Monday, December 29, 2014


Rain calls my name
Dripping off the broad green
Pooling in my head

The mind ripples
What thoughts lay there
Floating in darkened water

Sound the clouds
Heave the Sun off its throne
I yearn for the sky

Wednesday, December 24, 2014


My last week in Melbourne was infinitely hectic. I could barely breathe, I broke down once. But that is all over. It was happy but I was tired out too much to be alright at the end of the day.

The last shred of peace I found was when I stopped at S's place to pray Maghrib before she dropped me off in the city. We had been to the airport to fetch a girl and to send my cousin M off.

S recited the surahs gently, in a subdued melodious manner that had always been in her nature. It was wondrous. Tranquility came. When the Prophet (pbuh) Muhammad said to Bilal "Rest us, Bilal!" indicating he wanted Bilal to sound the call to prayer, ergo prayer being the 'Rest' he referred to, I felt that. I cherish that moment.

S who is always gentle, but not to be mistaken as weak-willed. There is fire within her. I have seen it, I know. It shows in the way she drives, her unguarded flares of reaction. Character and manners is beauty achieved through knowledge of what is Good and S has that. I admire her and seek to emulate her.

My last tranquility in Melbourne. I could not hope for anything better.

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Flight home

I looked out the window, my seat was close to the wing, 32A. This was only the 2nd time I took a MAS flight to travel between Melbourne and home. Normally, I would have been on AirAsia, and always sitting in 51D. An aisle seat in the back most row on the plane. 

I tapped the glass with a finger, it was cool to the touch despite the Australian summer sun beating down outside. It was a long time before the plane moved. I was tired and relieved and waiting. Waiting to feel something. I was leaving Melbourne, leaving university, leaving a time during which I had only to care for myself. I felt freedom slipping from my fingers, Time turning its cruel back on me. I waited for the telling catch to rise in my throat. 

When the plane moved I stared at the wing's shadow. The shadow was crisp on tarmac and blurry where it fell on grass. The grass was green, smattered with tiny yellow flowers that grew wild and rampant anywhere on the sidewalks in Melbourne. Between the bright green were flaxen weeds. It had started raining by then. I worked my mind into reminiscing my last month in Melbourne. Most of these memories entailed moments with my roommate. How I love being around her.

I remember Melbourne like the reflections thrown by puddles on wet pavement. Stark and clear in places, faded into grey in others, and brief; as the Sun dries it all up in due time. 

When the plane took off I leaned closer to the window. I let the glare burn my vision. This bright, blinding Sun I only find in Melbourne. I shall miss it. It is a metaphor, in a way, of my golden days. Ha. Such carefreeness even in trying moments. Something about living away from home. Something about existing as an individual separate from parental supervision, familial roles. All of which could be cold and difficult sometimes, to be so independent, but mostly, freeing.

I looked around for the familiar azure of the Australian Sky. It was foggy, all is faded grey. Even in my last moments, Melbourne seeked to be surreal. I accepted its will. I watched the MAS logo on the wingtip, rise and fall, arching, as the plane turned and breached the lower layer of clouds. And there it was, a glimpse of blue. It was not much, but I drank the sight in.

I now see the land below through the glaze of clouds. I looked and looked. Flat lands of organized squares. Pastures, cities, roads, rivers. Australia is so flat, and terrifically well-planned. I watched the scenery change before me. Mountains, trees, lakes. I shot many videos on my phone. 

Then the plane rose higher still into the Sky. No more land was visible. Only a sea of clouds. I thought of God. The catch came. Tears threatened to well in my eyes, I shed a tear and contained myself. I prayed for many things.

And then I wrenched myself from the window, it was suddenly too much.

Monday, December 22, 2014

Thursday, December 11, 2014

Sunday, December 7, 2014

With the weather

With the silvered dark clouds, come good news and bad news. Friends who are suddenly struck with calamity on top of academic troubles, friends who you have only known to be kind and strong and generous.

It is hard. I am grateful for my blessings. I pray for them.


Skyscrapers in the distance are  clad in fog, a faded image lining the horizon. The buildings nearer come sharp in focus. All is white. Rain fall light and steady. The cobbled pathway glisten, the grey skies mirrored in the puddles. My friend the wind do not howl today, he merely caress the leaves where the birds are singing still. It is mid-day. This is the weather today. 

My exam results should be released this evening. I should hope to breathe easy soon.

Say it never

By my conscious decisions 
my deliberate actions 
I captain my soul 

By my wavering resolve
my enduring impatience 
I quietly unravel

By my steady hand
   I am my own 
           my own

Saturday, December 6, 2014

Night terror

In the Night
When darkness seems bright
You came to me

I am haunted 
By grief from another lifetime

I am haunted
By heartache from another age

In its void
    I am lost 
In its black
    I lose you 

Solemn one,
You who prey on my mind

When darkness hunt me down
You come to me

and I thought I was done with that nightmare

Thursday, December 4, 2014


I can't live without doing, creating something. Draw, write, edits, whatever. I have visions and I want them in motion. I want always to be moved.  

I only want calm after inspiration. 

Tuesday, December 2, 2014


of another's affection for you, and vice versa. Isn't that what a bond is. Testimonies in the form of words and actions, but mostly, whatever is successful in sowing faith in said person. That indeed, you do love them and they you.

To be able to feel yourself needed

Friday, November 28, 2014

Pack up

Spent the entire day packing up things I've accumulated over the past four years into boxes. The heaviest of all being books (20kg). Thank goodness I actually bring my books home every summer break. 

Put my wooden world map by the sidewalk, where I first found it 3 years ago. I left my typewriter there too (it does not work, it had never worked). I taped that painting of Mt. Fuji I did last year on its casing. I thought it's a nice touch. On the back of the paper it says, 
For Kiyoaki, who viewed Satoko as "Mt. Fuji at sunset."
I remember when I did the painting, M. had just got back from Japan. So, M. was in my mind too as I painted it. 

Lastly, I left my little whiteboard. On it I had written "Please give us a HOME." Not even 15 minutes later I saw from my kitchen window a young man with glorious ginger hair walking briskly with my little whiteboard.

It is very real now. I am leaving Melbourne. I am no longer a student. Life will be shocking. It is like pushing a reset button. I wonder...

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

With the tide

The shore thirsts for the ocean
he reaches for her, receives her
ever in waiting

The ocean loves the shore
she greets him, kisses him
ever returning

While the winds
bear their laments;

In darkness's fold
In daylight's hold
         for fear
         for hope
         for courage,
the messenger is,
                as ever

Thursday, November 20, 2014

Solicitude II

Has Time been kind to you?
Rested your aching heart
Whiled your fears apart

Has Courage grown for you?
Adorn you with certainty
Armour your soul steady

Has Faith walked with you?
Sweetened your presentiment
Soothed your irresolution

If a force on this earth could sunder 
The phantoms in your mind
A thousand ranks would back you
               - And I amongst them.

