.

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.

.

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.

.

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

.

I will let this howling silence overcome me, 
I will deny myself my words;

          — Let my flowers wilt

                    my letters burn

                    my soul yearn.

                  

            

.

When it rains and rains I think of how present and background it is. The sound of rain, the atmosphere, the scent... all of it a wordless poem.

I place my palm against the cool glass and thought, whom, what do you grieve, Sky?

Like the wind

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. 

.

Briefly, you crossed my path in my dreams and I awakened to the dagger of despair sunken deep into my heart.

You shine brighter still

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?

.

The sky is a premonition, the sovereign of my mein. I am at its mercy.

.

“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

Postlude

It was late, I was tired but sleep has been eluding me so I sat at the piano and played my favourite pieces all slow and gentle-like. Moonlight Sonata, Fur Elise, and Oasis's Wonderwall. I played to the best of my ability, it has been too long since I touched the black and ivory keys, too long since I needed the piano to soothe my soul because writing. . . seemed like an impossible feat sometimes. Words like whirlwinds in my mind, I couldn't put them into coherent sentences, not just yet.

A stray thought flitted through my mind; I used to call M. on her mobile, knowing it will go to voice mail, I would play the piano for her to listen later. I remember M. liked Rachmaninoff's Scheherezade, the simple version of it that I could play anyway. We were 16, she was in boarding school and I missed her everyday.

I thumbed the spine of L. (M.'s 'wild-dog' literary friend) wedding gift for M. which he had ask me to later pass to M; Tennyson to Whitman. Volume III of Harvard's Classics' English Poetry. It's such a lovely book, leather bound, the pages gilded with gold, and it's not a crisp new copy at all. It has the softened feel of an aged copy.

I idly leafed through the volume until something catches my eye;

                  The Last Wish

Since all that I can ever do for thee 

Is to do nothing, this my prayer must be:

That thou mayst never guess nor ever see

The all-endured this nothing-done costs me.

Ever-after

I will miss this freedom; your singularity,
your black banner, your elusive mystery.
I will miss dreaming of you in red,
of you as an inviolable image,
                 my ever-flower.

I will stand in this metaphorical field,
      where the Poet waits for the Beloved.
I will gaze at you, my Star as I always have and I will be here,
     at the meeting of our minds;
this field of prose and poetry,
where you are at once mine and never mine.

Lawless one, darling mine,

none shall pluck you from my heart.

Let the night sky be my witness, let it

speak for me in its ageless voice;

       This one is a bystander

       this one waits

              for its other.

Dear M.

14th November 2015

Saturday

     It's midday, I'm sitting on my front porch listening to Bowie's Space Oddity (I'm also wearing my $5 astronaut nat  geo shirt) as I contemplate the idea of enjoying 'moments' without thinking of what the future might bring. Simple pleasures like writing, tea, reading etc. They're only fun / pleasant when one has the luxury of being idle and carefree.

     I watched a video on YT last night, of a 17 year old boy who is dying of cancer; he was giving a speech to his peers about 'Life'. He said people should strive for short-term goals rather than long-term ones. He used the term 'micro-ambitious'. To be passionate with what is in front of us rather than squander it and waste energy and time in dreamings. It's quite a viewpoint, I think. Makes me think about my current life / work, how I probably should do more studying in order to become a better asset to the hospital. I don't know... I can't seem to put my heart in it... on this score, I believe you do understand me.

     I've been thinking about A. How does one brave a world without parents? It sounds nigh impossible. I know her Mother is still around but still.

     

     I haven't much else to say really.

     I've just spent an entire hour scooping my guppies out from the water plant flower pot and put some of them into the stone basin thing (part of the koi pond water feature). One of them died in the process. Fell onto the floor and I watched it drown. I couldn't make myself touch its wriggling body. Cowardice. I'm sorry, fish. My heart practically raced when they bump around in the round plastic container I used to scoop them out of the water. Was so worried more will fall onto the floor...

    

    That aside I then proceeded with watering the potted plants Mother bought when she went to that gardening class a couple of months ago. We have kangkung, daun sup, daun bawang, kunyit, and a couple more I can't name.

     I enjoy this very much. Water, Sun and Living Things. Maybe I should just work at a plant / flower nursery when I'm done with my two year (minimum) stint in the health ministry. Maybe with a pharmacy license I could just locum a few days a week and make just enough money to get by. I don't know. Do you think it has to do with us being millenials that we're so... reluctant to make a living via conventional ways. Perhpas I'm just used to being a bourgeoisie ... too pampered by my parents' well-to-do-ness that I fail to understand what is required to attain comforts and pleasures in life.

     A pension. Working in the government will acquire one a pension. 60 years of one's life for what? For 10 years of so called 'relaxation'? Our parents basically worked hard so that they could provide for us. Now look at me... ungrateful sloth.

     Seeking to coast by and indulge in idleness. What is to become of me. There is one thing that I do enjoy doing at work though (sorry for going off on a tangent), helping people out of my own volition, moments at the hospital when I suddenly find myself facing a stranger in need; a Mother trying lift her pushchair onto the sidewalk, a nurse whom had accidentally turn medicine cart over, a patient looking for directions, a friend who is having trouble doing her work etc. That, I enjoy. I do understand that what I do on a daily basis is basically 'service'. I know. I help people with their meds. "It is a noble job," I've been advised. I know. I just... am not interested in being overworked for an all too practical sense of 'nobility'. You know what... maybe the hospital is too far is all. Maybe I'm just tired from driving inter-state twice a day is all.

     Enough already.

