself, if anything, that I can give. Just as no one can question or cross-examine the pain a finger feels when stabbed with a needle, it is just an instinct the soul has, an implicit reaction to its environment, a reaction immune to moral dissection. As for the second refrain, I have no clue what can be done for it. Other than the occasional struggling to comprehend and angst arising from an inability to do so, there isn't much room for maneuvering.
Among the ones who would steer clearest of this rabbit hole, I expect some notion like 'think of science or only the tangibles'. What a call that is. I love science, it endlessly seeks more knowledge, to correct and refine itself until it can arrive at some irrefutable certainty for any given field or subject. One thing science can never do, however, is be used to prove a 'moral right' or give justification for anything other than naturally-observed phenomena. The very second science is used to cross that line, the worst kinds of terrifying human delusions become suddenly plausible (ie recall the pseudo-science used by Nazis in their propaganda war, so that they could rationalize their bigotry and xenophobic arrogance). So, politely to such sane suggestions, I would have to say no; 'science' cannot clarify this boiling cauldron.
All of this only brings me back to where I began, seeing no solutions, only questions, questions so colored with my experience of loss, that I sometimes see only clouds even on the clearest of days. Is there a way to manage this precipice, without forcing one's self to indulge of its coping mechanisms? Can a line be drawn even if the sand cannot be felt, or worse yet, gets blown away by the slightest of winds?
5.09.2014
- in the name of Allah -
In life there are at times things which must bleed, an ocean's tear falling as tidal waves, making space so one's soul may breathe. Even as ancient wounds revive, calling forth memory long since withered and dried, not every suture finds again its needle and thread, not always able to cuddle its nightmares and place back princes and princesses to bed. Some fountains, like the ever-wondrous heart, must flow free, even if their core seems worlds distant and apart. No streams can go where they please, without gouging their mark through the earth, pushing aside the dirt, taking from terrestrial life their leave.
I've never carried any regrets, no what-if's about choices long since made, no second-guesses as to if my letting her go was perfectly (in)sane. I could not have been the guide for her road, not the shepherd of her path, unable to protect her heart, in the ways of knights long since past. My younger self was so gullible, so utterly naive, he could not grasp the price love took, when life dawned on dream, leaving in its wake, so many gaping seams. But though this scene might grisly gleam, truth at last shines through, giving rise to purpose, where one's love at last finds its due.
Memories, it seems, are my last and only treasure, with fondness full a chest to brim, things I once let go in leisure, for wounds thought too grim. After all these years I've learned, some scars should never heal, always there to burn and pester, so one can recall through pain their heart, and what it meant to feel. We cannot be machines, cannot exist without blood in our veins, or desires beyond all our mortal means.The books will never close, the stories never cease, for long as breath remains in lungs, so too shall remain my pen, with ink from things which bleed.
In life there are at times things which must bleed, an ocean's tear falling as tidal waves, making space so one's soul may breathe. Even as ancient wounds revive, calling forth memory long since withered and dried, not every suture finds again its needle and thread, not always able to cuddle its nightmares and place back princes and princesses to bed. Some fountains, like the ever-wondrous heart, must flow free, even if their core seems worlds distant and apart. No streams can go where they please, without gouging their mark through the earth, pushing aside the dirt, taking from terrestrial life their leave.
I've never carried any regrets, no what-if's about choices long since made, no second-guesses as to if my letting her go was perfectly (in)sane. I could not have been the guide for her road, not the shepherd of her path, unable to protect her heart, in the ways of knights long since past. My younger self was so gullible, so utterly naive, he could not grasp the price love took, when life dawned on dream, leaving in its wake, so many gaping seams. But though this scene might grisly gleam, truth at last shines through, giving rise to purpose, where one's love at last finds its due.
Memories, it seems, are my last and only treasure, with fondness full a chest to brim, things I once let go in leisure, for wounds thought too grim. After all these years I've learned, some scars should never heal, always there to burn and pester, so one can recall through pain their heart, and what it meant to feel. We cannot be machines, cannot exist without blood in our veins, or desires beyond all our mortal means.The books will never close, the stories never cease, for long as breath remains in lungs, so too shall remain my pen, with ink from things which bleed.
3.30.2014
- 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?
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?
2.04.2014
- in the name of Allah -
impossibilities (otherwise known as dreams)
sometimes I wish I was a stone on the shores of time, so that when in came the tides I'd be immune to its change, able to write my own metrics and rhymes. how much wonder it must be to sing one's own tune, to listen to the waves washing away but with no drowning gurgles of one's own to accompany the fray.
of my most contented moments, when she sat on that couch, beaming as bright as a moon, assured that love would prevail, when all I could do is feel pain, at being not ready for her sail. winds of fate blew her away, toward a more sturdy ship, of this I could never complain, but only take stock, of a heart slowly maimed. it was never a sudden shatter, nor a bladed knife in dark, nor a hammer's thud in angst, but a slow and precious diamond's dust in scatter, as I knew not what I'd lost till long after, and on me dawned the fullest cost.
all I'd ever sought, all I'll ever really seek, is a heart to hold in hand, a bosom to find in shelter, when tides decide to rise, and currents begin to seethe. what price I'd since paid in past, makes me think I cannot risk all my chips, or fear losing to the house all I now have. as the house always wins, and the fools always lose, there's only mere shadows left of doubt, to cast on which path I'll slowly choose. a jester not in costume, I shall run and run, until with knells my pulse rings in tune, waiting for fate's scythe, to at last draw its due.
sometimes I wish I was a stone on the shores of time, so that when in came the tides I'd be immune to its change, able to write my own metrics and rhymes. how much wonder it must be to sing one's own tune, to listen to the waves washing away but with no drowning gurgles of one's own to accompany the fray.
of my most contented moments, when she sat on that couch, beaming as bright as a moon, assured that love would prevail, when all I could do is feel pain, at being not ready for her sail. winds of fate blew her away, toward a more sturdy ship, of this I could never complain, but only take stock, of a heart slowly maimed. it was never a sudden shatter, nor a bladed knife in dark, nor a hammer's thud in angst, but a slow and precious diamond's dust in scatter, as I knew not what I'd lost till long after, and on me dawned the fullest cost.
all I'd ever sought, all I'll ever really seek, is a heart to hold in hand, a bosom to find in shelter, when tides decide to rise, and currents begin to seethe. what price I'd since paid in past, makes me think I cannot risk all my chips, or fear losing to the house all I now have. as the house always wins, and the fools always lose, there's only mere shadows left of doubt, to cast on which path I'll slowly choose. a jester not in costume, I shall run and run, until with knells my pulse rings in tune, waiting for fate's scythe, to at last draw its due.
12.29.2013
- in the name of Allah -
cloud 9
how many steps and stairs, bookcases stacked and ladders paired, would it take for me to once again, find my muse without being kept by ether razor-thin? I've wanted so often to take that journey, to find at its end my only abode, a place I've never been, yet a place I've always known. here I still chase that prick, that dainty thorn, that calls from within yet disappears once found, remnants laying seed, later as sadness to be reborn. the mortal coil, I've found, is to what seek a mortal foil, cherished thoughts burnt by worldly sun, as hopes once woven become by fated tapestry undone. it amazes me how every one around, takes in silent sip some secret, some self-told lie, an elixir for all their ills, perfect right before sleep at bedtime. to be not thus bound or weighted, a dream is all I'll seek, whether wisp or wind, in the midst of matter an atom alone, untainted and unscattered.
cloud 9
how many steps and stairs, bookcases stacked and ladders paired, would it take for me to once again, find my muse without being kept by ether razor-thin? I've wanted so often to take that journey, to find at its end my only abode, a place I've never been, yet a place I've always known. here I still chase that prick, that dainty thorn, that calls from within yet disappears once found, remnants laying seed, later as sadness to be reborn. the mortal coil, I've found, is to what seek a mortal foil, cherished thoughts burnt by worldly sun, as hopes once woven become by fated tapestry undone. it amazes me how every one around, takes in silent sip some secret, some self-told lie, an elixir for all their ills, perfect right before sleep at bedtime. to be not thus bound or weighted, a dream is all I'll seek, whether wisp or wind, in the midst of matter an atom alone, untainted and unscattered.