Wednesday, November 19, 2014


As the blown leaves loves the wayward wind,
As the falling raindrops loves the
far-flung sky,
I am regret, longing;
           Wanting, to appease you.

My words desired, 
and failed;
       I hope for you,
Is all I wish to say.

Wednesday, November 12, 2014


"I was substitute teaching in a high school history class yesterday and I was thinking of you. The lesson was review for an upcoming quiz on Islam (they're learning about the five largest religions around the world) and I was helping them with the review worksheets. I ended up talking to quite a few of them of how "jihad" didn't mean Holy War, but a struggle of faith. The whole concept of Jihad meaning a "holy war" was an American bastardization of the name. Some of the students also asked why I always said "Muhammed, peace be upon him," and I was able to explain how it was all about respect. I doubt it was much or if kids will remember, but it was kinda fun to educate them with the lessons you taught us."
~ Subject: Thinking of you, email received 11/11/2014

A portion of an email from friends I made over the internet. People I met through Star Wars fanfiction believe it or not. They (twin sisters) wrote an amazing Star Wars fic and I had the audacity to contact them to express my appreciation and that then led to me being one of their beta readers (consultants/editors) for their Assassin's Creed fic, which needed insight into teachings and cultures in Islam. It's amazing how life intersects in this era where people from opposite ends of this world could be so in touch with each other, despite never having met. Because really, in friendships, it is the soul that needs knowing first, the heart that needs loving first, all else is secondary.

Monday, November 10, 2014


The hard lines of your back
the slope of your neck,

The thin line of your mouth
the leaning in to your mouth,

The sharp slants of your brow
the plant of my lips to your brow,

I stand on tip-toe
your pride bent, your head bowed,

Fall apart,
Dear beloved.

Sunday, November 2, 2014

To be or not to be

These last couple of months have been a daze. I read something, about trying to be 'calm'. In other words, ways to be stoic, and noble and just, and patient. And then through all of that, to be kind under all circumstance. 

For a period of time, I checked myself. I think more before I say things but then I find it almost impossibly contradictory to my nature. I'm almost irredeemably excitable (around the right people). And it just got too hard. 

And throughout this experiment, one of the practices was to not immediately write one's feelings down because that too is an exercise on self-control.

But now, I am certain that it is the only way to be. If I am to better myself, self-control, self-discipline is the only way. I fail thoroughly and miserably in these two exercises when it comes to academic pursuits.

The only way to achieve self-mastery is to be hard on yourself, consistently until one becomes accustomed to denying the self what it flagrantly, endlessly wants. 

Ultimately, I concluded that I merely idealise self-mastery. I am not desirous of it, I merely romanticise it. It's a predicament really. To be or not to be, that is indeed the question.

Sunday, October 26, 2014


The desire to be removed from the self, to be thought as someone, not different, separate. The same, but separate. To exist away from notions of who I am. In simple terms, to be unconventional. Perhaps it is just another way of saying that one is desirous of freedom. To become (for just a moment), somebody allowed of exterior things. Exterior as in 'outside' the normal scope of interests one usually am.

What a curiosity. Just a little wild rant. I have studying to do. And that sure puts me in a mood to be 'creative' (read: 'to procrastinate').

Thursday, October 23, 2014


I am 23 today.

Ramparts of you II

I weep now,
your spell lay broken
lapping at my feet
stinging like the salt of the ocean

A wall, 
you were the wall, my wall
You loomed vast and unscaleable;
        my audience, 
        my subject, 
        my friend.

I laid a hand on your cheek,
At a touch, 
         you crumbled;
         Love is your undoing
         Love that isn't mine
         Love ungraspable by me.

So I stood upon this ruin,
The ramparts I built
My shelter from you, now a skeleton
A relic of old; 

The irony of this poem is not lost on me. Instead, I am slightly relieved by it.
Part I

we stand in quietude

We stand in a field of black grass
Beneath a sky as if lit on fire
The cosmos engulfs all
Your throat is ablaze
With unspokens
Constellations in disarray
Each star a supernova
Each demise paramount
Yet the world is unfazed
Amidst this ruin
We stand in quietude
6th October 2014. 
Apparently some people do read my poems. This is for you (as always) and for these strangers.

Monday, October 13, 2014


The weather has taken a fine turn here in Melbourne. The sky is blue, the clouds are white. I mean, what else do I say? I describe the weather too often here. It's the only thing I actually like to write about. 

Things come & go, feelings & perceptions too. I think emotions and point of views are sorted into chapters, like in a book. Sometimes I think I sense the culmination of an emotion just the same as the ending of a chapter in a book. I ruminate on what I felt, what has happened, what triggered it, why etc.

A reflective mood is all it puts me into. At least the weather is beautiful. When all else fail and the weather is good, I can deal with this world better. I shall stop pondering my dreams once and for all. It doesn't do to overthink illusions that come in your sleep. They are not real. Being the way I am; one who remembers a lot of their dreams, its disorienting. Enough of that.

The weather is good. The wind howls. The sun shines. The usual.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Puisi Buat Gerhana

Purnama, kau palingkan wajah 
Meredup dibalik bayangan
Merajuk dipeluk kayangan

Merah mendakapi mentari
Kasih semesta mengucupi

Seribu jiwa, seribu mimpi
Menjadi saksi.
                                                                  (Melbourne, 8 Oktober 2014).

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Last Spring

Launceston - Hobart, Tasmania (Australia), 30 September - 4 October 2014, Spring.
I ought to jot a few things down regarding my spring break but first, Melbourne: After Hobart and Launceston in Tasmania, Melbourne seems almost lifeless. But that is an unfair juxtaposition. Cities and rural towns are too different. Here in Melbourne, it has been a series of overcast days and drizzly rain interspersed with golden sunrays that threatens to blind you with its brilliance. Hence the Sky is in turns a flat, oppressive slate of gray or blue as can be smeared with white clouds. 

As with all Spring breaks, once it ends, the high followed by the dip, puts me into a somber mood. I do not like overcast days (this I have mentioned too many times here), they lull me into immobility.

So onward with happy memories, what Spring break has been: 
- An expedition of new landscapes. Mountains, endless green pastures, waterfalls, lakes, seasides of jagged rocks (rather than sandy beaches), an abundance of blooming flowers, and the countless ever-changing face of the Sky.

- Of imprinting memories with people I have lived with (lived with - I feel the need to stress these words. Much is contained in them.) for the past four years. Of memorizing their temperament & nature, their smiles, words, dreams & fears. Every tiny detail of what they are in themselves and what they have taught me.

- Of savouring Time. I am all too aware of my being on the precipice of change. I have been in the nascence of adulthood but I am approaching a different phase of living. Life after education. So, I savoured Time.

That is enough here I think. Now this, is something B. shared with me during our road-trip that I treasure:

"Rasulullah (pbuh), whenever he travels on his camel, he will smile at the Sky. To show his gratitude."

Sunday, September 28, 2014

You are these words

You were falling asleep. It is midday, the wind is singing through the rustling leaves, you can hear it through your open window. The sun is streaming into your white room, the Sky is smiling at you, a fresco of blue and white. You are in bed. You were falling asleep.

