Spent one third of my life sleeping, another third working, and the other third was wasted believing in people.
Blog
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Sometimes, like right now, I stare at my Tumblr dashboard and realise that it’s a painful reflection of the emptiness of my life. It’s supposed to be an escape, an outlet, a form of creative expression or mental ejaculation, but instead it only reinforces the very same realisations that I try to ignore. I’m reminded of all the people that tell me that I just don’t get it, I don’t get them, I’m missing the point, or I don’t understand women. But the logic of how much I get it stares blankly at me saying, ‘wtf?’
Then I look at my post editor telling me that I already asked two questions today so I can only ask another one tomorrow and I wonder if it gives a shit about the fact that most of my questions go unanswered anyway? Now I’m talking to my post editor, which makes me almost as shallow a douche bag as the ones I despise.
Pathetically unique, or uniquely pathetic? Looking for meaning in the wrong places, or doomed to be insignificant? Fighting my true nature, or simply in denial? What does it matter? Asking these questions doesn’t change what is, it only reaffirms what is not. I should be asleep right now, but I’m averse to getting into bed again.
Nothing gives you quite a mind fuck like betrayal…it’s the wine of the heathens!
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If I walk on broken roots, and you on two feet, am I not to be walking because I do not walk like men do?
If I stand with my roots in the ground, and you with your two feet above soil, am I not to be standing because I do not stand like men do?
Why are my gems stolen, my fruits eaten, my flesh torn? Why are my children crying, why are yours? Why do you weep when the sky weeps for me, why do you laugh when the sky laughs at you?
O, tell me, why are my bones exploited for heat, and then my whole family pitied from the very thing? Why do you throw me in fire, but grow helpful when the fire is thrown into me?
Why do you trifle with scrawny, strewn limbs and use them as tools? Why do you steal babes from the nesters to please your own follies?
O, man, tell me so, why is that we are not let to stand? If you will destroy me, leave not even my roots. Burn me, light me all, let my ashes bring life.
Let us not be stood without will and planted by paved roads and lit lamps. Burn us down, burn us up, do not let me leave my bounds.
Let us be, let us move. Let us stand and walk, breathe and beat, wake and slumber. Let us be everything, let us free. Let us free like your men.
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On this day of Jumu’ah it will be my second Friday in which I will deliberately avoid attending salaah at my local masjid, and instead, go to another not far from me because it is one of the few mosques in the area that is not embellished with those pagan symbols. I used to be regularly stationed in the first row right in front of the mimbar at Jumu’ah time, and I wonder if my absence will even be noted?
Wondering about that gives me fleeting feelings of insincerity, which is one of the reasons why I stopped attending the local masjid for salaah. I know that as a matter of principle, I cannot on one hand object to the placement of the pagan symbols on the masjid, and on the other continue to attend salaah with congregation just because I don’t want people in the community to think less of me. I stay four doors away from the masjid, so this is even more difficult than usual.
So I’ll carve my niche in the first row of another masjid where I’m not known personally and pray that they don’t also decide at some point to decorate their structure with that vile moon and star combination that has come to represent the ritualistic stupour of Muslims around the world. Even the Haram in Makkah and Madinah is defaced with those symbols without even a peep from the Ummah.
Reminds me of the hypocrisy of the masses in the Arab Spring! Chanting Allahu-Akbar with every rocket and every bullet fired, and then demanding a secular government! So let’s bow our heads in prayer when worshiping Allah, raise our hands to recite the takbeer, and then prostrate beneath a dome that is adorned with the symbol of Diana, goddess of the hunt, often accompanied by her fellow kaafir King Richard whose star is also emblazoned across the flags of many a ‘Muslim’ nation.
Seems we’re an Ummah of Muslims, but not many Mu’min’s. May Allah save me from complacency and excess in this matter.
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When I was younger I used to be quite the loner, and still am like that on most days. I used to go ‘out’ on my own and stay out till late just mingling in crowds where I was the odd one out, or barely being noticed. And it felt that way when I was around people and when I was home.
I remember on one occasion when I was at a friend’s house, his brother had been away for an extended time without any contact which sent his family into a panic. On that particular day my younger brother was with me when he looked at me and said, “See? That’s how everyone panics when you come home so late without telling anyone where you are.”
I don’t think I said anything in return, and I don’t know why I’m suddenly reminded of this. But the one thought that did occur to me right now is that despite him saying that, I still didn’t think I was significant enough for anyone to give a damn about where I was or when I’ll be back. They fussed about me from time to time, but they rarely did anything with me. And I wonder how many others feel equally neglected but loved at the same time? It’s a weird feeling.
I guess being told you’re important or significant or part of a family or social circle is one thing, but having reason to believe that there’s a genuine interest in what you like, what you want, and what really interests you is a love of a different kind that is needed even more. I think we get this kind of love from partners or love interests in the early stages of a relationship, but when it dwindles, when that interest in us dwindles, despite the professions of undying love, we withdraw because suddenly we’re just as significant as family. And everyone knows we take family for granted, because they’re family, right?
But we don’t want to be ‘family’ to the one we allow into that sacred space of fragility. When we allow someone in there, we expect them to worship us, but not smother us…they must hang on every word we say, but have something interesting to say themselves. They must need us, but not be needy or clingy or parasitic. We must be the centre of their universe, but they must give us space.
We’re an odd bunch, aren’t we? Or am I again a loner in feeling this way?