12.11.2013
- in the name of Allah -
just as every comet the flies across the galaxy, one day eventually finds its return path in orbit, so too do people also re-graze things they once knew as wholly as they once did. it occurs to me that I no longer am 'Nomad', a moniker for one always searching, ever restless, and aiming always to call a new place a home, at least for a short time.
I belong, have always belonged, exactly where I am. though sometimes people make choices as subconscious reactions to stimuli in life, where and who I am are entirely deliberate aspects of my being. I always have time to re-examine myself, life, and the role I choose to have or not have within it. I chose to be with family after finding incongruity between me and the vast essence of sociality (something I'd rather call 'groupthink and otherwise doing what other people expect'). I have found a few who are not related by blood to me, but whom I can consider as close. maybe this is what everyone is always looking for, cognizant or not, of someone they can bring close to them and with whom they can share some meaningful resonance. I'd venture this is much easier than some expect, and more deep than most realize. often we distance ourselves from others, that this distance may serve as a shield from their problems and nuances becoming known to us, and that we may avoid the drama/hassle/discomfort such a situation would inevitably lead to.
once upon a time, it was this way for me. I'd choose distance for the familiarity of what I already had, unwilling to bridge gaps made long by time. I find the reasons have changed, but my modus operandi remains similar: amongst people, family is at the top, followed by the few I've decided to get to know and have appreciated their camaraderie. as for those gaps in older relationships, I decided that it is better to let the past rest, then to be constantly reminded of what no longer is. there is no guilt or shame or malice underneath this motive, far as I can tell, but that I am not who I was before, and re-establishing those relationships automatically leads former companions to assume the past as a prerogative of the present - this notion is ludicrous to me, and unavoidable as people hinge on the past by nature and instinct. people change, they do not always desire the same things in the same way with the same attitude they have had in their past. time and circumstance force all to move forward, whether by choice or not.
finally, why choose 'Dream'? it represents, for me, the last and final place that the creeping doom and malignancy of the world and all its corollaries cannot reach. I once knew a 'dreamer', who dreamed in fantastical, outlandish, magical things, those ideals seared in the core of every romantic's soul. love, emotion over pragmatism, at the root of ones who dream, is often the first victim of all human catastrophes, but the last one to ever receive aid or be noticed if missing. what I seek, and as it turns out, what I have always sought, is invariably beyond these mortal chains, something that I can only taste in dreams; thus my recourse becomes patience, that such bold visions may finally find their own canvas.
just as every comet the flies across the galaxy, one day eventually finds its return path in orbit, so too do people also re-graze things they once knew as wholly as they once did. it occurs to me that I no longer am 'Nomad', a moniker for one always searching, ever restless, and aiming always to call a new place a home, at least for a short time.
I belong, have always belonged, exactly where I am. though sometimes people make choices as subconscious reactions to stimuli in life, where and who I am are entirely deliberate aspects of my being. I always have time to re-examine myself, life, and the role I choose to have or not have within it. I chose to be with family after finding incongruity between me and the vast essence of sociality (something I'd rather call 'groupthink and otherwise doing what other people expect'). I have found a few who are not related by blood to me, but whom I can consider as close. maybe this is what everyone is always looking for, cognizant or not, of someone they can bring close to them and with whom they can share some meaningful resonance. I'd venture this is much easier than some expect, and more deep than most realize. often we distance ourselves from others, that this distance may serve as a shield from their problems and nuances becoming known to us, and that we may avoid the drama/hassle/discomfort such a situation would inevitably lead to.
once upon a time, it was this way for me. I'd choose distance for the familiarity of what I already had, unwilling to bridge gaps made long by time. I find the reasons have changed, but my modus operandi remains similar: amongst people, family is at the top, followed by the few I've decided to get to know and have appreciated their camaraderie. as for those gaps in older relationships, I decided that it is better to let the past rest, then to be constantly reminded of what no longer is. there is no guilt or shame or malice underneath this motive, far as I can tell, but that I am not who I was before, and re-establishing those relationships automatically leads former companions to assume the past as a prerogative of the present - this notion is ludicrous to me, and unavoidable as people hinge on the past by nature and instinct. people change, they do not always desire the same things in the same way with the same attitude they have had in their past. time and circumstance force all to move forward, whether by choice or not.
finally, why choose 'Dream'? it represents, for me, the last and final place that the creeping doom and malignancy of the world and all its corollaries cannot reach. I once knew a 'dreamer', who dreamed in fantastical, outlandish, magical things, those ideals seared in the core of every romantic's soul. love, emotion over pragmatism, at the root of ones who dream, is often the first victim of all human catastrophes, but the last one to ever receive aid or be noticed if missing. what I seek, and as it turns out, what I have always sought, is invariably beyond these mortal chains, something that I can only taste in dreams; thus my recourse becomes patience, that such bold visions may finally find their own canvas.
11.01.2013
- in the name of Allah -
sometimes we find that the very things a soul gravitates to are the very things that can cause it to slowly erode, bit by bit. recent experiences of hyper-contemplation coupled with a fairly unstudious nocturnal sleep cycle from last week have sort of put these things to the forefront.
the night is such a peaceful time, with none of the distractions and bustle and overpowering glare of the day. but it turns out humanity was not made for, and does not typically benefit from, an overindulgence of lifestyle that rises only in darkness and falls asleep only in night. even though one may speak of circadian rhythms, a thorough answer would add that souls need the physical light of the sun, and need to seek rest in the moon's dim shadow. it doesn't appear sensical at first glance, but my experiences recently and in times long past confirm it.
perhaps my own variations can be traced back to this, in how my sleep finds itself turned end on end every so often, relishing in its ability to be variable and finding serenity and belonging in either state. this is a tenuous disposition. in rare moments of (relatively) perfect self-clarity, I can notice the strings around my soul, the places it wishes to go, what pulls where. at some moments I can even see the threads of other places/times/events/writing/etc. its like a crystal ball without the ball but a simple linking of cause/effect/interactions between a thing and the state it finds itself in. these perceptions are wondrous, but where is their practicality? ironically I tend to find this clarity when I have aligned with day, but some of the things I learn from it seem to fit only or be relevant to when I am aligned with night. maybe if I was half-awake at night and half-asleep during the day I'd find the zen meaning of this? heh, I wish it were so simple, but the thought intrigues.
part of my conundrums, I have thought, find their root in how I have difficulty assigning meaning to various aspects of life. valuing the intangible as much as I do, and giving high preference to those things which cannot be seen and/or measured, I find myself very much disadvantaged when trying to quantify the material and my (ideal) relationship to it, in context of its transient/whimsical/fleeting/speck-of-dust nature. how can one come to love a thing when that thing will doubtless turn to dust, failing its function and appearance over time? do shattered-by-time loves lost have any value or meaning aside from the residual and permanent pain they seem to leave behind? how can one seek money, when its value in market terms, changes daily? when what it can buy tomorrow may be half of what it can buy today? how can material wishes prevail when they are all destined, by reality (not by anything supernatural), to fade and lose color and be riddled with holes over time? how can mortals retain such attachment to things that resemble their own comparitively insignificant and short lives, instead of to those things which transcend time through representation of ideas and ideals, both immemorial? I cannot develop this attachment/need/desire/drive/ambition that compels most humanity to grind and grovel, cower from others or tower over them; my nature only grants value to the ideals manifested that will surpass and live beyond their mortally visible frames. where does this, where can this leave me with regard to my place in the world, the universe? does a soul such as mine have a role to play, can it act alongside other actors on the stage, to make the symphony worth composing? where is the script for such a nondescript vagrant? these are the voyages of the starship Nomad...its continuing mission to always seek out its purpose and place in life...D:
sometimes we find that the very things a soul gravitates to are the very things that can cause it to slowly erode, bit by bit. recent experiences of hyper-contemplation coupled with a fairly unstudious nocturnal sleep cycle from last week have sort of put these things to the forefront.