Your phone rang. S. is calling you. You answer and she speaks. Something. She tells you something. You talk. The conversation ends. Birds have been chirping all morning. You can hear them through your window. Your window spans the entire wall of your room. A large, clear window. The Sky comes into your room.

You were falling asleep. M. is texting you. A poem by Plath. "Morning Song." You try to read it. You can't. You skim it. You try to read it over and over. Yet you skim it each time. You think of F. You think of M. You reply. The conversation ends. Your window rattles, the wind whistles at you. It is like you are at the beach. The wind brings the sea into you room.

You were falling asleep. Now you are writing. You are these words. You are these words. You are t h e s e w o r d s.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

red gloaming

I weep for innocence lost
for chivalry gasping for precious breath
for eternity bleeding on the floor

this crowding city, this human fog
this supine skyline;

Who waits, what wakes, for you
When you darken your door?

Hungry man, do you dream when you sleep?
Does the wind die at your shivering?
Does the world pause at your weeping?

this human tide, this wild road
this red gloaming;

Dying man, do you hear your stilling heart?
Does death smile upon your meeting?
Does the reeling world matter still?

this human grief;
this eventide, this evenfall.

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Stay part II (Happy Birthday)

Dearest M.

Tempest, beloved, this is the year I give nothing to you. I've thought about it long and hard and I could only find one thing that could possibly make you happy today of all days and it is something that I cannot give. Another holds that happiness. Thus, I present to you now, my words. As I always have through all these years. 

I have written to you, written of you, read things as if they were written of you. In my letters, my poetry, I have summoned you in monikers and fashioned you into personas as countless as the distant stars. I have sworn you into my words, sworn to you in my words. I have built you fortresses in my mind with these words. They have become one with the very walls of my heart. To unseat you is unspeakable grief. Sometimes I shelter from thoughts of you in them but mostly, I admire their walls, the long lonely hallways, the crooked stairways; I admire my impossible affection for you. You are the vessel for my words. My medium, my tedium, my delirium.

This is all I do. I write of you in long reminiscences, I write you into an eternal precipice, because that is where the beauty of life is most stark. You fit into all these notions and more (such is the nature of a muse). You are many things to me and this is precisely why I will never cease to write of you. A word, a sentence, a paragraph. They are never enough. I have tried to sever this connection. I have tried to erase these words, raze my crumbling fortresses to the ground, scorch you out of my life. It pained me beyond my understanding, and if I am not mistaken, it pained you too.

I hope you read this with fondness for me. My intention is to remind you just what you mean to me and hopefully, to make you happy. I want you to know in this life that God has blessed us with, no matter how many years go by, how much changed things can be, I will stay the same. I treasure what we have, and always will. 

Dear sweet friend, happy birthday. May Allah SWT bless you with love and happiness in this life and the next. Inshallah.

Ever yours,

Sunday, August 31, 2014

Stay part I

Caught in a web of smoky feelings. Missing things that are, were, even things that never were. What do you call this submerged feeling? Something akin to warm sea water. Blue and inviting, clear and endless. A beckoning mystery that promises and whispers through the breeze.

You are the ocean. I am the shoreline. My words are the wind. And I think, "I've given all I am allowed to give." And I wonder what sort of expression you would make. A grin, most likely. A friendly deflection. Ever silent. You never grace me with a direct response. I wonder. Something in between assent and dissent? Either way, it doesn't matter. What matters is that I have been allowed.  You have allowed me a fantasy. And I am pierced by your faith. Thus I am loyal.

And all would be like warm sushine by the beach. This soft glowing. Like the setting sun, something in all of this is fading. If fading could be stretched into eternity. A never ending softness. Death by love. 

Must I put a disclaimer here? As if friendship is void of love. As if romantic love is all there is. Any kind of love, is never commonplace. Love is love. Friends are lovers. Lovers are lovers. 

What a feat. What a feat of sentiment I have moved myself to construct. For you. Ever for you. Sweet friend, stay well. 

Friday, August 29, 2014

a touch of introspection

It will be September soon, spring will come. It is foggy these days. Even in the dead of night Melbourne is covered in ethereal fog. As if the entire city is intent to make the vestiges of winter a magical one. I am not partial to the bite of cold (not news). I suppose I will only miss Melbourne when I can no longer go back to it. Because to be honest, while I was home for winter break (much has happened in that rather short period), not a single thought of mine went towards this city. Then again, one can only feel at home and miss it only when the people or things they love are there to populate it. Melbourne is my alma mater. It teaches more than it comforts.

I am ever happy to frolic about with roomie and sofy. But it is a mystery to me that they never seem to feel the depths of dusk niggling at them. I do say 'seem'. Maybe they do after all. With much reservation thus, I say... perhaps not everyone feel it. Not everyone perhaps has been touched by introspection. That deep and occasionally involuntary pulling away from the present into the mind where one is faced with the soul and the heart. One becomes heedless of the world as is and enters instead into the realm of ambiguous perception.

Or I might simply be mistaking the simple act of pondering. Would not be the first time. And as always, the longing to put into writing the 'dusks' and 'depths' of humanity (love, eternity and all that tosh) nags at me. I seek only to bring into focus the vulnerability of being a creature of feeling. Just how much love and grief a person could harbor for the sake of another.

Anyway, when I do not write, I draw. And of course, the muse only rouses to which that calls to the heart. So I am not destitute. I linger still with ideas of martyrdom, nobility, stoicism and of course, the idea of ultimate love: selflessness.

Tuesday, August 5, 2014


I have a most striking flaw: To be quite terribly unforgiving when my patience runs out with somebody I care deeply for. I will state things as is, I will cut deep, I will be acidic. I will be gloriously angry and struggle to keep my peace. 

I believe in justice. I believe in 'setting things right'. Actions are a series of consequences and inevitably, people get hurt. Sometimes the 'blame' is equally distributed and sometimes not.

Pep talk

That one should let their self-worth be determined by another's opinion of them; seek no such thing. Be independent and seek yourself on your own. Set goals in life by your ideals. People (not just strangers in general, inclusive of family & friends) will help you but they may also pose a hindrance because people simply have opinions; some helpful, some not is all it is.

Be courageous, be generous, be forgiving.

Thursday, July 31, 2014

For when fear grips you tight

And I crossed a sea of grief today, to show you just how much I love you, how much mother loves you, how much God loves you. To have the strength to be so vulnerable in face of your own vulnerability, I thank God. I pray that He puts into you the Love of Islam as a way of your life. Islam as your salvation. Islam as your pathway towards truth. Islam as your future. Islam as your End. I pray that you grow into a pious, kind & forgiving man. I pray that whatever challenges you face, you remember that He is with you every step of the way & that every step will only bring you nearer to Him until you finally return to Him.

Dear brother, ana uhibukifillah. I love you for the sake of Allah.