     Til another time, M.

Ever yours,

      P.

p.s. I've been trying to get some roses sent to you all morning. I'm not sure if the florist is getting my message.

________________________________________________________________

Note: Letter I wrote M. which I can't hand to her because she's in Kelantan til Sunday. M., if you're reading this, it's very much in the vein of our recent phone call isn't it.

Little Boy

Dear God, what a lovely film (I cried so much gosh).

Mekar

   Roses I sent to M. last night.

Dear M. 

        As written in the note, "For what ails you." We'll brave the world, love. As always.

Ever yours,

      P.

Visitation

It was Sunday, I made my way from the parking lot to the hospital at a brisk clip, hoping to arrive on time, neither early not tardy. As I walked, a very old friend greeted me; the wind.

My pace faltered when I felt my friend greeting me softly. My eyes stung and I very nearly started crying. All those moments spent walking aimlessly alone back in Melbourne, they come to me within the space of a heartbeat.

Melbourne is a lifetime ago. So I walked on and banished the sweet sadness. 

.

It is okay to break.

Just remember that sometimes the one who beats you down is you, sometimes your worst enemy is you.

Fight. Back.

.

You know what, thank God for friends. I don't think I would still be breathing if it were not friends.

Ya Rabb, ease my way.

.

I don't want to survive, I want to live. 

Note:

The state of my mind is irrelevant. Little has changed and I'm only steadily approaching either a plateau or a cliff. I cannot tell which and no matter how convinced I am that I am at my limits, I somehow survive, I somehow endure. It is unmistakeable that all the kind people who have been helping me are of His Mercy.

It is difficult to express the changes one makes to the soul. All I know is that in this moment I am enjoying a respite. I must remember that when faced with trial, it is only natural to suffer. To preservere is one thing but to conduct myself appropriately during my endurance, that is the real test. The goal is to remember what I've learned and to put it into practice. As they say, the doorway between the Heart and God is the 'amalan of the 'ilm. 

It is not enough to swallow one's anger, grief and frustration. One need to be able to remain kind, to be able to lower the wing of humility when faced with a trying circumstance. I've failed on all accounts on that respect I think. I've been anything but graceful in my conduct. I've never been able to let go of my anger. M. once proposed this to me, that the trick is not to swallow but to release and it was such a revelation to me. I've done nothing about it since though.

I wish my stupid heart would just bleed out its rancour. Yet the Ego... It never fails to foil me. Awareness yet without action. It is a mountain in my way, this selfish anger at the world. I truly must stop resenting my surroundings too much.

Anyways, today was no different. I've been fretting about working alone over the weekend so much that sleep has become inoccuous. Yet today, the pharmacy assistant tasked to aid me, turned out he is competent and I felt safe with him around. So I have now dispelled all anxieties for tomorrow. There is one quirk about him that I find endearing, he is one of those people who addresses himself by his own name; he doesn't say 'I'. I've only known one person who does that, an acquaintance from back in highschool, a different lifetime ago. The quirk lends B. a charming air of childlike innocence.

[On an unrelated note, B. wears cologne, and is a good-looking chap. He is firm and so the patients (the drug addicts) dare not try anything on me. I'm so relieved.]

That aside, I'm done with Mishima's Decay of The Angel. Sordid book. It has too little of Spring Snow's soft metaphorical beauty and too much of the terrible sort. It reflects Mishima' state of mind though; (the author committed suicide shortly after finishing the novel). I'm done with all that doom and gloom. These pointless pontifications of 'human' suffering. Futile and mostly, so vain. I'll never mention SS ever again. 

I'm okay. I'll endure.

(yet another letter for M.)

Dear M.

This is sudden but I feel like writing to you. I've been observing the sky on my daily commute to work (as I am prone to. The weather affects my mood on a daily basis as if it were a premonition that needs to be obeyed. It sets my mood regardless of how my day goes. I know you share this penchant of mine so here I am); and it has been. . . when was the last time that I saw a cloudless blue sky? I can't remember. This haze has gone on for months now. It makes me miss Australia. Especially when the haze sometimes looks like that ethereal fog Melbourne is prone to in Autumn.

In particular, I observe the Sun. The haze often renders it muted, robs it of blinding radiance, leaves it a muted salmon coloured disc against a backdrop of grey-blue. It is quite charming to look at but it makes me sad. Today though, I think not of the Sun as an object (as one tend to regard trees by roadsides / highways equivalent to street lights), today I saw the Sun as it is meant to be seen, a creation. The Sun is a celestial object that this entire planet we live on orbits. It is an axis, giver of vital light and most of all, the Sun expires day by day. I gaze at the Sun and I think, it gazes back at me.

The Qur'an has made it clear that creation are not unfeeling. They are sentient, they witness us. Even the mountains shuddered at the prospect, the responsibility of carrying a soul. The Sun gazes back. This divine creation, it is but one in a universe full of other distant and far more incandescent stars. 

What I'm trying to convey is, there is more out there. Beyond this abode, there is Eternity. Colours beyond our spectrum, planes of universe to be unveiled, and most of all, there are experiences unimaginable.

It soothes my ever-thirsting soul, this epiphany. One always requires reflection to notice how deprived our inner lives had become. 

You and I, during our time in Australia, we discovered that faith in its truest sense, is intellectual. We discovered that to purport religion is not via the mehanical observance of rules. We found the treasure of meaning, knowledge; the red, beating heart of having beliefs, of what it means to strive for the sublime.

Now though, we are besieged by dispassion. It takes heart to remain a seeker of knowledge. 

