The imam's sweetly melancholic recitation rolled over me, undulating like waves. Foams of recognition washed over the shores of my mind: I try to spear words & phrases that I know.
Eternity. Home. Jannah. Rivers flow beneath. Jahannam. Fire. Severe. Punishment. Losers. Mockers. Good tidings. Guidance. Most Gracious. Most merciful. Wills. Heart. Astray. Straigh path. Syukur. Sun. Moon. Stars. Sky. Zuriat. Father. Wife. Rasul. Shaytan. Man. Say. Mukmin. Fear Me. Love. Ease. Hardship. Angels. Those who. Shining. Earth. Hayat. Akhirat. Mountains. Ayat (Signs). Ummul Kitab. Coolness of the eyes. Hearing. Sight. Patience. Knowledge. Wakil. Wali. Criterion. Creation. Most Great. Praise be to Allah. Glorious is Allah. ... ... ...
I know so little...
I try to catch them and hold them in, but they run through the cracks of my mind. I try to remember that He sees into our hearts, but sometimes I drown, not in Whiteness but in the Shadows of worldly worries.
So I look again for the sea of consciousness, for the peace that comes with it, to purify & quench my soul.
When deciding to alter the nature / course of a relationship, success can only be measured by whether or not one's perception of it has been altered. I.e. whether or not one's reactions to the other person have altered.
Sometimes one slips and forgets that the impetus for the alteration is due to some unchangeable factor, a factor that is out of one's control to alter, so instead one alters one's self, one's perception of the relations. Is not was. Sometimes one forgets and slips back into the old, battered shell & hope still for things that are not meant to be.
Then one remembers and the change grows ever more deeper into the heart. Until its roots penetrates every living memory of the past, the seed for change must be watered with a quietly despairing hope.
Attachments to things in this hayat al-dunya is destined to be a tragedy. So I look beyond the constellations for a promise everlasting.
When reading, I tire of the philosophy of the godless.
I admire the pretty sentences, sometimes. But the message conveyed, the 'meaning' is no longer lost on me. I was confused, I did not (do not still) know enough to understand that these 'principles' they moan / preach of are but borned of man's inevitable hopelessness.
There are isolated gems somewhere in their meandering writings that can be taken to heart. Absolutely. Al-ghazali did mention in the ihya something about not dismissing truths (for they are self-manifest) even if they come from the mind of one in 'error'. But when forced to wade through the swamp of godlessness just to stumble over said gems, I lack the fortitude for it these days.
Oh but I do admire pretty sentences, it's just in my nature. Sometimes they just stick to my mind. E.g.
"Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away."
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
I probably have a thing for Nick Carraway. He's like Charles Ryder in Waugh's Brideshead. The initially seemingly naive, closet romantic, somewhat distant, verging on heartless, outsider observer. I like spectator characters. I can relate with them. They always end up tragically disillusioned. Helplessly they let themselves be enamoured by a glamorous character whom they are keenly aware of being broken / vulnerable. They hitch a ride, things are rosy and perfect for a while. Then disaster strikes and they come to full realization of these characters's flaws, how they actually willingly poison themselves. Then they leave, carrying a mark in their hearts, having sold a piece of their soul. Quietly slinking back into reality, moderate and a little older.
So human. Lovely. Yes. I like those kind of books more perhaps. They treat the characters unaplogetically but tenderly, humanely. It's got to do with the authors bottom line I guess. I can't stand Kundera. Or Sartre. Or Palahniuk (not anymore phew). Or Plath (for more personal reasons than anything perhaps). Kerouac though, he's special. He's the spectator outsider but he's really writing about himself. If he wasn't so neurotic I'd probably like On the Road a lot more.
Meh. Just give me a good ol children's paperback and I'd be contented. I'd rather read of innocence at the moment. Besides I've got Star Wars on my mind anyway.
Soft red dirt spread over hard ground. Rough uneven walls that leave red dust clinging to your palms. A small fire in a shallow pit in the ground keeping you warm. The flames kept alive with dry grass and twigs, you watch them shrivel into ash, crackling, hypnotic. Its light cast a display of shadows, dancing across the red walls.
The mouth of the cave frames the cold Moon and her stellar subjects. Songs of the Night reach you with clarity and along with them, visions of the Night fill your mind; the humming desert locusts rubbing their legs on their wings, howling wolves courting the Moon, yipping wild dogs hunting in a pack.
In my red cave, I gaze at my hands, tracing the map of red lines criss-crossing my palms.
It's hard to know which is the 'right' thing to do sometimes. One can choose the 'rational' (e.g. lawful) right or the 'emotional' (I.e. compassionate) right.
Which 'right' decision is the best one? It doesn't feel 'right' when kindness is sacrificed for the sake of 'keeping one's word' (amanah). But so is vice versa isn't it? Or is it considered as sticking your neck out for someone you consider a friend? Both ends in an offending; of the amanah or of the friend.
I don't know. But deep down we always know what biases lies in the heart.