Monday, July 21, 2014


O nameless anguish 
O heedless arrogance
          Why do you plague the weak-hearted?
           The bright adornments paving the road
           They sparkle with cheerful worldliness.

O patience-smothered
O humility-bartered
             Why do you flit from the soul's cradle?
              The perfumed beauty lurking the shadows
              They beckon with easy charm.

The heart forgets the soul
The heart thwarts itself 
                Unless watered with God
                Fed with mercy
                Clad with piety,

Goodness is fire frozen into a drop
Of contained passion
A concentrate of good-intentions
Fashioned with reservation.

Goodness is to forgo,
Forgive and forbear
A state of desertion
Of the not-divine.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014


No words except prayers to extinguish the anguish of contradictions. These futile words. Tumultuous heart, why do you only ponder the soul after guilt has sunk it's claws into you? 

It is tiring to exist in cyclical anguish. White, smooth & silken; depiction of goodness. The end-result of ideal character does not entail the iron will needed to attain it. 

To act towards goodness is the single most variable thing there is. It can be easy & effortless for one and near impossible to another. It pertains to the degree of one's commitment.

To commit the soul to what & whom. Vacillation is the trial. To brave through vacillation until the ideal characteristic is fully attained is a courageous act. Because really, how much willpower does it take to manifest an invisible, elusive foe so that one could strike it down once and for all? Especially if said foe has a penchant for resurrection.

Like iron forged in fire, the strength of will is a weapon strengthened by burnings & beatings. With this weapon fashioned in fiery intention, one must battle one's self.

Sunday, July 13, 2014


I can be mean spirited when my passions are challenged or I slighted. So I write. I write so that things will be as it was. Unchanged, perfect. So that in reality, I could proceed as if there never was a disturbance to my ego. So that pain, turned into poetry becomes something forgiven. So then I could resume playing my part, and begin again to hope. 

Saturday, July 12, 2014


Dear A.

When one is close to another, a strain develops when things are one-sided. Especially if the relationship was built on foundations of idolatry and warring egos fortified by time. 

I outgrew you. To think that I used to think you were perfect. The thing is, I cannot be happy when you are derisive towards notions & ideals I hold dear. I account your pessimism to your stringent distance (in every sense of the word) to me, to the rest of the world. You exist in the enclave of your family. I am tolerant of you. I always forgive. And then sometimes I get angry again (like this particular instance).

Do you not realize that I am the lynchpin? Despite it all, you lord over me petty things, which I know you to know, deep down are meant to put me down. I am hurt by your veiled unkindness. Was it jealousy in your part? Or is it simply your nature? (I suspect it is both). 

For once, I decided to stop being unassuming of your flighty words and curt dismissals of things I hold dear. I do not do that to you. So why then should I put up with this behaviour. You know me to swallow my pride and keep the peace no matter what, perhaps it is my mistake then, to be so temperate with you. 

Ah but to old friends, what is a sharp word or two ey? But darling, to old friends, concern for the other's well-being should be nĂºmero uno. Or at least to my esteem it is. Evidently, not to you.

I ruminate your small betrayals here where I know you will never know of. Given your absolute disinterest in everything that does not pertain to you. Oh I am bitter indeed. Because I revere loyalty. I cannot stand anything less than absolute faithfulness. My love for you have always been strong, consistent and unconditional. Nonetheless, patience can and do wear thin.


Friday, July 11, 2014


I remember my dreams. Sometimes it's good, sometimes it's bad. It's disorienting, pulling away from an alternate reality into consciousness. All these people and scenes that populate dreams seem so real. They say things, laugh, bleed, cry. When I wake up, I carry them with me, sometimes only for a little bit, but sometimes forever.

I dream each time I sleep. I have traversed worlds, lived and died in my dreams. Friends, strangers, monsters. I am well acquainted with them all. I used to dream that I am hunted down, each night, every night. That was years ago now though. I still remember them. I do not forget those dreams.

What are dreams? Do our souls really leave our corporeal bodies and enter this realm of shade? 

I read Surah djinn yesterday. The verses say that some of the djinns who have tried to listen or peer into the heavens see that there are guards (angels) guarding it. The djinns are shot with flaming arrows if they get too close. Some of them wonder what lies beyond. So when The Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) brought the message of Islam, some listened and followed. The Surah says the ghaib is not for men to see.

It reminds me of dreams. What a thing for us to possess, this ability.

Tuesday, July 1, 2014


"The youths recite poetry. They say 'we wear our hearts as shields'." - An elder on Iraqi youths.

Saturday, June 28, 2014


As with Yukio Mishima's sequel to Spring Snow, I am bitterly disappointed with Mary Renault's sequel to Fire From Heaven. The Persian Boy is written in first person, of the boy Bagoas. Whom Alexander took a liking to. I despise Bagoas for Hephaistion's sake. It's been a while since I care to detest any character in any book. But for Hephaistion, who's mantra for his beloved Alexander "Anything he needs, he must have." Hephaistion whom had been by Alexander's side since boyhood. Hephaistion, the Patroklus to Alexander's Achilles.

All I do as I read The Persian Boy is skim every page for mentions of Hephaistion. I could care less for Alexander now. Bagoas's jealousy give me mirth and indignation. Can't wait for Hephaistion to die, only to see Alexander lose his wits and then to read of Alexander's own death and be done with it all.

The last of the Alexander trilogy as with Mishima's teratology, I will likely put off. For there is no Hephaistion nor Alexander in it. The last book is of what ensued after Alexander's death. The power struggle. For being taken with Bagoas, I have dismissed Alexander from my graces. Golden one, you who continually shape Hephaistion's heart. How dare you. So why should I care for it then, the last book. Instead, I'll re-attempt The Iliad and then after it, The Odyssey. 

*sigh* This is me glorifying loyalty and Homeric love and being way too invested in quasi-fictional works.

Red One

The Red one who now suffocates in dilemmas;
confessional odes and oaths, 
proposals of loyalty and prosperity,
promises of virtue and valiancy
To whom will the heart bloom, 
finally plucked and pressed, 
To be cherished by only one?

Red one, your enchantment lies within;
A secret benevolence, 
A selfless forbearance,
You welcome the broken and mishappen,
You listen with eyes wide open,
You water thirst with fire,
You kiss lovers into martyrs;

Red one, we have tasted your mind;
A pool of silken dark,
A conflation of the sensual, the intellectual;
Subdued with secrecy,
Volatile with mystery,
Gentle with honesty,
Defiant with dignity;

But Lovers, we bed our words,
They come to you deflowered;
We Lovers, we steal our songs,
They come to you nary unsung;

The Red one, who now surveys her suppliants, 
turning beating hearts in her hands;
How to contemplate fate,
How to forsee destiny
How to crown victory; 
Red one, one last time,
          To whom will you gravitate?

Monday, June 16, 2014

"...great one, you who delight my heart."

And the rare instances of my actually wishing for something like this visits me. 

You who delight my heart.

What an exquisite expression of fondness.