the night is such a peaceful time, with none of the distractions and bustle and overpowering glare of the day. but it turns out humanity was not made for, and does not typically benefit from, an overindulgence of lifestyle that rises only in darkness and falls asleep only in night. even though one may speak of circadian rhythms, a thorough answer would add that souls need the physical light of the sun, and need to seek rest in the moon's dim shadow. it doesn't appear sensical at first glance, but my experiences recently and in times long past confirm it.
perhaps my own variations can be traced back to this, in how my sleep finds itself turned end on end every so often, relishing in its ability to be variable and finding serenity and belonging in either state. this is a tenuous disposition. in rare moments of (relatively) perfect self-clarity, I can notice the strings around my soul, the places it wishes to go, what pulls where. at some moments I can even see the threads of other places/times/events/writing/etc. its like a crystal ball without the ball but a simple linking of cause/effect/interactions between a thing and the state it finds itself in. these perceptions are wondrous, but where is their practicality? ironically I tend to find this clarity when I have aligned with day, but some of the things I learn from it seem to fit only or be relevant to when I am aligned with night. maybe if I was half-awake at night and half-asleep during the day I'd find the zen meaning of this? heh, I wish it were so simple, but the thought intrigues.
part of my conundrums, I have thought, find their root in how I have difficulty assigning meaning to various aspects of life. valuing the intangible as much as I do, and giving high preference to those things which cannot be seen and/or measured, I find myself very much disadvantaged when trying to quantify the material and my (ideal) relationship to it, in context of its transient/whimsical/fleeting/speck-of-dust nature. how can one come to love a thing when that thing will doubtless turn to dust, failing its function and appearance over time? do shattered-by-time loves lost have any value or meaning aside from the residual and permanent pain they seem to leave behind? how can one seek money, when its value in market terms, changes daily? when what it can buy tomorrow may be half of what it can buy today? how can material wishes prevail when they are all destined, by reality (not by anything supernatural), to fade and lose color and be riddled with holes over time? how can mortals retain such attachment to things that resemble their own comparitively insignificant and short lives, instead of to those things which transcend time through representation of ideas and ideals, both immemorial? I cannot develop this attachment/need/desire/drive/ambition that compels most humanity to grind and grovel, cower from others or tower over them; my nature only grants value to the ideals manifested that will surpass and live beyond their mortally visible frames. where does this, where can this leave me with regard to my place in the world, the universe? does a soul such as mine have a role to play, can it act alongside other actors on the stage, to make the symphony worth composing? where is the script for such a nondescript vagrant? these are the voyages of the starship Nomad...its continuing mission to always seek out its purpose and place in life...D:
10.28.2013
- in the name of Allah -
how much longer need I remain in this abyss? its prisoner and guinea pig, passing others by, my role only left to wander? I know not how others live, how they themselves reconcile, a truth or past one cannot forgive, while fate makes a mockery all their whim and wile. how can I resume my old naivete, when all hope it seems, is built strong as dust, only to be blown away? how can promise's fire once again be lit, if the only thing for it to stoke, lies beneath an ashen pit, already smoked? how many more times can the hamster's wheel be turned, before hearts become as frozen tundra, impervious to any and all concern? how many more illusions need be cast, before love has but one meaning left: to crush in hand any dreams one can have, "reminders" of patience or vigilance, bitter dawns across horizons spanned? how many times can fate cry 'wolf' before those cries are deafened, arraigned by an avalanche of tears, when one's own sanity comes to be threatened? for some in life there may come a time, when only one thing need be lost, for all the rest to lose sense of reason or rhyme. it may be a child or spouse, a car or job, a savings or house, but once this tragic moment passed- nothing matters quite as it might once have. blame the person for being weak or unprepared, sure, but some refuse to relent in realities scorned. they carry wills of iron undraped by gleam or hope, resisting the rust of ambitions, while losing half their souls. a fair bargain? one is never sure, some bargains are struck while ill, uncertain if for them exists a cure.
how much longer need I remain in this abyss? its prisoner and guinea pig, passing others by, my role only left to wander? I know not how others live, how they themselves reconcile, a truth or past one cannot forgive, while fate makes a mockery all their whim and wile. how can I resume my old naivete, when all hope it seems, is built strong as dust, only to be blown away? how can promise's fire once again be lit, if the only thing for it to stoke, lies beneath an ashen pit, already smoked? how many more times can the hamster's wheel be turned, before hearts become as frozen tundra, impervious to any and all concern? how many more illusions need be cast, before love has but one meaning left: to crush in hand any dreams one can have, "reminders" of patience or vigilance, bitter dawns across horizons spanned? how many times can fate cry 'wolf' before those cries are deafened, arraigned by an avalanche of tears, when one's own sanity comes to be threatened? for some in life there may come a time, when only one thing need be lost, for all the rest to lose sense of reason or rhyme. it may be a child or spouse, a car or job, a savings or house, but once this tragic moment passed- nothing matters quite as it might once have. blame the person for being weak or unprepared, sure, but some refuse to relent in realities scorned. they carry wills of iron undraped by gleam or hope, resisting the rust of ambitions, while losing half their souls. a fair bargain? one is never sure, some bargains are struck while ill, uncertain if for them exists a cure.
10.01.2013
- in the name of Allah -
there's not enough spaces, not enough hello's, not enough faces, in a world only shadowed, for a soul made placeless. footsteps and oft-beaten paths, wandering as Alice once had, found so many mirrors, just never the one, the looking glass. with these eyes I look and I look, and the only thing I see, is the temporal and skewed, both waiting by time and fate to be took. the wider the vision, the deeper the lens, the more impossible it seems, for me not to pretend. so much joy and work, fruit and labor, the sinews of it all, threaded together for the sake of savor. even as turns to ash, the ambitions of man, studded in jewels, dreams only a Midas might have, before his curse, bore him in perpetuity sad. love love, marry marry, toil toil, though comes the day, when time for all past is but foil. cherry trees, tempting and adorned, knowledge once forbidden, a long irony's serenade, soliloquies' lament since humanity's beginning. our place, as it appears to be defined, is to struggle and fight, close old wounds by day, and open new ones by night, to love and contemplate its loss, to restrict our instincts, while making valleys lush from barren troughs, to avoid the glance, if not then keep from touch, holding back from falling trance, alas if hearts found love (or lust). all our motivations, every single impulse, shrouded in innocence, designed or destined, naught but failure's instrument. give the mouse just a tiny piece of cheese, see how long it wanders in its maze, before it learns to say 'thank you' and 'please'. are even mice so doomed, that they seek not a home to be free in, plotted against by all, lured by threats of hell and promises of heaven? savor this, then, that I envy the mouse, such a simple brain, all to keep its purpose sane. it wanders with no doubts or quandaries, simply moving about where food is found to fill its need. for all our advances, for as far as we may progress, there is no turning back the fact: we are still humans yet. our lives are woven by never-ending sorrows, dreams that stretch past their common sense, knowing full well they may never see the 'morrow. we love that which cannot be had, find no solace in our reach, though food and family both such hands retain, a fool's bargain too often with our souls we seek. still, I would rather float upon the seas, or drift across the dunes of sand, than rescind my right to walk by different means. there is nothing here for me to be had, that could not reach my soul untainted, no object with its meaning kept, no hope to hold without its luster fainted. one may wonder, then, always, why breath fills lungs not shallow, why heart deigns fit to fill veins with blood, while the soul finds no footing, only a grave which it had dug.
