Some things are too dangerous, too precious to be laid down in words, so I keep them inside until they ferment. Like wine, intoxicates. The mind mulls what it cannot unravel.
If I dare uproot these sentiments and lay them all to rest into writing, what will be left of me?
What is another decade. I have after all, survived all these years somehow.
Friday, December 25, 2015
I am the sort who will spend hundreds on flowers, days on writing letters, weeks on preparing gifts because at the end of the day, being able to make loved ones happy is one of the few ways I myself can feel happy. There is joy and fulfilment in pleasing a loved one and I remind myself, that He too is a Beloved.
Oh how the prophets loved God who loved them back. This divine love which gives the soul joy unlike any other and this divine love which will last into the Hereafter.
Ya Rabb, nourish my imaan.
Monday, December 21, 2015
Nothing, nothing will sunder you from me;
Not the horizon that cleaves the Sky and Sea
Not the space between two heartbeats
Not the very edge of reason,
What is a mind dispossessed of you?
What is poetry bereft of you?
What am I without you?
I am tethered to starlight
I am tethered to remembering
I am tethered
Tuesday, December 15, 2015
Sunday, December 13, 2015
Saturday, December 12, 2015
Does a star question its place in the universe? Does it question the celestial order of things around it? Does it wonder, yearn or grief?
Perhaps I too have accepted my place but is it possible to unfeel? Can emotions be bottled and stowed away?
As if one can choose to forget. I remember too much. I remember how lips curve into a smile, how feet are crossed at the ankles, how hands are folded over laps...
Too much has taken shape, too much have resided for too long within the fortress of my heart.
The winds will only die when the World itself stops spinning on its axis.
Sunday, December 6, 2015
Friday, December 4, 2015
The Sun continues to blind, yet I gaze forward as if its radiance does not agonize me, as if its warmth could penetrate my skin, as if I, a being of only mortal capacity, could harness some of her fiery power and hold it like a torch to warm my soul for all eternity.
Do I expire with such a burning? Or do I thrive off it, and wear its branding like a mark of glory?
Tuesday, December 1, 2015
“Sometimes I don’t understand how another can love her, is allowed to love her, since I love her so completely myself, so intensely, so fully, grasp nothing, know nothing, have nothing but her!”
—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,
The Sorrows of Young Werther