Also, I was going through my letters and postcards and noticed that letter by Al-Ghazali (which you carelessly tore from that book of letters -I find this habit of yours extremely endearing but you already know this don't you) you gave me by way of a parting gift when I flew to Melbourne for the first time and here is a line from it;

"There are very few persons who have the aptitude for the acquisition of true knowledge and are endowed with piety."

And this is a quote Ghazali included at the end of the letter;

" 'To every Science its own people; And each man finds easy that for which he has been created apt.' "

I'll leave you to ponder my choice of including these two excerpts. They are in the spirit of our brief exchange via text this morning I think. 

At any rate, darling tempest, I hope your anxieties about 'the uncertainty of the future' has at least lessened somewhat. You and F. will be fine. Also, not that this needs to be reiterated but, I am nothing if not constant in my affections for you. So there.

Until next time.

Ton ami,

P.

Mating season

There is one thing that gives me absolute joy nowadays; my guppy fish.

I've been keeping them in a flower pot with a water plant (of some sort) in it and they're thriving so well. I initially had 3 pairs, of which only 4 survived til this day. 3 are males and 1 is a female. 

I've since moved the musketeers (yes I name the ones I can tell apart *shrugs*) into the koi pond where they grew larger and beautiful. Their tails are like silken rainbow flags, with black dots on them. I can see them quite easily despite the rather murky water. These 3 always swim together, like in a pack. They're the only ones which swim all over the pond. The other smaller guppies I've moved with the koi tend to stick to the edges of the pond, or beneath the raised platforms. 

Since it is Sunday and I'm not working I'm able to look at my fish at the most perfect time of the day: ~9-11am. The sun isn't too high in the sky and the light shines straight to the bottom of the habitats and so I can see the guppies easily and clearly. At other times of the day the light doesn't hit the water right and all I see is my reflection. This is a thing that I look forward to on days I don't have to go to work.

Two days ago I moved 6 more guppies from my main pool (the flower pot) into the upper section of the koi pond. I was worried they might fall with the waterfall into the main pond with the koi but they haven't. I added a couple more today to the upper section since I've noticed that the main pool is rather crowded now since the guppies have grown larger (day by day they grow!).

I've considered moving the Mother (the last surviving female from my original group of 6) into the koi pond where she could be with he musketeers but I think that might be cruel. She seems happy in the main pool with all the smaller fish. I wonder how many are actually her spawn and how many aren't hers. . .

The thing with guppies is, they're low maintenance and they're so so lovely. When taken care of they grow these colourful scales on their body. I've noticed how the scales become increasingly colourful as they mature.

Today I noticed that pairs of two have been chasing each other around. I've observed this happening in all three of the habitats: the main pool, the main koi pond and the upper section of the pond. I'm expecting there to be more guppies soon.

How long do guppies live anyway. I would be very sad if the Musketeers or the Mother dies.

The main pool is very slimy lately. It's because of the snails. Every 4 months or so there will be baby snails in the main pool. They make the pool slimy when they're about to leave the habitat. In the upper section of the koi pond I saw an entire waterboatman exoskeleton. There are also these inch long...things that I don't recognise living at the bottom. I don't see spider webs anymore though and this is mostly because Mary clears them up whenever she sees any I think.

I love this. I love that there is an ecosystem going on and that the tiny living beings procreate. I feel like a guardian, a witness of nature. What a blessing.

(You) As A Radiant Sun

Roots have grown where my feet used to be

Vines have crept over my limbs and made a home of me

My fingers now clawed branches

ever reaching, for that vital light—

       Earth-bound, this one 

       Ever a subordinate (to you)—

                    the smiling Sun

Beneath this aged bark beats my red heart

Its hollow drums, solitary and echoing

This ancient love, alone yet growing—

         Expansive like the universe

         A love turned celestial

Time shall not uproot this divine tree

Only death shall hinder its basking eternity

              

Etched upon the skin of my mind

are memories of—

          That radiant mind,

          Warm, effusive and silent

           Once known

               never, never forgotten.

A private kind of happiness

Dear M.

I have 5 minutes to write this. The car is cool and the afternoon sun is too bright, its white rays flooding the semi-darkness of my parked car. I avoid people at lunch time, I prefer this solitariness. People need not concern themselves about me.

I'm glad you sound alright. Alright enough at any rate. 

Also, thank you. Like you said, no words are needed. A private kind of happiness.

We'll brave the world.

Ever and ever yours,

P.

Adulthood

It's October. I am alive and am quite well.

If I were to describe my life right now it would be a sky full of dark, voluminous rainclouds. It would be the wind howling through shuddering trees. The anticipation of a thunderstorm.

I feel at sea. I feel as if my future is now uncertain because I am now sure that I do not want to remain a pharmacist. Or at least I hope to not remain as one. The hospital does not agree with me. It is chaos and it drains me. 

I hope I wil be able to transfer to a government health clinic after my internship. And then from there I will do what is necessary to achieve what I want.

I've been mulling my prospects over and it is daunting. I'm not sure what I want. There are many things I need to seriously consider and I need to start now.

Who do I want to be really? 

Tok

There was another funeral today, yet another occasion where I see the people I love grief; and in turn I found myself holding back tears.

I watched K. climbing into the grave and shovelling the dirt into his grandfather's grave and it struck me that this isn't the first time I've seen this scene. It's been 7 years since my aunt passed and the memories flooded my mind as I stood before the burial; K. 7 years ago in his mother's grave shovelling the dirt in. It was raining back then. 

Again, this is a trespassing. Grief that isn't mine. 