Sunday, June 15, 2014


It can't be wrong to desire a taste of another's mind? And then, having tasted it cannot bear to part with it...oh, folly.

One can have exceptions I presume. A weakness for some inordinate person or the other. A kind of love afterall. Although? Much too fanciful. Illusory and selfish more than it's professed selfless nature. A phantasm of the muse. An apparition adorned with ideals of beauty forged for the beloved by the lover.

I should know. I have been lost & found in such smoky terrain again and again. A trick of the heart played on the intellect. Because even in moments of absolute faithfulness for the said precious, the admirer fails to be coherent in terms of what they are willing to upend.

In the end, only an ideal image remains. The phantasm is then complete. Wholly unattainable in its bewitching, illusory realm. 

It's 3 am. One can get drunk from fatigue. Ignore me. I have not been in love in the traditional sense of the word. I write only what I recognise. Still, I have too much propensity for the fanciful.

Saturday, June 14, 2014


What gives? Your entire self-image, your very soul. Your trust in yourself. That is what gives when you dwell in the shadows.

Sometimes it takes a visitation of the wrongdoing to come into full realisation of its nature. Or does it?

Would a muderer having repented from his past, now restored to goodness be instructed to murder just one more time in his present state of repentance so that he may come to know the true nature of his past evil? So he breaks in his understanding and will never ever repeat his past?

No. One must learn to accept that one always have a choice when it comes to right & wrong. It is wisdom to recognize this autonomy when circumstance meets you and holds you at an impasse. Then it is strength to choose right over wrong. Finally, it is piety to remember exactly whom you wish to please: yourself or He who is nearer to you than your jugular vein?

I shrivel at my state. I must always know that I am as base as any ignorant soul on this earth. That I, am the bearer of my fate. What I do and do not do is who I am. And who I am will determine the end of my soul.

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Wes Anderson

"Director dia style macam ni. Macam buku kan? Full-on narration." I commented as we watched.

"Ah! I know this. Macam bahasa Leana guna." She said, smiling.

I can only laugh. I never expected her to be perceptive of the 'sort' of language I use or do not use.


I feel singed at the edges. Like I've been burned by something white-hot and now am quite puzzled in the experience of unexpected pain. Well, it isn't a physical ailment per se. It's like being stretched thin, as if my endurance of simply being is taxed to the very last of its reserves.

It's what I always feel in those moments when I think I've talked too much. I become hyper aware of the amount of conversation I do. Usually quite suddenly.

But then again, it is only a very natural human experience isn't it? To feel acute loneliness in the presence of others. Sometimes, in mid conversation even. It is not as if I yearn to be understood by another. It's more of a long-drawn ache of being so separately individual.

A noble sort of suffering anyway. Quiet. Fret not, I am contented. Happy even. I simply recognise what is in my disposition; that is, to be simultaneously aversed & attracted to emotional intimacy.

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Fogged up

I was inexplicably angry last night. Angry enough that it robbed me of sleep. So I read instead and it diffuses the uncalled for feelings. 

Anyway, it is cold these days. I peer out my window and it is all fog. An enveloping grey-whiteness that obscures all. The parks look unearthly, I'm sure of it. This kind of weather disturbs me. It'll pass. Noon would come and the sky will be visible for a while.

Caged. That is the feeling that revisits every once in a while. The spirit of the human soul is remarkable. How it endures turmoil and emerges always unscathed. Or seemingly so at any rate. If one could see the condition of the soul as one could the body, how terrifying. I am struggling to be good & give up things I know I should. What words are there for unspeakable turmoil.

I look forward to Ramadhan. I will strive again.

Friday, May 30, 2014

Time setting

One must be absolutely modern. So goes Rimbaud. 

But the modern day is dull. Void of intrigue. The past is mysterious, rich like embroidered Persian rugs. And the future is pure fantasy. One can write histories that could-have-been in the past & tales-yet-to-come in the future.

But the present age? Shackles of realism bore upon the author's wrists. The only reprieve is to write of people. Characters with ancient souls or futurist minds. Furnished with larger-than-life plots or shocking or confusing ones.

But I am biased. I find no romance whatsoever in the present day setting. The Internet is the problem. People don't connect & converse as much. As one who suffers in social settings, I should scoff at myself for that incriminating statement. Hah.

I am one for grandiose schemes. Poetic justice, stoic warriors, unrequited love, or tragic ones at least. I have always been one who extolls meaning. Subdued, symbolic, or intricate and intoxicating. But always metaphors and subtlety. Nuance is precious. I like to be moved and led by hints and unspokens. Intrigue, yes that is the word. 

Sunday, May 25, 2014

My flower, my beloved

We spoke of the betrayal she suffered and her heart withered before me. Her normally smiling eyes now empty and cold. I have not seen her look so drained. Even in heartbreak she is calm.

And I felt the stirrings of anger within me on her behalf. No one should be allowed to wound my flower so.

On another note, my dearest love is quite happy. I bask in her happiness and wish this warmth will linger.

I am of two hearts then. Happy for my beloved and enraged for my flower. I am the bystander of their withering and blooming hearts. I am the one in waiting, hoping to be the balm that ease their pain or the confidant to share their joys.

Saturday, May 24, 2014

Goodbye, Alexias

If last year I found Mishima's Spring Snow, this year I found Mary Renault's The Last of the Wine. These two books are very dear to me. They are beautiful.


Sometimes while I read and anguish overcomes me I would address her and read to her precisely what line that stirred me so. I would explain to her the whys and how sos and she would listen good naturedly, as she always does. She would smile and make a self-depreciating remark to her non-existent interest in reading and so could never understand my anguish.

I managed quite well alone. I steeled myself for grief but it never came and so now I am cooled by my conquest of solitude. I do not say that there were not times that loneliness made itself more present than usual, but we reconciled and parted friends. 

I harbour deep fondness for her but not feelings of wanting to connect. Rather, we are like two parts of a city separated by a great river. We have a bridge between us but it is small. So we exist harmoniously together but separate.

Thursday, May 22, 2014

For Alexias

As the thwarted lover be placed in the presence of the beloved's new beloved, a vague emptiness visits. Not quite jealousy, simply an absence. A missing of that unattainable affection that now must never be. 

Tuesday, May 20, 2014


That rivers would edify,
And sullen weather would brighten 
My magnanimity, my warmth, my 
She is the face the sun rose for,
And pillaged;
The honour of men,
The beloved of all good men, 
Liberty unfurls her wings, 
Aways to open skies.

Sweet soil, as dearth as good men;
Blood will not quench
The sleeping soldiers beneath,
And malingerers;
They avail the last of hopes
Into the sea, 
As if decay
Cannot touch the rising sun.

Time will pass,
The past will come to passing,
Liberty stands watching,
While old men talk,
young men shout,
All the while traipsing,
This good earth, forgotten like the 

Sunday, May 18, 2014

Whether the weather

My moods depend heavily on the weather. The nature of the clouds, the colour of the sky, whether it's visible at all, the intensity of sunlight, the heaviness of rain or the speed and temperature of my dear friend, the wind. And when the moon makes an appearance during the day, I think myself blessed with a happiness reserved only for me. 