there's not enough spaces, not enough hello's, not enough faces, in a world only shadowed, for a soul made placeless. footsteps and oft-beaten paths, wandering as Alice once had, found so many mirrors, just never the one, the looking glass. with these eyes I look and I look, and the only thing I see, is the temporal and skewed, both waiting by time and fate to be took. the wider the vision, the deeper the lens, the more impossible it seems, for me not to pretend. so much joy and work, fruit and labor, the sinews of it all, threaded together for the sake of savor. even as turns to ash, the ambitions of man, studded in jewels, dreams only a Midas might have, before his curse, bore him in perpetuity sad. love love, marry marry, toil toil, though comes the day, when time for all past is but foil. cherry trees, tempting and adorned, knowledge once forbidden, a long irony's serenade, soliloquies' lament since humanity's beginning. our place, as it appears to be defined, is to struggle and fight, close old wounds by day, and open new ones by night, to love and contemplate its loss, to restrict our instincts, while making valleys lush from barren troughs, to avoid the glance, if not then keep from touch, holding back from falling trance, alas if hearts found love (or lust). all our motivations, every single impulse, shrouded in innocence, designed or destined, naught but failure's instrument. give the mouse just a tiny piece of cheese, see how long it wanders in its maze, before it learns to say 'thank you' and 'please'. are even mice so doomed, that they seek not a home to be free in, plotted against by all, lured by threats of hell and promises of heaven? savor this, then, that I envy the mouse, such a simple brain, all to keep its purpose sane. it wanders with no doubts or quandaries, simply moving about where food is found to fill its need. for all our advances, for as far as we may progress, there is no turning back the fact: we are still humans yet. our lives are woven by never-ending sorrows, dreams that stretch past their common sense, knowing full well they may never see the 'morrow. we love that which cannot be had, find no solace in our reach, though food and family both such hands retain, a fool's bargain too often with our souls we seek. still, I would rather float upon the seas, or drift across the dunes of sand, than rescind my right to walk by different means. there is nothing here for me to be had, that could not reach my soul untainted, no object with its meaning kept, no hope to hold without its luster fainted. one may wonder, then, always, why breath fills lungs not shallow, why heart deigns fit to fill veins with blood, while the soul finds no footing, only a grave which it had dug.
9.25.2013
- in the name of Allah -
..still wandering through this fucking maze, missing all that which I once craved, am I zombie or am I slave? reminisce over that lost innocence, where things were simple and I content, so many tragedies, miniscule yet catastrophically, pulling apart the foundations of my need. religion calls perpetually, promising that it'll save my soul, yet no guarantee fate won't rewrite my book, alluring at the start, but all of me is what it took, at end a glutton devouring whole. run, run, along those paths, where most others now their savings have, invested full while minds wander dull, accepting soft excuses, as to why their supplications' useless. "its a thing delayed", "its a boon kept in bundles warm", all to justify why life's a bitch, ever to be scorned, no matter where one's stayed, whether mansions or in caves, any hope kept afar becomes soon depraved. trust, oh friends, is to me a two-way street, where things I wish and my hopes, may in solace meet, but once a wish is lost and blown to wind, there's no turning back the clock, a diamond's dust to grind the truth slowly in: all of what once was has now shattered, broken glass in further pieces, across my cosmos scattered. I've no desire to be an ant on God's farm, to bide my time with all my fellow insects, judged for my burrows, while life to me pays no respect. I'm no king (or queen), no father, no husband, no one with significance teeming, just a soul wandering alone, sick of the "trials" supposed to make men whole. damn this catharsis, damn the penitent to hell, their salvation was always undeserved, though with egos never swelled. with eyes that perceive only recurring travesties, there is no glimmer left, in this meandering for me. time shall end and so shall I, dreamless sleep I hope, to accompany until dawn appears nigh.
..still wandering through this fucking maze, missing all that which I once craved, am I zombie or am I slave? reminisce over that lost innocence, where things were simple and I content, so many tragedies, miniscule yet catastrophically, pulling apart the foundations of my need. religion calls perpetually, promising that it'll save my soul, yet no guarantee fate won't rewrite my book, alluring at the start, but all of me is what it took, at end a glutton devouring whole. run, run, along those paths, where most others now their savings have, invested full while minds wander dull, accepting soft excuses, as to why their supplications' useless. "its a thing delayed", "its a boon kept in bundles warm", all to justify why life's a bitch, ever to be scorned, no matter where one's stayed, whether mansions or in caves, any hope kept afar becomes soon depraved. trust, oh friends, is to me a two-way street, where things I wish and my hopes, may in solace meet, but once a wish is lost and blown to wind, there's no turning back the clock, a diamond's dust to grind the truth slowly in: all of what once was has now shattered, broken glass in further pieces, across my cosmos scattered. I've no desire to be an ant on God's farm, to bide my time with all my fellow insects, judged for my burrows, while life to me pays no respect. I'm no king (or queen), no father, no husband, no one with significance teeming, just a soul wandering alone, sick of the "trials" supposed to make men whole. damn this catharsis, damn the penitent to hell, their salvation was always undeserved, though with egos never swelled. with eyes that perceive only recurring travesties, there is no glimmer left, in this meandering for me. time shall end and so shall I, dreamless sleep I hope, to accompany until dawn appears nigh.
8.23.2013
- in the name of Allah -
what of those ropes whose twists and knots don't aid or abet, whose twine becomes a means to choke and burn while its true dangers haven't even been met? how do these implements become less a strategic self-defence and more a path to sought-after refinement and lessons well-kept? as I once thought and compared both ropes and chains, I felt it fitting that one might be mistaken for another as they can end up feeling the same, purposes of which sight may be lost, unable to see past the meaning of catharsis as suffering often carries unyielding cost. it isn't enough for Sisyphus to keep pushing the boulder, as each dusk falls the task is no closer to being over, such is the inescapable tragedy pervading all the truths we want to sugarcoat with medicines and holistic sanity. even were in his world the absurd less opaque and divinity obvious in presence, it'd still be near-impossible to fully grasp the rhyme and reason behind the prevalence of hatred and rule by the malcontent. maybe if that boulder were tied not by fate to his arm or shoulder, but to the top of the hill to remain eternally still, not tempting or teasing of abyssal doom but of obstacles imminently firm and evidently reachable. such is the box of Pandora's that he must open, to endure the gloom within and create a path by which hope can finally escape in, but never have such simple boxes been more tenuous, even as the lid creaks, the phantoms start to chitter and chatter, chirping up at the thought of a fresh soul to swallow whole and devour. how many times will the tragic hero shutter the case, debating in endless the means versus worth of escape, of whether even if past that mountaintop there remains any thing or person or place equal to all the torture and pain? alas, such is the diamond-blade of hope, capable of sundering sheer rock but whose sharpened edge may as well cut tendons from limbs with only one step mistook or one word misspoke, avalanches ever threatening but always there as reminders why climbers live not without rope.
what of those ropes whose twists and knots don't aid or abet, whose twine becomes a means to choke and burn while its true dangers haven't even been met? how do these implements become less a strategic self-defence and more a path to sought-after refinement and lessons well-kept? as I once thought and compared both ropes and chains, I felt it fitting that one might be mistaken for another as they can end up feeling the same, purposes of which sight may be lost, unable to see past the meaning of catharsis as suffering often carries unyielding cost. it isn't enough for Sisyphus to keep pushing the boulder, as each dusk falls the task is no closer to being over, such is the inescapable tragedy pervading all the truths we want to sugarcoat with medicines and holistic sanity. even were in his world the absurd less opaque and divinity obvious in presence, it'd still be near-impossible to fully grasp the rhyme and reason behind the prevalence of hatred and rule by the malcontent. maybe if that boulder were tied not by fate to his arm or shoulder, but to the top of the hill to remain eternally still, not tempting or teasing of abyssal doom but of obstacles imminently firm and evidently reachable. such is the box of Pandora's that he must open, to endure the gloom within and create a path by which hope can finally escape in, but never have such simple boxes been more tenuous, even as the lid creaks, the phantoms start to chitter and chatter, chirping up at the thought of a fresh soul to swallow whole and devour. how many times will the tragic hero shutter the case, debating in endless the means versus worth of escape, of whether even if past that mountaintop there remains any thing or person or place equal to all the torture and pain? alas, such is the diamond-blade of hope, capable of sundering sheer rock but whose sharpened edge may as well cut tendons from limbs with only one step mistook or one word misspoke, avalanches ever threatening but always there as reminders why climbers live not without rope.