Re-adjust

Things are back to normal. Mostly. I suppose, I did ask God to make things right for me despite my being adamant that I do not apologize this time around. I know the fault is half mine but still, I'm just done with it all. 

So, thank God (as always) for making things right for me.

I miss the stars

I remember staying up late in my room back in Melbourne. When S. Wasn't around (usually on Friday nights back when she and I weren't very close), I would turn on our shared study lamp and angle it towards the ceiling. My white pristine room would be awashed with a soft yellow glow and outside; I could see the starlit sky from our wide window, which spanned the entirety of the bedroom wall. 

It's always quiet. Occasionally there would be noises from the neighbours who lived in the houses behind our apartment and in autumn there would be crickets. Sometimes dogs would bark but otherwise it's always quiet.

And cold. Or at least pleasantly chilly. I would make myself a cup of tea or pour myself a glass of juice. A box of chocolate biscuits by my side and I'm alone and slightly lonely but generally contented. I would be at my laptop of course, watching something or the other, talking to friends on tumblr etc.

I remember still the smell of the cool air. So clean and fresh I could swear I could taste it. There is no haze in Australia. Only mist or fog.

Right now, in the confines of my room, in the isolation of my own making, I feel like I've lost my home. I feel desolate in a most resigned manner. It's not the keening longing of being stuck overseas, solitary and independent. I am a prisoner of my own disquiet. This falling out does not tax me anymore. Or actually, it does, but I am too tired from work to distinguish it from my general weariness.

I want to gaze at the stars. I want to look for Orion's belt in Melbourne's sky and feel a smile tugging at my lips when I spot it. I want to feel the soft breeze of the chilly night envelope me. The wind my friend, I left you in Melbourne. The wind did not come with me.

In summary, this falling out has made me feel homeless. 

coming to terms

I don't care anymore.

.

Disaat ini, tiada yang lebih sedih melainkan aku. 

Rough week turned into one of the worst day ever today. Shouting. Slamming. Smashing.

I am tired. I'm just going to be quietly depressed now. I've run out of heart for tears and anger.

Ya Rabb, forgive me.

Sahabat

Sahabat, Sang dingin yang berani

Sang angin yang kurindui

Ke mana saja kamu?

On learning when to keep my mouth shut

From the blunders I've made this past 3 weeks, I've learned that sometimes it does not pay to be forthrightly honest with everything. Especially not with certain persons who have unrealistic expectations. 

Silence is safe. Silence does not confirm nor deny. Silence is an opportunity to ponder.

And hence I've learned to be silent. It feels dishonest sometimes but it has become incredibly clear to me that I will not survive this internship if I am too honest.

It's just a hard fact of life.

Happy Birthday M.

Part I —For it is the 3rd tomorrow.

Part II —For she who loves this lighthouse.

Part III —For she who stands too close to the edges of the cliffs; where sky, stone and sea collide. For she who welcomes the sea spray with a smile and the seagulls with the greeting of old friends’.

Part IV —For she whom I have known for 11 years —a companion for this brief respite on earth, which is but a drop of time in the ocean of Eternity. For she whose soul has been fated to mine.

Part V —For she whom I’ve written over 300 poems, over 30 letters and the entirety of a journal. For she who is my audience, my subject, my friend. My poetry, my prose, my very muse.

Part VI —For her whose birthday is today, 3rd of September. Tempest, darling friend, I more than love you, you are —sine qua non.

(Wollongong, NSW Australia —Sept. 2012)

Posted on insta between 11pm to 12am (3/9/2015). Thought I'd preserve these here ^_^

words to live by

No matter how much sad you are make others happy for the sake of Allah. That is khidmat-e-khalq (Service of creation).

~ Shaykh Saqib Shaami

Cahaya

Bagai pelita di lautan kelam 

Kujinjing api kecil 

     Mencari sinar dalam gelita.

On carrying a kind heart

I do not look at them, the patients. I let my line of sight skim over them. I let the forlorn faces blur into the indistinct background. I ignore the bandages and IV lines, the grimy tiles of the floor, the flecks of blood not yet cleaned on the scuffed floor.

I do my work and I am polite but some mistake manners for servility. I am anything but that. I am earnest to the unsuspecting eye but really I am not. I am sincere though and I try to be kind to everyone. I delight in smiling at strangers, I delight in treating people like the human souls that they are. Other than that? I hate the hours. The inconsiderate circumstance of being overworked. I like service but I don't wish to be forced into it. It's unfortunate. Some people are helpful and some aren't. I despair when I'm subjected to inconsideration. 

There is enough stress and anxiety in a building full of sick people. Why go the extra mile to trouble a seeking soul?

I do not understand. 

It is 2 am and I am too tired for sleep. Exhaustion bleeds over, turns into anxiety that become unpleasant dreams. 

Struggle. This is struggle. I carry my weight and hope my heart withstands the trials of dispassion.

Biru

Sangat kurindu

Langit biru Australia

Hari-hari indah mata yang muda.

Alhamdulillah

And I know that during all those times when I touched my forehead to the ground, closed my eyes and reached out with my heart, supplicating, that my prayer is not unheard.

Never unheard.

This feeling of absoluteness when I beseech to God, that He hears and better yet, He answers.

Not in words but in more than words; in the very proceedings of my life's path. His Mercy through the generosity of the people around me, His Bounty in the good company that surrounds me, His Barakah in the voices of my own heart. 

As quoted in the Qur'an, "Verily with hardships, come ease." (94:4-5) For He does not burden a soul with more than it could bear.