Overcast days tend to make me unstable. The ominousness of dense, low hanging clouds engulfing the entire horizon is very disturbing to me. I want to climb up and part the sky so I can see that friendly blue. But weather isn't something one should ever complain about. It is an ungrateful thing to do, I know. I have a friend who likes overcast days, he says it is good for taking walks in the city. He must have had an excellent weekend while I myself climb the walls I reckon.

And the birds. Of course. Always the birds. The hooting, the chirping, the shrieking and singing. The birds to me; are the voices of the mute earth and grass, the companions of the trees and the wind, they are signs of life. There are a lot of parrots here in Melbourne. Along with pigeons and ravens and sparrows and the abominable seagulls. A great many species of parrots. Pink and grey ones, white with yellow heads, green and blue and orange, red green blue and yellow. All kinds. 

And lastly, I attribute my moods to the strangers I pass by on the streets (when I have to venture far i.e. When going on placements). How many beggars I see, how many people in general, if the tram was crowded, if I managed to offer someone wizened my seat when it is necessary, if I was harassed at all by flyer givers, charity seekers, drunkards, if there were any children around. Good children make me smile.

That is enough. 

Saturday, May 17, 2014

Gift of inspiration

When books transport you through and through and for hours on end you live within the world printed on the pages; God has indeed give man inspiration so he could withdraw once in a while from his harrowing mind.

And one ponders that paradise is joy unknown yet to man. And that for many, to never know it. For eternity. And one asks one's self; Have you really any faculties at all if you cannot attest to what has been made plain to you as one who has the blessings of true religion?

Friday, May 16, 2014

The Selfish Giant

I saw the film and I thought, that's what I want to write. It's perfect.

I've always had a fascination with films like this one. Like Son of Rambo, Mud, Bridge To Terabithia and The Fall. 

Day...whatever day it is.

Skived off work today. Phoned in and said I wasn't coming and that was that. No questions asked. Which was good really. One more week to go and then I am completely done with my professional placement program.

Weather's good today. Autumn seems to have let off a little with the cold and the sun's out. The streets are littered with dried maple leaves (there's a lot of maple here in Melb) blowing this way and that. Those workers with the leaf blowers will probably take care of it sometime soon. I like watching them.

I took another shot at working on the thing last night (after an extended period of non-writing) and added a few lines. It felt nice. Not exactly an accomplishment. I just don't have time to really get into it on a regular basis. I don't suppose I will have time after I graduate and start working either. Destined to be a reader, like everyone else. Alas.

Melbourne is a beautiful and at times, lonely city. I will remember this and miss it. For now though, I'll sip my peppermint tea and enjoy my last autumn.

Friday, May 9, 2014

Day 7

You read a patient's medical history, social history, current difficulties (adversarial family, palliative choices, fatal illnesses, disabilities etc.) and everything is real. It is not a novel or a film. These are real people. Flesh, blood and bones. Then you talk to them. And it is even more real. The pain, suffering, and helplessness. The hope, love and kindness.

You see life as it fades and you see death as it comes. You see 'death' in the living and you see 'life' in the dying.

You witness just how much a person can say by saying nothing. You never realised how much their eyes could speak to you.

In a hospital, everything is real. There is no such thing as ennui. You are confronted by pulsing heartbeats, the raw pain of existing as a human being. Life holds you by the throat and stares you down.

Thursday, May 8, 2014

Day 6

Man put on palliative care; passed away overnight. 17 year old boy got into a motorbike accident; paralysed from waist down, lost all control of bowels. Woman had a stroke and fell; fractured jaw, fractured hip. Man with only one eye (wears an eye patch) called ambulance; doctor heard splat as he went down. Woman got into vehicle accident; broke ribs, both legs, both arms (in full-body cast, crying to family around bed). Man with mouth cancer; extreme pain, can't eat, can't even swallow own saliva. Man had a stroke; lost some of his memory, "I expected this."

I can go on and on. Health is a treasure next best to simply being alive. 

I love my new placement because my preceptor is the kind that facilitates learning instead of the making-you-feel-bad-for-not-knowing-your-sh*t sort. She explains to me what she does blow by blow and also challengers me by asking me to participate, make decisions, give suggestions etc.

Today is another good day. Autumn is in full bloom. It was 3 Celsius last night. I could see my breath rising like smoke this morning on the way to work. And the sun today was the kind that gilds everything in gold. The trees in the park looked enchanting with their hues of red, orange and yellow leaves backlit by the golden shafts, throwing long shadows across the streets. I even like my tram rides these days. 

I am alone but I am not lonely. I am solitary and happy. Alhamdulillah.

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

Day 4

Today was good. I am comfortable with my preceptor. Alhamdulillah. Spoke to a couple of my peers too. I am not a recluse.

Bought a couple of books from the Hospital bookshop. Will try and get into the library (I just need to find it again) one of these days.

Also, finished Into The Wild in the tram today. Skimmed the last 3 chapters. McCandles may be inspiring at first glance, but when one scrutinize him, his two flaws: arrogance, ingratitude. But we are only human, and he is a misguided soul. We move on now with Hemingway's The Old Man & The Sea. Before bed, I read Mary Renault's The Last of The Wine. I sleep early and wake up early (work starts at 8, I finish at 4).

The days do not feel long. The nights do not feel long. The cold does not bite. I am tired yet I do not feel cheated by my fatigue. I am not lonely. I am not sad. This is good. I am doing fine.

Monday, May 5, 2014

Day 3

Adopted a most anti-social demeanour on first day of my PEP (My last. 3 weeks and it'll be over).

I could tell that the lady was disconcerted by me. Tried to get me to answer questions. Frankly, I don't know the answer so I said whatever came to mind. It's so much easier to say things when you couldn't care less about how you come across.

I am at ease. It is one of those rare occasions whence absolute disinterest is actually freeing. Disinhibition as a result of  uncaring.

All is grey. I am safe in my grey. Blessings abound, I shall carry on.

Sunday, May 4, 2014

Day 2

Grief struck me. I sent them both off, my flower, and the jewel-named of a girl. Yesterday and this morning once more. They both booked taxis to the airport at 6:15am, their departure being one day apart. Still in night's embrace, rain-kissed autumn heralded our goodbyes. The short alley leading to the stairs of my apartment never seemed so silent. 

It is cold now. Autumn is in full bloom and so is my muted sadness. I felt wounded. Right now though, I feel some measure of furtive strength clasping my heart. One needs to steel one's self against loneliness. Despite knowing the inevitable defeat (at some point or another I know I will give way to grief), it is always good to prepare for the gripping dark.

I am not a poet. Only a lover who deigns to love beauty from afar. I shall warm myself now with fond echoes of time spent in smiles, laughter, and in sight of breath-taking nature. I am an introvert, not a recluse. Loneliness causes me great suffering. Just as expected of all humankind. The soul yearns for nothing more than to be in company of happiness.