8.18.2013
- in the name of Allah -
how many compositions will I need to write, how much paper will I have to burn, to once again set these embers alight, to once again declare a lesson learned? how long can fumes fuel the flame, when all the wind has blown away, and life has all the torches tamed? could there be any such catastrophe, that one breathes it in again and again, a monoxide to steal away all one's dreams? imagine from this the state of blissful sleep, pouring away all the troubles of pasts un-lived, leaving no cracks in which phantoms may creep. I've had many such moments, alas but with eyes open, where the path I'd taken, was only one the Nomad could've chosen. it had so many thorns, not sharp or pointed, only unkempt truths too long avoided. had I to repeat that choice to let her go, to allow the winds of fate to blow their way, I'd make it all the same, even if I was to be but her astrolabe. how then could one, who'd tasted of a thing so great so little, dare or care to risk the heart again, when he knew the balance of life was a thing so fake, so brittle? for the ones born worldly poor, for the ones who needed truth and nothing more, there is no concurrent alchemy, to extract from earnest blood a means beyond gold or metallurgy. intentions alone cannot pave the roads, stoic hearts cannot tell clear from cloudy skies apart, and such is where my chasm lies, that within these truths, I could not have tasted love a little more, before from me it left to die.
how many compositions will I need to write, how much paper will I have to burn, to once again set these embers alight, to once again declare a lesson learned? how long can fumes fuel the flame, when all the wind has blown away, and life has all the torches tamed? could there be any such catastrophe, that one breathes it in again and again, a monoxide to steal away all one's dreams? imagine from this the state of blissful sleep, pouring away all the troubles of pasts un-lived, leaving no cracks in which phantoms may creep. I've had many such moments, alas but with eyes open, where the path I'd taken, was only one the Nomad could've chosen. it had so many thorns, not sharp or pointed, only unkempt truths too long avoided. had I to repeat that choice to let her go, to allow the winds of fate to blow their way, I'd make it all the same, even if I was to be but her astrolabe. how then could one, who'd tasted of a thing so great so little, dare or care to risk the heart again, when he knew the balance of life was a thing so fake, so brittle? for the ones born worldly poor, for the ones who needed truth and nothing more, there is no concurrent alchemy, to extract from earnest blood a means beyond gold or metallurgy. intentions alone cannot pave the roads, stoic hearts cannot tell clear from cloudy skies apart, and such is where my chasm lies, that within these truths, I could not have tasted love a little more, before from me it left to die.
8.14.2013
- in the name of Allah -
What would clouds be without rain, if no drops fell to earth, how would grasses grown green, where'd love blossom if not from hurt? why don't shadows ever complain to lights, how they aught to be seen more, whether day or night? no, each taking turns in the spotlight, playing their parts on stage, like fine wines never to be drank, adorning the covers of life's games. alas for roles, these never seem to have ending, each person or purpose, needing endlessly to be attended, whether refined or raw, whether hare or tortoise. how many patiently dawdle, time dwindling, looking for merriment or marvel, finding neither but distractions aplenty with truths entombed in sparkling marble. my ticks never tock for the social, no external needs impressed onto mine just because someone else's drink needs flavor or some rogue needs a purse to swindle, nope, my clock chimes only for reasons mine. in this I find no acceptance from any, though I desire it not I seek it somewhat as by nature intending, reflexively unadept at melding two discordant forces while neither has means or motive meshing. I envy the sky and the winds, the birds and the rain, they get to be free and fly and soar without weight or imagery imagined but untamed. gravity, amongst other such propensities, is an archnemeses waiting for Atlas or some such mythic figure to swoop down and carry meniality away from my dreams. laugh I must as life breaks each and every such candle I put to flame, that I mould but one more to breathe away its final wisps and resume this ever-tiresome refrain. onwards this pattern goes, in but infinite shades and hues, until my bill is paid and my soul finds what it has all along felt due.
What would clouds be without rain, if no drops fell to earth, how would grasses grown green, where'd love blossom if not from hurt? why don't shadows ever complain to lights, how they aught to be seen more, whether day or night? no, each taking turns in the spotlight, playing their parts on stage, like fine wines never to be drank, adorning the covers of life's games. alas for roles, these never seem to have ending, each person or purpose, needing endlessly to be attended, whether refined or raw, whether hare or tortoise. how many patiently dawdle, time dwindling, looking for merriment or marvel, finding neither but distractions aplenty with truths entombed in sparkling marble. my ticks never tock for the social, no external needs impressed onto mine just because someone else's drink needs flavor or some rogue needs a purse to swindle, nope, my clock chimes only for reasons mine. in this I find no acceptance from any, though I desire it not I seek it somewhat as by nature intending, reflexively unadept at melding two discordant forces while neither has means or motive meshing. I envy the sky and the winds, the birds and the rain, they get to be free and fly and soar without weight or imagery imagined but untamed. gravity, amongst other such propensities, is an archnemeses waiting for Atlas or some such mythic figure to swoop down and carry meniality away from my dreams. laugh I must as life breaks each and every such candle I put to flame, that I mould but one more to breathe away its final wisps and resume this ever-tiresome refrain. onwards this pattern goes, in but infinite shades and hues, until my bill is paid and my soul finds what it has all along felt due.
8.03.2013
- in the name of Allah -
numero deux
were I able to turn back time, going back to those precious moments, when lights were still brightened, when torches carried purpose, I'd still untie your boat, let your raft drift free, for though well we paired, I had not coin with which to forge your destiny. I knew then not nor even now, which path is mine to take, for nothing's glowed as much, since my dream (you) was put to stake, thus I wander these shores an aimless ghost, with luggage only to remind, of that which haunts me most. let irony parade, let sarcasm fly, for all the inkwells dried, could not form you from memory into mine. there can be no consolation, for such a mighty loss, only a brighter light to outweigh the darkness, a new pain worthy of hope's steep cost. what damned me then, damns me still, may damn me til the end, were all those prayers and tears that I'd spent, wishing I had some left had they not all disappeared. it may one day prove true, that I was saved a worser fate, or reserved a far-away delight, yet in my mortal eyes, I can see but loss, of one thing for which I'd truly try. so many promises, so many hadiths, so many hopeful whispers said in bed before sleep, it seems all I have are empty hands, but its true, ghosts have no shape, how can their words have any meaning too?
numero deux
were I able to turn back time, going back to those precious moments, when lights were still brightened, when torches carried purpose, I'd still untie your boat, let your raft drift free, for though well we paired, I had not coin with which to forge your destiny. I knew then not nor even now, which path is mine to take, for nothing's glowed as much, since my dream (you) was put to stake, thus I wander these shores an aimless ghost, with luggage only to remind, of that which haunts me most. let irony parade, let sarcasm fly, for all the inkwells dried, could not form you from memory into mine. there can be no consolation, for such a mighty loss, only a brighter light to outweigh the darkness, a new pain worthy of hope's steep cost. what damned me then, damns me still, may damn me til the end, were all those prayers and tears that I'd spent, wishing I had some left had they not all disappeared. it may one day prove true, that I was saved a worser fate, or reserved a far-away delight, yet in my mortal eyes, I can see but loss, of one thing for which I'd truly try. so many promises, so many hadiths, so many hopeful whispers said in bed before sleep, it seems all I have are empty hands, but its true, ghosts have no shape, how can their words have any meaning too?