I am grateful. With gratitude, I will myself to be patient, and to always, have faith.

Puisi lepas marah

Apakah keluarga kalau tak bersemuka, tak berjumpa? 

Keluarga takat darah?

Baik tak payah.

Roman

Aku masih muda

darah laju dalam badanku berkata 

Aku masih punyai masa

angka muda usiaku sampuk seraya 

Kehidupan itu puisi

Cinta itu Agung

Kata-kata hikmat ini kuukir

seribu kali dibalik pintu hati

Roman

Sampai kesudah aku Roman

Sahut jiwaku;

Akulah yang Satu

Persis suara gelapnya;

Jiwaku bersangka dirinya

sang pendekar bahasa,

pelaut berani bahtera mimpi,

peneroka unggul alam ideal

Mati?

Bukan hari ini 

Jantung kencangku berbisik 

Sampai mati 

Janji ikhlas aku tebarkan ke angkasa.

Buat kamu

Ingin ku tulis buatmu 

Sebuah sajak; 

Sajak sebilah perasaan,

Sajak segenggam jiwa,

Sajak setangkal nyawa, 

Sebagai tanda sang setia 

Ingin ku belah hati ini

Biar lepas binatang liar

Biar lepas yang meronta

Kian hari, kian lagi

Di dalam tandus singgahsana 

Yang berdebu di dalam tunggu

Hanya bintang dan gelap

           Berkata-kata.

 

Futur

An uncle passed away yesterday. I could write of grief that is not mine but it feels like a transgression. So let us not speak of death.

*

It has been nine months and the ever present parch remains. Ramadhan came, Ramadhan went and I? I did not do enough. I did not let myself feel the full heat of its white fire. I wanted to, I almost tried harder but I did not. I let myself idle in the heat and thirst. I did fast, I recite and I go to taraweeh... yet it was not with particular zeal. Something more was missing. 

What bothers me most is I did not (like I did last year), khatam the Qur'an, and that sealed my private failure. 

I know the sweetness of the Qur'an, I have tasted it and thus I know the bitterness of it's absence. 

Even the song has bled out of my recitation. 

Perhaps it is time for me to embrace this impending change heading my way. A life of hard work and service. Perhaps I will drown in anguish in my riling against it (as I always do, I quote myself "Change, on its advent do not sit well with me").

Perhaps it is for the best that I be faced with sickness, suffering and death as one is surrounded with at a hospital. I confess, I have never been a fan of hospitals. Too much grief under one roof. But it is for the best God-willing.

I have let myself rot in this idleness. Hard work and service should rouse me. I hope I shall have the strength to not rankle. 

One can lay down and pray for taqwa and yet do nothing to achieve it. I am one such person in my present condition. What do they call it? 

A state of Futur. A sudden break after a joining. An unmaking of a making. A stopping after progress. A sudden lack of movement after movement.

I should not fear struggle. To be a Muslim is to struggle. Islam is striving. A Muslim without jihad is a Muslim in wanting. I must surrender my apprehension and look upon the future with once again, the eyes of a student.

I will learn. For the act of learning is jihad, and the learner a mujahid. 

this will not bring me down

The fighter does not sing of defeat, the fighter wears victory and loss in their bones, trailing shards of their own heart in their wake. Their companions the celestial bodies high above, shadows on the hard path and dust in the fickle wind. The fighter falls often yet despite it all, always simply;

forges on.

Old marks

I opened my copy of Attar's Conference of the Birds last night, and read the first few pages. I skimmed over the lines I had underlined with a pen. 

They're still as beautiful as I first read it. Yet I felt dismay pervading me. If there was a cause, an explanation for the feeling, I did not find it.

.

If gratitude could be made manifest, it would be something so intricate and beautiful that nothing could ever compare.

This is what prayer is. 

A prostration of the entire being; body, soul and will - in gratitude of The One's benevolent will.

Gratitude to people, is gratitude to Him.

Rain

It is raining. In torrents. Is it a sunnah or an ayah that prayer made during rainfall is mustajab? I don't know.

This reminds me of that sunnah of Rasulullah exposing a part of his body to the rain, a sign of gratitude for the blessing of water.

I'm going to go out and let the rain fall into my hands. And pray.

Change

There is hope yet, and even if it isn't meant to be, at least it isn't some kind of grief that I cannot bear.

Allah musta'an. 

Raw

To have the strength to be forgiving is the single most difficult feat imaginable.

It is not in my nature to be calm. I am only calm in a deliberate manner. When reason leaves me, and I am left to behave without thought, it is all fire.

All that simmering heat I quell by force comes unleashed and I am left at a precipice; to be angry or to collect the wounded Ego.

More often than not I fail both and end up  behaving in a snappish manner. Swallowing half the anger, channeling my guilt into half-calm.

In summary, an unsightly childlike discomposition. I wish I could simply disappear when such trying moments ensnare me.

Vigil

Which is worse, to hurt or to feel nothing?

Then again...to be unfeeling is a certain kind of agony in itself.

I think of Salinger's Franny chanting that verse she found in that slim book by a Russian monk & I think of M. sharing that dua to be recited for laylatul Qadr;

اللَّهُمَّ إِنَّكَ عَفُوٌ تُحِبُّ الْعَفْوَ فَاعْفُ عَنِّي 

'O Allah, you are the Forgiver, You love to forgive, so forgive me.'

SS Revisited

I carefully pull my copy of Spring Snow from its place on my desk; wedged tightly between Kundera's Life is Elsewhere and The Decay of The Angel (The last book in Mishima's Sea of Fertility Tetratology -which I still have not yet read).