To rely then, on man's one and only true Reliance.

Saturday, May 3, 2014

Monday, April 28, 2014

Calm Figure

How do I defy the heart in solitude?
     Its one voice that speaks to me
How do I rankle its lonesome pleas?
     Its weakness overpowers me
              I wish to master solitary talk
              language of quiet words.

A stoic face, a stoic gaze
A poised portrait
               of perfect form.

How do I slaughter spontaneity?
     Its thoughtless rampage
How do I shackle compulsion?
     Its swift dominance
              I wish to helm my thoughts
              art of self-possession.

A deliberate gait, a complete composure
A silent portrait
                 of definite calm.

29th January 2014


O silent wonderment, hollow love 
Basking in silence, maddened on the porch
Time's thorny fingers, pressure on every inch of the skin
The mind surrenders, 
Slowly, ever slowly,
The natural cycle of my being continues.

Date unknown.

Sulk all you like

Let the chips fall where it may. I don't give a damn anymore. People can be so tedious.

On an even darker note, roomie is going back to Malaysia for two weeks this Saturday. I shall be heartbroken. 

My last placement starts next week. It will all be over soon enough. I can feel the end drawing near. To this life I mean. This university phase. The golden days that I shall recall in my later years (God-willing) ever so fondly. This feeling reminds me of Honda from Mishima's The Sea of Fertility tetralogy. 

A frozen reminiscence. A long-drawn ache for crystallised memories of youth. A longing that used to rage but now sits nobly poised on the dais of time past. Steady and subdued.

Saturday, April 26, 2014


I'm the kind who lets you hog the blanket while I shiver through the autumn night than risk jarring you awake.

Thursday, April 24, 2014

To remain silent

I don't know what to say to people I don't really know. Small talk and all that. 

But really when I'm nervous things literally do get lost in translation when I try to make conversation. Things in my mind get out all jumbled when I speak.

I hover. Stand a little too far to be in the conversation. Pointedly avoid eye contact. These are difficult things to unlearn.

Ah well. Why care about these things eyh? I'm generally quite happy.

Monday, April 21, 2014

Comfort Zone

Am at roomie's bestmate's house. Been spending a lot of time with them. Pretty girls who seem to know every single person they pass by on the street. Went around with them. Parties and BBQs and all that. Been practising being friendly with people. I'm just ridiculously awkward but I'm getting better.

My relationship with these two socialites is a very odd and unlikely thing. But it works. I actually like them a lot. Better than anyone in Melbourne in fact. These people are genuine and they're kind. They love openly and sincerely.

And I don't know. I don't tire of them at all like I do most people. Something about good cheer and physical beauty perhaps. I like cheerful, slightly crazy and most importantly kind, people. Extroverts are good fun. 

Saturday, April 19, 2014

Monday, April 14, 2014


She senses my irritation and adeptly diffuses it. I shouldn't be like this. *sigh*

Tuesday, April 8, 2014


It had just stopped drizzling. I'm on my bed with a cup of tea, looking absent mindedly at the view out my window. It is evening, everything is blue and you could hear a chorus of crickets. The days have been overcast since last week. Such is autumn; low hanging clouds, rain and crickets. 

Even the sea which I walk along on the way to work is calmer. Dense clouds filling the washed out sky. The occasional sizeable patches of dappled grey making patterns over the barely blues. Like the rump of an Andalusian horse. All this reflected perfectly onto the vast water like a mirror. It is all blue, grey and white. Cottony and fluffy rather than rolling waves frothing over golden-kissed sand.

I have been staring out windows everyday in trams. At the fogged up wet streets and darkened concrete buildings. It takes the edge off of my dislike of crowds. My tea has cooled off now. I take a sip and feel at ease. I embrace this solitude.

Monday, April 7, 2014


Can't stand myself these days. In fact, there's only one person I'm alright with these days; my roommate. 

What an inordinate blessing. I used to think her the most unintentionally intrusive person one could meet. How perceptions change. Unchanging in her steady good cheer. Anchors me.

But I've said this a thousand times already haven't I? A broken tape.

Sunday, April 6, 2014

Grating noise of the unschooled heart finds the entire world suddenly grating for no other reason than quite suddenly tiring of it. I need to not let these pangs of darkness master me. I'll snap.

Thursday, April 3, 2014

in the night

you can't seem to ever grasp this world, this life. And you wonder if you ever will. Honestly, I suspect never. That long growing fatigue in your heart when you miss nothing, want nothing, and all that's left are fragmented efforts which you throw into a million things. Not any single one of them even grazing that mark which you aim for.

Endlessly falling short of people and goals. It is hard to keep being alright sometimes. The little things are accumulating and you just can't ignore them. Strangers. Encounters. Conversations. Remarks. Expressions. Just, people. 

It has been so long. What is all this. I am tired. Too easy to feel unloved, too easy to feel alone. Then you remember your blessings, how you've forgotten them.

But then, it's hard to be alright all the time. I can't seem to write exactly what I want and it's hardAt night, everything comes at you at once. Feel like swearing. So you press your forehead to the cool wall. And everything comes at you. 

Monday, March 31, 2014

I curl inside the otherness of make-believe and live there.
Sometimes I close my eyes & write letters to you in the dark of my mind.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Too much, too bright, too powerful

Stared a little too hard at the ocean this morning and it got to me. Waves breaking, horizon calling, winds howling.

It's odd. This wanting of an intangible. I want the ocean. I do not want to be at sea. I want the edges. I want the white foam of the breaking waves, the ghost of a line, the salty whiff.

Who trembles at the sight of a metaphor anyway?

Monday, March 24, 2014


Sea breeze is magic by itself. The iridescent ocean with its endless horizon though is something else altogether. Something about the white sand, the great ships with gulls about them, something about open skies over the water, how two expanses meet in an imaginary line. Inviting in its rawness, terrifying in its vastness. 

You want to fling yourself into the water, swim to the edge, stand on the horizon and fall into the sky. Ascension into the great beyond. Restful release. 

But the grave is also an ocean. 

‘Umar Ibn Al-Khattaab (ra) said:
“There are four types of oceans:
passion is the ocean of sins,
the nafs is the ocean of desires,
death is the ocean of lives,
and the grave is the ocean of regrets.”

Saturday, March 22, 2014

A Necessary Autumn Inside Each - Rumi

You and I have spoken all these words, but as for the way
we have to go, words

are no preparation. There is no getting ready, other than
grace. My faults

have stayed hidden. One might call that a preparation!
I have one small drop

of knowing in my soul. Let it dissolve in your ocean.
There are so many threats to it.

Inside each of us, there's continual autumn. Our leaves
fall and are blown out

over the water. A crow sits in the blackened limbs and talks
about what's gone. Then

your generosity returns: spring, moisture, intelligence, the
scent of hyacinth and rose

and cypress. Joseph is back! And if you don't feel in
yourself the freshness of

Joseph, be Jacob! Weep and then smile. Don't pretend to know
something you haven't experienced.

