October 26, 2014
I do not understand it, I do not embrace it.
I embrace the voices that seek to destroy me with their whisperings that I should be…
soft, like feathers. Hard, like nails.
Hard, like feathers. Soft, like nails.
I do not listen for silence. I do not welcome it.
In silence there is a void, an emptiness. I do not need emptiness. I need a voice to tell me to be tough like steel, but comforting like a cup of tea.
Comforting like steel. Tough, like a cup of tea.
The voices have begun to rule me. They have found an empty domain to inhabit,
but I have allowed them to sprawl and stretch within the crevices in me,
to tell me to be cold like ice, warm like a wool blanket.
Cold, like a wool blanket. Warm, like ice.
Silence cannot win, because,
silence cannot fill empty hands.
So I must speak. I must write. I must listen to the voices that my heart speaks,
the voices that my insecurities speak,
the voices that tell me to love unreservedly,
the voices that tell me to never love again.
I used to not fear silence when your voice still soothed my thoughts.
I used to not fear silence when your footsteps still echoed in the floorboards.
I used to not fear silence when silence was only a filler until I would hear your words again.
But it has been some time, and your voice hasn’t come back to me. So I have filled my body with voices that do not live well with one another. Voices that confuse me. Voices that disgust me.
When I reach out my hand in invitation to see if your voice will come to me, my heart is met with silence.
And it is the silence I fear.
The silence narrates to me a story I do not want to hear.
It tells me, you are too far away to ever hear my voice again.
When I lie very still, I can feel the earth shaking beneath me, my body bending to its will.
The peace that I find on a quiet day will not stop the earth from shaking beneath my feet – it is protesting my sins, protesting the moments of untruths, times of cowardice. It is protesting the trust it was given.
When I hold its flowers in my palms, against my slowly aging skin, I wonder that the earth and I are both aging. But it doesn’t lose its beauty as I do. It remains beautiful from one season to the next – only interrupted by bursts of winter and death.
Spring and sun and laughter do not stop the earth from quaking beneath feet. Dancing on the earth will not stop it from wanting it to swallow you into itself. Your feet are too heavy, too slow, too burdensome, and the earth is tired of you.
Perhaps death is a release from a long winter, a propelling into an eternal spring.
Everyone is one colour, and I am another.
I no longer exist on the same plane, I no longer breathe the same air or participate in the same conversations, except by the words that force themselves out of my mouth – the words that must bend to my will to stay within the acceptable lines of being.
I am alone. So deeply and profoundly alone that it is frightening. I am in a room of one thousand, but they are all green, and I am blue. I have tried to colour myself green, tried to dye the death out of my skin, but it remains the same. It remains discoloured from losing you. It remains rough, tainted, dry.
I now look at our old pictures, not only to see and remember you, but to remember myself – what I used to be, who I used to love, the soft curve of my smile. Sometimes the woman in the photos, the woman you loved, she feels as far away as you do.
Somewhere in your hometown, on a nondescript piece of asphalt is permanently stained. Your blood. Your precious, fragrant, expensive blood. I wonder, did the ground mourn as I do, having felt the remainder of your life seeping from your body? Did it curse your killer and promise to be a witness for you in front of God, having absorbed your blood into itself? Did it seethe with anger?
Your blood, I’m sure, has been wiped away by passing cars, by the heat of the Egyptian sun, by the torrid rains of the Egyptian winter. To the naked eye, you are gone. But regardless of seasons and regardless of the elements, that piece of ground will always be stained with your blood.
My heart will always be stained with losing you.
The night is long
and what was once just a passageway into life has become the essence of it.
here, time does not move
here is as dark as the bottom of the ocean, the kind of darkness that surrounds, the kind of darkness that invades, that owns.
I attempt to not let the dark own me
I attempt to remind myself that morning will come
in just one hour
the sun will be up and it will fill in the places that are broken.
darkness has its pearls as the ocean,
but sunshine, o sweet miraculous sunshine…
I crave you like the very love, the very blood that keeps my body alive.
I believe sunshine will return, or I will return to it,
but still, the night is so long without you.
Losing you is like waking up to a world that has lost its sun. My heart becomes infertile without the drops of liquid gold tilling its soil. How is it that they expect me to move past our love when losing you is like losing water in the depth of the desert? Perhaps they have not felt the coolness of love as it is gulped in desperation by those with hearts as parched and aching as mine was. Perhaps they do not understand the meaning of losing you, for you are not the only one lost, my love. I now wander from day to day having lost sight of you, having seen you cold, having seen things no woman can bear to see.
And yet I bear it because my child needs the sun to grow and play. I have lost you, my beautifully effervescent friend, so I take your place and shine, that she may one day know a love as bright as I have known.
go to your secret place
ascend to a time and space where you are untouchable
where what they say and do can’t reach you, can’t hurt you.
go there for a time until you have satisfied your soul,
until your child’s cries pierce the still night air.
now return, survive, stand up and make your way through the prison cells of reality
but do not despair when they try to pull the light from your eyes
or when the dampness of time and sorrow has left you cold when the sun sets
go to sleep one more night, cover your bones with impenetrable layers of patience.
perchance they will warm you,
perchance someday you will be free.
Walk Home with me, my cherub.
Stand next to me in the spot where Baba used to be, and do not worry – I will carry you when you become fatigued, and God will carry me when the burden is too heavy.
Hold onto me and don’t let your grasp loosen. If you become lost in the crowd, come sit on my shoulders and look above them.
Build with me a bridge to pass the pain, and to patch our wounded hearts. Place the bricks with me, one by one.
Plant with me, my love, our gardens in Paradise: SubhanAllah, Alhamdulillah, La ilaha illallah, Allahu Akbar. There, I have given you the seeds, hold them tight in your tiny hands until you’re old enough to send them into Jannah’s soil.
Walk forward with me, my sunshine, we only have today to do the work we need to.
The journey will end so soon, and inshaAllah, tomorrow we will be Home.
My face is now masculine. Aged inwardly though perhaps it hasn’t changed.
Rest assured I wear many faces for them, I employ devices of deception. I am unable to release myself into grief, I hold the reigns tight and do not lose a moment of wakefulness without knowing I am upholding the correct image.
The trouble, as with all reigns, is that they snap if held too tight.
The trouble is, I have aged inwardly and it shows. My face isn’t the same unburdened canvas it once was. When I look in the mirror I see lines of age, not wisdom. I see marks of fatigue and not laughter.
We have both changed, you see. Not just you.
And I am afraid when I come home one of these days, you will no longer recognize me.
Meet my by the edge of my dreams, in the moments I drift into your realm.
Reach for me where you will find me, perhaps I may dream of you and your smile.
Find me amongst the souls that wander, call my name, perhaps I will hear your voice and come.
Perhaps time will not hurt as it does if your hand touches my forehead again and tells me nothing in this world is worth your tears.