7.12.2013
- in the name of Allah -
As another Ramadan rolls around and that peculiar time of the year is once again here, my dissonance between the present and my past looms as large as ever. Muslims are truly such curious people. They believe in beautiful, sometimes fantastical ideas, yet when it comes to the integration of such beauty into the world in which they live, there is a sort of disconnect, as if they expect that the image of everything and everyone they see will or somehow should reflect that inherently out-of-place idealism, without actually processing the reality of what happens around them in life. Take for example as divorce, one of the saddest realities facing the modern world. Muslims seem to emanate a belief that it is an impossible, ever-distant concept, something that could never pervade their perfect little castles of world-belief. Yet all too often reality comes along to crush these antiquated and utterly naive notions into dust. Not just this, but there is also an expectation, similar to the American Dream concept of the mid-20th century, whereby the notions of "white picket fence", "2-3 kids", and "9-5" job first gained widespread popularity, an aspiration everyone aimed for and achieved, according to the myth perpetrated unto the children of the baby boomer generation. Everyone thought they could simply follow the protocol of going from Pre-K > Kindergarten > Elementary > Middle/Junior > High > College > Graduate school > house > Marriage > kids > etc, and that there would always be jobs in the economy to support this trend, no matter how many decades it lasted. Alas! All quotas must one day be fulfilled as job sector growth could never keep up with the influx of every succeeding graduating class, and it is unfortunate that the (immigrant) Muslim generation has realized(?) this fact a decade or two too late. One of the biggest dangers of idealism is that it can effortlessly weave itself into delusion at the drop of dime, without anyone becoming the wiser. I would posit that Muslims today are the most susceptible classification of people to this vulnerability. Perhaps it is an ingrained trust in Allah that is taught as to be a bit of an opiate for harder times, when things aren't looking up, that people need not open their eyes to the truth but weakly hope that somehow these problems will solve themselves. I'm not sure most people know how to differentiate between what is truly tawakkul (reliance upon God) and what is actually an opiate in different form being taken to simply dull of the pain of harsh realities. For the record, I do not know how to make the distinction myself, it appears just too eerily familiar that one is the same as the other, so I try to avoid needing either to quell anything I may feel. Consequently, there is the result of me choosing to be who I am today, a highly disillusioned, disenchanted, disenfranchised, utterly cynical Nomad wandering his own desert because this barren world absolutely has no warm pastures for him whatsoever. Part of the frustrations I have with Muslims in today's world is that I see in them foolish and naive idealisms that I held once in myself (somewhat paradoxically, I still love dreams and believe that the child-like innocence with regard to knowledge and the world is the most precious elixir in existence), and I cannot stand to see who I was in the mirror, that ignorant fool who expected so much (in reality, it was maybe 1-2 things in all out of life: the girl, maybe the job and own place to go with it) yet due to timing being a bitch could never could see that dream come to fruition. Life happens, but everyone reacts differently to loss and none can the take the role of judge for someone else's fate. Given my rocky road at the present, how likely is it that I can once again see and believe again in great and fantastical things being within mortal grasp? (the immortal grasp has never been in question, it is this world and this world alone with which I have always had serious beef - so as a relief I can still count myself with those who believe in Allah...anything less than this and truly, the universe may as well implode :O
Sigh. Ya Rabb, guide me to You, but make this road exceedingly easy, with many pit-stops along the way so I can find my way and get directions when I need to, ameen.
As another Ramadan rolls around and that peculiar time of the year is once again here, my dissonance between the present and my past looms as large as ever. Muslims are truly such curious people. They believe in beautiful, sometimes fantastical ideas, yet when it comes to the integration of such beauty into the world in which they live, there is a sort of disconnect, as if they expect that the image of everything and everyone they see will or somehow should reflect that inherently out-of-place idealism, without actually processing the reality of what happens around them in life. Take for example as divorce, one of the saddest realities facing the modern world. Muslims seem to emanate a belief that it is an impossible, ever-distant concept, something that could never pervade their perfect little castles of world-belief. Yet all too often reality comes along to crush these antiquated and utterly naive notions into dust. Not just this, but there is also an expectation, similar to the American Dream concept of the mid-20th century, whereby the notions of "white picket fence", "2-3 kids", and "9-5" job first gained widespread popularity, an aspiration everyone aimed for and achieved, according to the myth perpetrated unto the children of the baby boomer generation. Everyone thought they could simply follow the protocol of going from Pre-K > Kindergarten > Elementary > Middle/Junior > High > College > Graduate school > house > Marriage > kids > etc, and that there would always be jobs in the economy to support this trend, no matter how many decades it lasted. Alas! All quotas must one day be fulfilled as job sector growth could never keep up with the influx of every succeeding graduating class, and it is unfortunate that the (immigrant) Muslim generation has realized(?) this fact a decade or two too late. One of the biggest dangers of idealism is that it can effortlessly weave itself into delusion at the drop of dime, without anyone becoming the wiser. I would posit that Muslims today are the most susceptible classification of people to this vulnerability. Perhaps it is an ingrained trust in Allah that is taught as to be a bit of an opiate for harder times, when things aren't looking up, that people need not open their eyes to the truth but weakly hope that somehow these problems will solve themselves. I'm not sure most people know how to differentiate between what is truly tawakkul (reliance upon God) and what is actually an opiate in different form being taken to simply dull of the pain of harsh realities. For the record, I do not know how to make the distinction myself, it appears just too eerily familiar that one is the same as the other, so I try to avoid needing either to quell anything I may feel. Consequently, there is the result of me choosing to be who I am today, a highly disillusioned, disenchanted, disenfranchised, utterly cynical Nomad wandering his own desert because this barren world absolutely has no warm pastures for him whatsoever. Part of the frustrations I have with Muslims in today's world is that I see in them foolish and naive idealisms that I held once in myself (somewhat paradoxically, I still love dreams and believe that the child-like innocence with regard to knowledge and the world is the most precious elixir in existence), and I cannot stand to see who I was in the mirror, that ignorant fool who expected so much (in reality, it was maybe 1-2 things in all out of life: the girl, maybe the job and own place to go with it) yet due to timing being a bitch could never could see that dream come to fruition. Life happens, but everyone reacts differently to loss and none can the take the role of judge for someone else's fate. Given my rocky road at the present, how likely is it that I can once again see and believe again in great and fantastical things being within mortal grasp? (the immortal grasp has never been in question, it is this world and this world alone with which I have always had serious beef - so as a relief I can still count myself with those who believe in Allah...anything less than this and truly, the universe may as well implode :O
Sigh. Ya Rabb, guide me to You, but make this road exceedingly easy, with many pit-stops along the way so I can find my way and get directions when I need to, ameen.
6.16.2013
- in the name of Allah -
imagine the tears of trees who would weep if they could speak, telling stories of how their sisters and cousins faced bedlam and assassins by the dozens, how much green have they seen fall to earth, endured the leaves as they turn to dust and vanished with time and hurt, such a cruel fate it must have been to stand silent, unable to scream or whisper while axes and death were rampant. just as easily as all those countless leaves fell of their once-wholesome trees, do vanish and crumble the dreams of any who grow old in reality's teeth. I must find again those precious seeds, the essence of life and purpose all rolled into one neatly stacked paper sheet, processed and procured, yes, but its example eminent as a product through hardship refined and assured.
imagine the tears of trees who would weep if they could speak, telling stories of how their sisters and cousins faced bedlam and assassins by the dozens, how much green have they seen fall to earth, endured the leaves as they turn to dust and vanished with time and hurt, such a cruel fate it must have been to stand silent, unable to scream or whisper while axes and death were rampant. just as easily as all those countless leaves fell of their once-wholesome trees, do vanish and crumble the dreams of any who grow old in reality's teeth. I must find again those precious seeds, the essence of life and purpose all rolled into one neatly stacked paper sheet, processed and procured, yes, but its example eminent as a product through hardship refined and assured.
6.09.2013
- in the name of Allah -
Sometimes when writing it is easy to forget that not everyone has an insider's perspective, that metaphors or language used with its intended meaning in mind can be interpreted differently or missed altogether by those on the outside looking in. It's a distressing thought when writers have the awareness of it (that is, when they emerge from their thought bubble and remember that in fact other *people* will be reading what they write). It's with this in mind I will try to elaborate my present mindset and give the universe some clarity as to why I insist on being me and nothing else.
From the outset, it should be obviously stated: I take things, every thing, much more acutely than most people. I "sense" subtleties in language, word choices people make, inflections in their speech, body language, delays in response, and various other kinds of things that may or may not be actually present, and not all things are sensed immediately, some happen after reflection at some later point in time. I'm not some super-genius when it comes to these things, I just process them very much, occasionally too much.
The best way to understand that would be the expression: "walking on eggshells". If people (white people mainly, I've noticed) walk on eggshells, then I would hear the sounds the cracking makes (metaphor intended). Not only this, I wouldn't ignore the cracking as most people would be prone to do: instead, it would consume me to try and discern the motive behind this reluctance on the part of another, to try and understand why they would feel this way. Most often the case is people are afraid of confronting hard truths, especially in the case of others, but ironically most when concerning themselves (this kind of self-delusion is probably a worldwide epidemic).
When you have a personality that natively processes things (events, culture, politics, etc) at either an acute or macroscopic level, and then combine that with a desire to comprehend anything or anything deemed mysterious, well you have a recipe for something very, very strange: me! When certain truths are reached in life, every person faces a challenge as to how to react to them. You might deem some of my perceived truths as imaginary or self-created, but they are 99% evident for the most part. I will draw the caricature of a few truths for clarity's sake.