There's a necessary dying, and then Jesus is breathing again.
Very little grows on jagged

rock. Be ground. Be crumbled, so wildflowers will come up
where you are. You've been

stony for too many years. Try something different. Surrender.

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Into The Wild

Beneath shadowed trees, between gnarled roots
Darkened cool of dampened earth
This wide berth of forgotten earth
This soft hush, velour reserve

I withdraw in this green enclave
Caving in its fragrant maw, here I thaw
Into mossy feelings 
Of wordless whisperings

Light pierce the canopy
I lay in its yellow glare
Its bothersome rays of jovial mare
Trespass my mellow turf

While time whiles away, heedless I stay
With hazy dreams of gentle gladness
While the darkening day swallows 
the trail home, I say;
      Let the dark face my wild soul
      In this wilderness, I am home.

Thursday, March 13, 2014

You watered me with fire

Wind will carry these ashes, and my flimsy fortress of stillness will be no more.

What comes after nothing though? Then again, a treasure lost is a treasure lost. All empty possibilities, nothing but smoke in the wind. 

Fire burns long, but even stars burn out.
No one ever meant to feel the way they feel. 

I am resigned to these bouts of gripping dark. But why should I choose the world and move on with the Sun?

I prefer this decay. For now.

Wednesday, March 12, 2014


Nouman: "There's this culture among young muslims, who go on a religious journey. Who had a change of heart, re-discovered Islam. So what happens, they become very serious about religion. Very, very passionate. And they find themselves a teacher. Sometimes that teacher is a person, lectures on youtube, websites, blogs etc. Whatever it is they find themselves a source that they associate as THE authentic source for taking knowledge. And as they become passionate, slowly they become very rigid, tough. They start noticing the people around them are not the same way as they are, not understanding the deen the way they understand it. What happens is, first they become frustrated with the people around them, especially their family. A friction develops. And then friends. But those friends didn't take a religious journey as you did, or if they do, it's not the same journey as yours. They're not as rigid about certain things as you are. So it becomes harder for you to tolerate that, you question them a lot more. So you start making it a point to tell them the 'right way' of doing things. And this youth think themselves doing 'amar ma'aruf nahi ala mungkar'. After all they're telling the brother/sister a hadith, an ayah. They're doing a good thing. This is something they should be doing. This is what's going on in their head. What they don't realize however is, that there's something going on."

So, I would like to say sorry to everyone I've offended.

Saturday, March 1, 2014

In plain sight

I still hope, despite myself, despite everything, that you would miss me. That you would miss me in the vague way that one would occasionally wish for it to rain so that it matches one's mood. Or for the Sun to suddenly say hello on an overcast day. That you would think of me like a sudden burst of wild flowers by the roadside. Or the sweet singing of a bird briefly perching near you. Or just the common blue sky of a mild-weathered day. 

That memories of my words would fondly slip into your reveries. You don't even have to tell me that you miss me, as long as occasionally you spare a thought for me. That I am acknowledged as a distant, dear friend of yours. Like a faded photograph in an album you would sometimes leaf through.

As for me? I will miss you like the moon, throughout the night when you won't see me, throughout the day when you can't see me. Despite myself, despite everything.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Self-loathing quickly escalates to a disillusioned perception of the world. When the self fails the self, the rest of the world crumbles. Everything falls short.

But these all stem from very lucid, very deliberate decisions. Recognizing the wrong, embracing it, executing it with full knowledge; choosing it.

Self-struggle is an endless war. A war of many defeats and not enough victories.
Too great of an esteem for fiction. Too indulgent in its enjoyment. Too much affinity for convoluted sentiments.

Trouble is, fiction is vacuum. It is fictive.

I should go for a walk today. See the beach tomorrow. Something. Do something real.

Monday, February 24, 2014


The unutterable dark rankles within. Self-censure is my mantra. I wage war with a phantom knight who deigns to tear down this empire of stillness I have built. A fortress built from white ash. Whatever is left after cycles upon cycles of razed sentiments. What wounds this unknown knight inflicts does not terrify me. Oh but it hurts. It hurts. 

Allow me this reprieve: My heart shivers still. And it always will when visions prey on my mind. But the spell is broken regardless. So I walk the halls of my fortress of ashes.

Thursday, February 13, 2014

The Antagonist

I will do everything in my power to avoid confrontations. I would rather smile and simper and let feelings bury themselves than disagree. Especially if the encounter or acquaintance is to be brief. I would let the other person be domineering and myself be dismissed than contest myself to their views. As long as the subject matter is not something I deem important, I swallow my heart. Perhaps too often, God knows.

And then I observe said person interact with someone much less inhibited than I, and I see them relent. They yield, they listen. And I wonder. And I realize, just how terrified I really am of the world. So much so that I am most of the time... removed. I withdraw, recoil, evade.

But really, I would rather be loved than respected. I accept such expressions as; "I'm glad I got you as my partner rather than some annoying person." to which I reply, "I feel the same way."  I prefer to be companionable than interesting. 

And I understand now, just how decidedly uncommunicative this method of mine is. It is my own fault and nobody else's. To be so afraid. To be so slighted.

Sometimes though, I put my foot down. I become adamant out of the blue. Simply because I am the kind who bottles up. Sometimes I lose it. Sometimes I disappoint. Yet, confrontations and disappointments are inevitable after all. I am not a particularly patient person, or a reasonable one even. I try to be but I know I am not.

In the end, the aftermath of such interactions has only one outcome: Guilt. The weight of guilt crushes me absolutely. Because I feel, I know that I must always be the one who understands. The one who yields. And because I reflect, I become even more affected by it all. And when I fail to be the one who makes compromises, the guilt is ever more devastating.

I am terrified of emotions. Of people. So I write. I write senseless poems. I pen my anguish, unresolved sentiments. I look upon the world as one unrequited. I am the antagonist with no adversary. I am invisible with love indivisible.


Am I to be moved
by such violent disaffect?
      Or am I to be soothed?
To which way do I sway?
      Do I leave, do I stay?
Incendiary, you rule 
       This ready fool
Your tyranny, my constancy 
        While I stand in waiting
In this pyre, burning
        Still you, far-removed
 Ever-still, stood perfect.

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Orion's belt

I went to take the trash out. Dragging three hefty yellow bin bags in my sore hands. When I was done, I stopped in the parking lot. I was alone, so I stood and lifted my face to the heavens. Soft winds kissing my face, my friend, the winds greeting me. The night sky is clear. Blue velvet. Another one of my silent companion, the moon is present. Brilliant, perfect with its circlet of lunar rainbow. What is most beautiful in the expanse of clear darkness though, was Orion. The three aligned stars of the belt seem wondrously impossible to me. I gaze at the other sparse stars dimmed in Orion's commanding presence, spotting a deceptive airplane gliding effortless out of my view. Betelgeuse shone the brightest tonight. The air is cool. Such a relief after the past Summer nights.

A car came into the parking lot, breaching my precious solitariness. I sulk and made for my apartment.