I open the book and the scents of various perfumes; faint now but present still, greets me softly. I had stuck about twenty strips of paper all saturated with different perfumes between the pages. This I did back in Melbourne, and now the book smells as enchanting as its content. Deceivingly so perhaps.

What is love anyway? An affection for another. In my case perhaps, it feels like a fixed point in time; my affection for M. Like a derelict fortress built within the confines of my heart, secluded from the currents of Time. A garden surrounds it, now barren where it used to flower. My words have mostly shrivelled where it used to bloom.

I can say though that when I usually perceive this fantastical, infinitely precious place as if it is nighttime where it is, now I perceive it in daylight. The walls are lit by an afternoon sun, its broken windows letting various slants of sunlight spilling onto its cracked marble floor. Dust motes everywhere, broken things everywhere. What was waterlogged now dry and crisp like the yellowed pages of aged books.

This fortress. It truly is invincible. It is mine. Built for another yet it is completely and utterly mine. It is quiet here, and I am uninterrupted where I set foot in it. Loss is the soft winds stirring the dusty ground. My friend the wind; sole companion, witness of me.

These words its very walls. Each visitation feels like an astringent to an open wound. Sharp, and then; just numb.

I shall write candidly, for it doesn't matter anymore. A relic of old I can now examine like faded photographs.

How keen. How vapourous. How dark.

The wind rises

“Le vent se lève! . . . il faut tenter de vivre!"

(The wind rises! ... One must try to live!)

                                                                              ~Paul Valery

I saw Miyazaki's final animated film today, Kaze Tachinu (The Wind Rises) and it is wonderful. It's all very familiar, the tropes and designs he comes up with. The oddness of 'evil', how he romanticizes the notion of war and villains, and then always; the sweet heartbreak of Love grasped and in the end, to let go of it. 

And then dreams, how it takes root during childhood and then flourishes upon maturity.

I am very much in love with Miyazaki's aesthete. His films leaves one aching yet contented. Reminds me of why I adore Mishima's Spring Snow too. SS which I had two copies of, the first given (returned really, since it was hers in the first place) to M. and the second now sits on my desk. 

The Japanese have very nuanced conception of beauty. So, so, lovely.

p.s. I realized I don't have a tag for films here. Oh well.

Day 10

The strange lightness of being sleep deprived when you are already fasting as it is.

.

Lay scourge to the past

Lay to rest its promises

The eye looking to the Sun

Is blinded by its light

Day becomes night

This willing plight;

         I am become abandon

Shadows

Sunset on Cradle Mountain, Tasmania Island - October 2014

Jackets on car seats, cramped in a tiny car, driving all over that Island. That was a Spring road trip I'll never forget.

The courage of kindness

Sometimes being on one's own requires courage. Courage so dense one needs to dig deep and expire all in the effort of mustering it. 

The iron will that builds the foundation for patience demands this courage. 

I remind myself that it is alright to be weak sometimes, just do it in your own time and when faced with the trial yet again, show nothing but kindness. And if a hurt is what it begets, dig deeper and forgive.

Life can make one feel so alone sometimes.

Night 2

My enemy is within. My enemy is myself. To seek to forgive in pursuit of reconciliation is better than to retaliate. [Note: Lesson from Ash-Shura ayah 40]

I am aware of my failings when it comes to curbing indignation. It is a normal reaction to being treated rudely I reckon. Then again I must remember to reflect on self-behaviour rather than others's. It is easy to be 'good' when in company of good people. Hence when in company of brusqueness, it is up to the self to forgo the desire to retaliate & instead to remain kind & forgiving.

I'm re-reading In The Footsteps of The Prophet. It still is my favourite seerah book. I should post some notes here later.

Dear M.

On another note. I miss you. The you that I address in my writings. I should finish writing that letter & just drop it in your mailbox. That postcard you sent me from Saigon made me nostalgic.

How did I manage to fill an entire journal with nothing but thoughts of you? I can't remember what it feels like anymore.

Also, I still don't think I'll ever fall in love. I lack the propensity for it (as I've said to you, a thousand times over) and suitors (lol). 

Into Ramadhan (Night 1)

Tarawikh prayers began tonight. Went to the mosque with my parents, it is strange... I thought of the Ramadhans spent in Melbourne, how different they were vs. here at home.

It is hard to let go. It has been 6 months and I am much settled in. That misplaced rage I experienced in the first few months has been (largely) doused.

And so it begins, the nightly Tarawikh prayers. I did only 8 rakaahs, I'm disappointed in myself to be honest. It is not like I work during the day, I ought to be able to perform more rakaahs. I will try harder tomorrow.

I look for something to shake my soul, scorch it clean. The pure, white heat of abstaining from desires, increment of ibadah. The word 'Ramadhan' is after all 'scorching heat' or 'dryness'. I have notes on this, I can't remember where I put them.

At any rate, tomorrow we fast.

Ya Rabb, move me towards you.

Of rain

It's narrated by Imaam Muslim in his authentic compilation from the hadith of Anas, He said: It rained upon us as we were with the Messenger of Allah (may peace be upon him). The Messenger of Allah (pbuh) unveiled his garment (from a part of his body) until the rain fell on him. We said: Messenger of Allah, why did you do this? He said: Because it (the rainfall) has just come from the Exalted Lord.

                                                                                        ~Prophetic Tradition (x)

It is raining as I type this. I've many memories of rainy days; in Melbourne, in all the cities I've travelled to. Today, at home, they come to me and nestle by my side.