One of my biggest peeves over the years has been the notions of culture, how it forces people into obtuse and obscure and irrelevant traditions simply for the sake of "its how its always been done". To take a personal example, the culture of my parents, who immigrated from Pakistan as first-generation Muslims in America some decades back. Being prone to reading between the lines, it was never really hard for me to see the kind of culture that was, the kind of male-dominated patriarchy where knowledge of truth was relegated below the level of 'political correctness' or what was deemed fitting respective of someone's level (ie someone of status was given more leeway with regard to getting away with things, with the inverse true for the poor or less fortunate = in short, clout and the worth of human beings was assessed by the amount of land/wealth/male children they possessed). If you told someone old school from this culture the color of sky as blue, if they had some interest in the opposite being true, they might try to pull some insane, utterly vague and useless argument to convince you otherwise that they were still right. As if this tendency wasn't frustrating enough, the level of nepotism and societal decay is compounded by this kind of thinking, part of the reason why the Pakistani government is so riddled with corruption and no one can possibly fix it (because the culture itself has been broken, for quite some time).
Back to the point, how was I to resolve myself (my lineage being irrevocable) with what I saw in front of me? To go even further down the rabbit hole, I had the split of the "East" and the "West", notions developed only by people who couldn't think of any better labels lol. Part of the East was the Muslim part, which tried to establish harmony and take solace in the notion of "take the best of both worlds and leave the rest" - a most beautiful notion if I ever knew one! But alas, reality never plays out as fairy tales. To be able to pick and choose, really as if human beings had such a choice: we will be who we were 'meant' to be, as our personalities always have been, gravitating towards the very things our souls pull us to, regardless if our minds were deluded enough to think such trains would not reach their station. Nope, they will. It is a matter of time before anyone who is truly a liar comes to lying, before a preacher's true skin shows and his pedophilia emerges, before the true colors of the snake reveal themselves. Whether one is truthful or not, whether one would compromise principles for the sake of dollars, whether one would give their own blood and sweat and tears for ultimately futile pursuits, whether the object of true loves was chased in vain, all of these will come to pass for each of us, in spite of howsoever we try to fool ourselves.
Given that inevitability, I cannot express the full amount of disgust and repulsion I feel when I hear about the idyllic sermons and lectures and advices of Muslims with claim to knowledge here in the 'West'. They continue to try and espouse something innately beautiful, Islam, in a manner wholly insulated from the land in which they physically live, pretending that their problems are so easily boxed and shelved, simply by saying a few words, the vast differences between their morally-centered way of life can be rescued; impossible to be so easy! Part of me shudders at the apparent naivete of the "religious" people these days. They keep on living, walking, breathing, laughing, going about their lives as if they have no idea of the chasm that lies at their feet, that what they apparently love so dearly has so much at odds, in some basic levels (capitalism vs morality, who knew), with the very place they call home. I'm no stranger to delusions, having had to fight off my own for so many years (losing a first real love to 'real life' being a primary stimulus), so I can tell when they are being pushed aside rather than dealt with or accepted.
All of that leads me to my current frame of mind: where or how can I fit in such a world? Few things are as they seem, truth so often bent to fit people's immediate needs and desires, countries led to destruction on the basis of mercurial economic whims that may change from decade to decade (see: Afghanistan vis a vis Russia/US). Is my need for survival for great enough that I can mentally overcome these inconsistencies and forgo them for presently greener pastures? It doesn't look like it, hence the root for all of my recent writings, perhaps the story of my life.
Alas !
Sometimes when writing it is easy to forget that not everyone has an insider's perspective, that metaphors or language used with its intended meaning in mind can be interpreted differently or missed altogether by those on the outside looking in. It's a distressing thought when writers have the awareness of it (that is, when they emerge from their thought bubble and remember that in fact other *people* will be reading what they write). It's with this in mind I will try to elaborate my present mindset and give the universe some clarity as to why I insist on being me and nothing else.
From the outset, it should be obviously stated: I take things, every thing, much more acutely than most people. I "sense" subtleties in language, word choices people make, inflections in their speech, body language, delays in response, and various other kinds of things that may or may not be actually present, and not all things are sensed immediately, some happen after reflection at some later point in time. I'm not some super-genius when it comes to these things, I just process them very much, occasionally too much.
The best way to understand that would be the expression: "walking on eggshells". If people (white people mainly, I've noticed) walk on eggshells, then I would hear the sounds the cracking makes (metaphor intended). Not only this, I wouldn't ignore the cracking as most people would be prone to do: instead, it would consume me to try and discern the motive behind this reluctance on the part of another, to try and understand why they would feel this way. Most often the case is people are afraid of confronting hard truths, especially in the case of others, but ironically most when concerning themselves (this kind of self-delusion is probably a worldwide epidemic).
When you have a personality that natively processes things (events, culture, politics, etc) at either an acute or macroscopic level, and then combine that with a desire to comprehend anything or anything deemed mysterious, well you have a recipe for something very, very strange: me! When certain truths are reached in life, every person faces a challenge as to how to react to them. You might deem some of my perceived truths as imaginary or self-created, but they are 99% evident for the most part. I will draw the caricature of a few truths for clarity's sake.
One of my biggest peeves over the years has been the notions of culture, how it forces people into obtuse and obscure and irrelevant traditions simply for the sake of "its how its always been done". To take a personal example, the culture of my parents, who immigrated from Pakistan as first-generation Muslims in America some decades back. Being prone to reading between the lines, it was never really hard for me to see the kind of culture that was, the kind of male-dominated patriarchy where knowledge of truth was relegated below the level of 'political correctness' or what was deemed fitting respective of someone's level (ie someone of status was given more leeway with regard to getting away with things, with the inverse true for the poor or less fortunate = in short, clout and the worth of human beings was assessed by the amount of land/wealth/male children they possessed). If you told someone old school from this culture the color of sky as blue, if they had some interest in the opposite being true, they might try to pull some insane, utterly vague and useless argument to convince you otherwise that they were still right. As if this tendency wasn't frustrating enough, the level of nepotism and societal decay is compounded by this kind of thinking, part of the reason why the Pakistani government is so riddled with corruption and no one can possibly fix it (because the culture itself has been broken, for quite some time).
Back to the point, how was I to resolve myself (my lineage being irrevocable) with what I saw in front of me? To go even further down the rabbit hole, I had the split of the "East" and the "West", notions developed only by people who couldn't think of any better labels lol. Part of the East was the Muslim part, which tried to establish harmony and take solace in the notion of "take the best of both worlds and leave the rest" - a most beautiful notion if I ever knew one! But alas, reality never plays out as fairy tales. To be able to pick and choose, really as if human beings had such a choice: we will be who we were 'meant' to be, as our personalities always have been, gravitating towards the very things our souls pull us to, regardless if our minds were deluded enough to think such trains would not reach their station. Nope, they will. It is a matter of time before anyone who is truly a liar comes to lying, before a preacher's true skin shows and his pedophilia emerges, before the true colors of the snake reveal themselves. Whether one is truthful or not, whether one would compromise principles for the sake of dollars, whether one would give their own blood and sweat and tears for ultimately futile pursuits, whether the object of true loves was chased in vain, all of these will come to pass for each of us, in spite of howsoever we try to fool ourselves.
Given that inevitability, I cannot express the full amount of disgust and repulsion I feel when I hear about the idyllic sermons and lectures and advices of Muslims with claim to knowledge here in the 'West'. They continue to try and espouse something innately beautiful, Islam, in a manner wholly insulated from the land in which they physically live, pretending that their problems are so easily boxed and shelved, simply by saying a few words, the vast differences between their morally-centered way of life can be rescued; impossible to be so easy! Part of me shudders at the apparent naivete of the "religious" people these days. They keep on living, walking, breathing, laughing, going about their lives as if they have no idea of the chasm that lies at their feet, that what they apparently love so dearly has so much at odds, in some basic levels (capitalism vs morality, who knew), with the very place they call home. I'm no stranger to delusions, having had to fight off my own for so many years (losing a first real love to 'real life' being a primary stimulus), so I can tell when they are being pushed aside rather than dealt with or accepted.