10 days

Til Ramadhan. And I am not doing enough in preparation for it. If the spirit is to dwell in purity come the sacred month,  one should strive beforehand.

Like a welcoming, an act of reverence, of ibadah. 

I need to move myself, shift my tepid attempts and just do more. 

Dear Star VI

You've abandoned me.

       Turned your light 

       And fled with the dark.

Stillness

How much longer will this quiet last? I am not surrendering to this decay, I can't. 

Did Rumi feel this way when his Shams left and never returned? A kind of gaping, bloodless wound. An immolation of the heart. No wind, no breath, no song. 

Merely routine and a kind of supine rage.

Change

"We are not the same persons this year as last; nor are those we love. It is a happy chance if we, changing, continue to love a changed person."
                                                                               ~ W. Somerset Maugham

Upon reading this, I thought of A. How Time hasn't been very kind to our friendship. There is resentment between us; I on her secretive nature and her on my...I do not know exactly what. Perhaps jealousy, but that is too much of an assumption.

For what it's worth, I still long for A. to reach back to me. It seems such a waste...all those years of company and suddenly nothing. Well, next to nothing. I love to be needed and it is a flaw. A kind of arrogance, a problem of the Ego.

Dear A. if you're reading this (though you undoubtedly don't), I revere still your artistry. To quote my best confession towards you (as you may still have that letter pinned to your board),

"I miss watching you draw

and stealing them into my memory.

If you enter my mind, there is a gallery

of every which drawing of yours I ever saw.

               Our mutual affection is a thing I ponder

               When my days turn sombre."

                                                                                ~Lonely Woods, 2012

Perhaps no longer mutual yet still. If you wish me by your side, I will be there. You need only ask.

p.s. Hello June.

Carefree

Sometimes you just need someone to show you how to be happy. How to be simple, how to be grateful, how to be kind both to your self and others.

And when these beautiful souls collide with mine, I am in awe. I'm a person of grand gestures, I will celebrate people I love with all that I have to give. Their happiness is mine. They bleed, I bleed.

If there is occasion for strength, I will be that strength. I will fail but I will try. For the love of God, for His Mercy, I want to always be reminded of people's kindness towards me, what blessings they are. All from Him.

The long road

How do you convince a person you care for them? By showing up, by being there, by keeping it together when all you want to do is break down with them. A wise friend once told me, the supporters in this world need support too.

God knows the tears that goes unshed for the sake of Love. 

The wind speaks no more

That I no longer scribble my longings & speak to the wind, I fear I truly am desolate. 

I am mired down. This quiet swamp, nothing that breathes visits me. Perhaps it's ungrateful to say that I now prefer the xeric solitude of being away from home.

When the self is uprooted from its birthplace, one is a wanderer. A seeker of connection in unfamiliar lands. A survivor who strives. An independent wayfarer who holds Love in his heart instead of his hands.

Studying overseas have instilled in me a duality in what I define as 'home'. Such a strange concept that evolved through out the 4 years I spent in Australia.

It's true. The heart longs for longing. A conundrum.

With the water

Wudu', Ablutions. The act of running water over your face, forearms, forehead and feet in the correct order and number of times. A symbolic act of purifying the self before one turns one's face towards His Mercy.

And then prayer itself. Likened in the Qur'an to the act of crossing a river. Having crossed a river 5 times in a day, will your clothes not be clean? Similarly, the heart, the Soul.

Deliberate and slow, let the water heal.

Now at 3 in the morning, I think of the two letters I've started writing and left unfinished. 

Amsterdam

Checking in. Leaving for Venice tomorrow.

I'll not speak of the sights. That belongs at a later time, when I am calm and unhurried.

Instead I'll just unburden my mind a little and say, I find it odd how people react to another hiding their grief. As if heralding one's feelings of anguish signifies the depth of caring. For me personally, the more significant the wound, the stronger the desire to hide it. 

Why should I, let the uncaring masses witness my profound loss? Such a sullying of my breavement.

This is an odd tangent isn't it. This is why: I was at the Tulip gardens and I thought of the Qur'an, how it describes Jannah as gardens with rivers flowing beneath it and hence among the bright flowers, I remembered Death.

Distillation

It is one thing to have a heart wakened from blind submission into awareness. It is then another to have a heart capable of questioning in pursuit of deeper faith. And finally, armed with more knowledge, it is a feat to have an obedient heart.

.

It's hard to unangry yourself when the situation has you already ticked off. And this incessant coughing (it's been what...8? 9 weeks?) is definitely not helping.

When do I get to feel normal again. It's been 4 months. 

.

Am trying very hard not to let it get to me. And am failing quite miserably.

What hunts me down

I get these nightmares. I call them "running" nightmares, in which I am invariably chased by a villain. A someone or something. I don't get them very often now but lately they seem to have made a reappearance. How disturbing. At least it's not every *i shall not swear* night like back in pre-U but still.

I've never not run in them. Several nights ago, for the first time ever, I gave up. Well, my dream-self gave up anyway. That never happened before. I remember getting 'caught' once, but it wasn't because I stopped running. I was just caught. That particular nightmare ended with me waking up still feeling the fingers closed in around my throat. I felt it. It was so real.

But this one, the one that I stopped running in, I was just caught & got my legs broken over and over. It wasn't 'painful' in the normal way but it hurt my mind. I can't explain it.

Anyway. Nightmares? They are not fun.

.

I've been in denial for the past 6 days and now I don't know how to feel about this anymore.