All of that leads me to my current frame of mind: where or how can I fit in such a world? Few things are as they seem, truth so often bent to fit people's immediate needs and desires, countries led to destruction on the basis of mercurial economic whims that may change from decade to decade (see: Afghanistan vis a vis Russia/US). Is my need for survival for great enough that I can mentally overcome these inconsistencies and forgo them for presently greener pastures? It doesn't look like it, hence the root for all of my recent writings, perhaps the story of my life.
Alas !
5.28.2013
- in the name of Allah -
underneath the moon
just as passing shadows on a midnight summer's eve, cast forth by clouds finding still their road by heaven's leash, my breath calms to winter's tune, now at last opaque with respite given form both false and true. as prior puzzles procure their pause, sight is bronzed in darkness, with eye each eye obscured by willing gauze. crooks and cheats have such simple paths to follow, either evasion of authority or greed of riches ringing hollow. but those who care not for the means of such labels, nor the sordid deeds of their requisite, find in questioning their staple, an endless search for the unenviable perfectionist. ideals, those grandiose things of fancy, pursued by both kings and paupers, but damned to hell by human fallibility, mistaking for gold mere shiny coppers. how often must cry the sun, to see such potential wasted, as each morning rises, but yet people with its light, move still in patterns aimless. accrue all the coffers and counts, levy the ledgers and lists, but be ever certain to revoke the rights and make rife the rifts. ironic indeed, one that might envy the shadow, might envy the ghost, whose legend is safe in books and histories foretold the most. so much hope, wrapped up in burdens, prayed not to sink its sailor's ship, alas for wisdom lost or never had, that smarter moves were not made than this. not all shores remain as bright as mother's lands, some siren songs turn out too strong, unwrapping from serenity's gift the final strands, as with pandora, hope is all it ever was, or ever had.
underneath the moon
just as passing shadows on a midnight summer's eve, cast forth by clouds finding still their road by heaven's leash, my breath calms to winter's tune, now at last opaque with respite given form both false and true. as prior puzzles procure their pause, sight is bronzed in darkness, with eye each eye obscured by willing gauze. crooks and cheats have such simple paths to follow, either evasion of authority or greed of riches ringing hollow. but those who care not for the means of such labels, nor the sordid deeds of their requisite, find in questioning their staple, an endless search for the unenviable perfectionist. ideals, those grandiose things of fancy, pursued by both kings and paupers, but damned to hell by human fallibility, mistaking for gold mere shiny coppers. how often must cry the sun, to see such potential wasted, as each morning rises, but yet people with its light, move still in patterns aimless. accrue all the coffers and counts, levy the ledgers and lists, but be ever certain to revoke the rights and make rife the rifts. ironic indeed, one that might envy the shadow, might envy the ghost, whose legend is safe in books and histories foretold the most. so much hope, wrapped up in burdens, prayed not to sink its sailor's ship, alas for wisdom lost or never had, that smarter moves were not made than this. not all shores remain as bright as mother's lands, some siren songs turn out too strong, unwrapping from serenity's gift the final strands, as with pandora, hope is all it ever was, or ever had.
4.10.2013
- in the name of Allah -
Almost 3 months, yet it feels like much longer since I last wrote. Maybe I can put into words again my present state and fill in the gaps between then and now.
The inevitable gulf of disillusion between how I see the world and how it is wont to be reflected by a semblance of "Islamic" idealism seems to grow only larger. Just as the conflicts on the world stage, namely middle eastern and african, seem only more grinding and endless. The world just slips farther and farther down the rabbit hole of its own desires and destruction, as selfishness replaces virtue ad inifinitum and ultimately those who care can do little else besides defend their own little corners of the pie.
It is strange, there is no sense of depression I have in myself, as I might have in times past. There is only a growing sense that the bridge between what I see and what I long for will never be built for as long as I draw mortal breath. This leads me to finding myself almost entirely absent any true wishes or goals of a worldly sense. The irony is, I cannot even long much for a blissful afterlife at this point; the fabric of the heart which allows it to stretch and encompass any or all impediments to its desire's fruition...looks to be ripped beyond repair. For me, if I cannot long for a thing, I find myself unable to follow the road to its acquisition or have sight to see it clearly. The most basic gift in this predicament is the fact that many of my most intrinsic qualities align by nature towards a fairly religious, 'virtuous' tint. So that most whatever good I find myself doing is because it is what I would myself ordinarily do, not a self-commanded compulsion towards a commandment from Allah.
Part of the issue has always been a strong sense of not quite belonging in this place, in a world where not only do injustices roam free uncontested, but also when cultural dispositions are too deeply ingrained with personal egos, so that a previously well-intentioned act or idea is tainted with a baser human-ness. For years past counting, I have been an opponent to culture and the kinds of things it imposes on people who make claim to it. A few times, I thought I had won the war; to my dismay, those small victories were merely battles, and now looking over it all, I see that the vastness of culture will win out far longer than my short lifespan. It will win the war.
And so, my place as I see it diminishes beyond anything I can share or show others. My little corner of the universe isn't very large or difficult to describe, but when a person's aspirations become so far and distant from those around him, then there is no convergence on the roads of understanding, only a series of re-appearing forks. I have subconsciously (and now consciously) adopted fairly asocial/aloof tendencies, presuming that because the road I take is not one that can be shared, pitstops of socially-constrained visitation are superfluous. There are some inevitable exceptions, such as family and those I encounter in work/life. Epiphanies do still come, though perhaps more rarely now, but it can supposed that such as one to lead me from my disillusion exists and may yet follow.
Still, the name of 'Nomad' could not be any more fitting.
Almost 3 months, yet it feels like much longer since I last wrote. Maybe I can put into words again my present state and fill in the gaps between then and now.
The inevitable gulf of disillusion between how I see the world and how it is wont to be reflected by a semblance of "Islamic" idealism seems to grow only larger. Just as the conflicts on the world stage, namely middle eastern and african, seem only more grinding and endless. The world just slips farther and farther down the rabbit hole of its own desires and destruction, as selfishness replaces virtue ad inifinitum and ultimately those who care can do little else besides defend their own little corners of the pie.
It is strange, there is no sense of depression I have in myself, as I might have in times past. There is only a growing sense that the bridge between what I see and what I long for will never be built for as long as I draw mortal breath. This leads me to finding myself almost entirely absent any true wishes or goals of a worldly sense. The irony is, I cannot even long much for a blissful afterlife at this point; the fabric of the heart which allows it to stretch and encompass any or all impediments to its desire's fruition...looks to be ripped beyond repair. For me, if I cannot long for a thing, I find myself unable to follow the road to its acquisition or have sight to see it clearly. The most basic gift in this predicament is the fact that many of my most intrinsic qualities align by nature towards a fairly religious, 'virtuous' tint. So that most whatever good I find myself doing is because it is what I would myself ordinarily do, not a self-commanded compulsion towards a commandment from Allah.
Part of the issue has always been a strong sense of not quite belonging in this place, in a world where not only do injustices roam free uncontested, but also when cultural dispositions are too deeply ingrained with personal egos, so that a previously well-intentioned act or idea is tainted with a baser human-ness. For years past counting, I have been an opponent to culture and the kinds of things it imposes on people who make claim to it. A few times, I thought I had won the war; to my dismay, those small victories were merely battles, and now looking over it all, I see that the vastness of culture will win out far longer than my short lifespan. It will win the war.
And so, my place as I see it diminishes beyond anything I can share or show others. My little corner of the universe isn't very large or difficult to describe, but when a person's aspirations become so far and distant from those around him, then there is no convergence on the roads of understanding, only a series of re-appearing forks. I have subconsciously (and now consciously) adopted fairly asocial/aloof tendencies, presuming that because the road I take is not one that can be shared, pitstops of socially-constrained visitation are superfluous. There are some inevitable exceptions, such as family and those I encounter in work/life. Epiphanies do still come, though perhaps more rarely now, but it can supposed that such as one to lead me from my disillusion exists and may yet follow.
Still, the name of 'Nomad' could not be any more fitting.