I saw the snake my maid spoke of just now. It was sitting in Fluffy's favourite sunbathing spot. Fluffy went missing 2 days after she first saw the snake. And she noted how the snake was thicker back then & smaller today.

Maybe now I can just cry. *sigh*

Back beat

I grabbed my copy of The letters (Kerouac-Ginsberg) and opened to a random page. They're so charming to each other. My eyes stung. I snapped the book shut.

Fluffy

Remorse, guilt, grief. And a sense of denial that have you hoping endlessly and with each waning day, dying little by little. 

My heart clenches each time I fling open the kitchen door expecting to see him sleeping in his cage. And each time, instead of Fluffy, I'll see that pesky white cat that usually comes to steal food and sleep with Fluffy in his cage. It's a nasty feeling, that crushing disappointment of thinking it's him. That glimpse of white fur, followed by dread and unmistakeable sadness. 

Fluffy is family. He's been with me for the past 12 years. I can't bear to give up hope so easily. It makes me think of those people who had family and friends aboard the 370. No body, no closure. What unspeakable suffering.

The Edge

Sharp, present and there

         A line stretched

         A straining eternity 

         An almost sound

Balanced, backed and waiting

            A collapse held

            A drawn halt

            A frozen want

The edge sits

       cruel and inviting.

            

Anguish

With a lingering touch to the upper arm, I tried to convey my understanding, my caring; and he turned, half-glancing over his shoulder, a brave smile (grief in his eyes), he says: Look after your cousin.

I smiled back, giving my assent, the ache in my heat throbbing.

God knows best. The affairs of the heart is His domain. I can only do so much and pray that only Good will succeed this anguish.

What greater quest is there other than to pursue noble character. To be gallant, fiery and wry. I am in love with nobility. All ideas concerning it anyway. A whimsy of the mind. 

.

What used to burn
        now expires
What used to want
        no longer desires

Night sky,
        you who hid my star
        what use have you of Starlight?
     
What was bright, my loyal might
          now buried,
          too far, too deep

The ashes fall, it settles
       nothing stirs
       no more

.

And the outsider looks on 

as the world reels its passing

Contained by nothing, 

       Marked by nothing

Divine, unknown

       Undesired

The elements bears his footprints

       As dust motes in the air

 Only caught, only seen

       In the slants of earthbound rays

In broad daylight, 

The outsider walks

    Uwitnessed

             Unseen.

Plato

I said, "I think I like (you)". Once, a long time ago when things were simpler but I was young, & uncertain of myself.

What a thing to divulge to anyone. It's easy to be confused when half the world is baffling & you don't even know yourself, let alone what Love for another even is. 

That Love is diverse. That there is more. That affection could run deep & pure. 

stoop low

For someone who harbours sentimentality like a cheated lover bears a grudge, I sure swing between the desire to capture momentous occasions in a myriad of symbolic trinkets, or, to hide them all and make the outward appearance as barren and monkish (if you will) as possible.

What is the barest of necessities anyway. I announce myself... 'disaffected' at the moment. For a while now, and (disturbingly) for the foreseeable future. Let's see if I can muster the energy to care about things sometime soon.

I admit, I have stooped. I shall lay low in my fog of vague discontent. These fumes are as 'natural' as the cigarette smoke is to the tar-charred lungs of a smoker. Familiar, necessary, and inevitably, toxic.

One could say the human condition is dictated by self-love. The apathetic do not care to extend any acts of benevolence. But I know myself, I am apathetic but I am not forsaken (God forbid, keep this far from me). It is desolation, sure, but this is not permanent (though it feels like it, God knows).

To keeping my head low, and trying my best to be charitable. God-willing.

Impotence

I'm holding a glass of water and is fighting the urge to smash it into the nearest wall (But I don't. Of course I don't). This is how I'm feeling right now...how I feel every three days or so.

So unsightly. I will endure this.

Dear M.,

Truth be told, I had already started writing this in my mind, behind closed lids as I struggled to fall asleep, last night. I told myself to just shut up and save the sentimental word vomit for morning (which is where I am now). I kept twitching as I tried to fall asleep. People do that when they are tired. I’ve been sleeping an average of 4 hours every 24. Anyway, I’ve fixed that this morning with a much needed nap.

“Just don’t smile at me, please,” Zooey said evenly, and walked out of the vicinity. “Seymour was always doing that to me. This goddamn house is full of lousy smilers.”

Ha. I trust you enough to feel like whatever goes through your mind as you read that excerpt will reflect what I think as well. Perhaps it is arrogance to feel so, but I do. I honestly do. I’m still reading it. Relishing it in fact. I stop when I’m tired of it so as not to read carelessly.

Here comes the sentimental tripe… You smile a lot. When you first met F. I will describe it to you, my favourite smile of yours (smiles varies, people generally have a repertoire of smiles); this smile usually comes when I’m talking. When I’m saying something or the other and you’re listening with a benevolence only you could muster for my mindless garble. You would be quiet and you would meet my eyes for a second and then lower them to the ground, with this smile still intact. In that second, a knowing look glints in your eyes. Yet in saying nothing and simply smiling, therein lies your enigma. I would frown (in my mind if not actually) and wonder. It’s an endearing albeit infuriating sort of smile. I generally chalk it down to “hinting at sadness” but you could be ridiculing me for all I know. Not that I think you do.

I’m actually working myself up to write something more substantial in this ‘letter’ but alas I need to go pick my brother up from school. A sketch of your smile, in words, unbidden sentimentality and my standard brand of foolish feigned omniscience.

I’ve to go now.

Yours,
     P.