Superman.

She wouldn’t really come across as being anyone. Just another nobody. 

Definitely not a Lois Lane.

She used the same benches as everyone, ate the same junk as everyone else. Sat at the same spots in the quadrangle, used the same stairs, moved along the same corridors, used the same lecture halls and pews and tables and chairs. No exceptions.

Yet she was a tiny world within herself: a world within the world. A breathing organism of talking thoughts and screaming feelings. She would come across as nobody yeah, but you only had to look into her eyes to know you couldn't have been more mistaken. Couldn't have been more blatantly tricked.

For there is a bug of coiled emotion at permanent abode in her programming center. A bug that just wouldn't listen to the chidings of her brain cells, the admonishing of her heart. A bug that chooses to glow dim or bright of its own choice. Unfortunately, Mortein® hasn't come up with a debugger for pests of this kind yet.

As with most things in life, only a small trigger is required to set links in motion. You never know which domino is  strategic in the line till you knock it over, unleashing a torrent of happenings -  the domino effect of destruction and construction intertwined.

A swoosh and she looks up to find him walking by. She is frozen mid-step, mid-sentence with her friend. The instant is frozen as her Superman passes her by. Her throat constricts and she realizes quite consciously that she is holding her breath. But she is afraid that exhaling might blow the  quantum-light moment away. Crackers go off in her brain and a string of fireworks is unleashed. She squeezes her eyes shut for she is not sure how to respond to the scenario. To him. She looks away pretending she hasn't noticed but the damage has been done. The chain has been set in motion and she can already sense how the day ahead is going to be.

It is over. He has left.

She sits on a bench to bring her knocking knees under control. Inhales. Exhales. Deeply.

Why does he always have this effect on me, she asks herself. On her the Nobody.

Random snatches of a milieu of songs play in her head. She finds herself wondering how it would all end, were her life an actual movie.

In a movie she wouldn’t be caught off guard every single time. Wouldn’t be thrown off the very balance of sense and sensibility just by a casual glance.

In a movie all this would happen just once; you are never shown those infinite moments between magic instances like life jumps in hops from drama to drama. You are never shown how the characters spend their time in the 'in between' moments and minutes and hours and days. You are never shown how they fall into the abyss every day and have to struggle hard just to face the world normally. Every single day.

In a movie a pinnacle would be reached. The director knows how it will all end. The characters know how it will all end. The viewers know how it will all end.

The gentlest fall and the slightest whisper as the curtains fall over the theatre.

She doesn't know how anything will work out or end or even start any more.

She presses her knees hard together and sends up a silent prayer. Looks toward the sky and that door wishing God is listening to her heart.

She smiles to herself.

And continues to wait for Superman to come pick her up.

For the red cape to engulf her and block everything out.

*Inspired by US singer Daughry's new single - Waiting For Superman

Ashes

She found herself having flashbacks to a time they could have had together, but never did. It would seem strange to anyone hearing this for it is absurd, how can someone have flashbacks to something that hasn't even happened? But it is true. That is how her mind worked, building up real enough stories in her head. Portraying themselves as the persons she wanted them to be.

Reality did not matter and the dreams were wretched. They made her live in a world she knew all along was unreal yet felt like her only abode. Her only hope of retaining semblance of sanity. The bitter addiction of a torn mind. She knew the real world demanded her attention and there were things she needed to focus on. There was an urgent pile of undone tasks waiting to be looked after; discarded paper lying all around screaming to be read. Yet she didn't care, or in any case couldn't. Her mind wouldn't let her. Her heart was in a different realm altogether. Much as she forced it to come back she failed. Failed every time she tried. Failed harder and harder.

The endless positive loop of feedback.

It had happened before and she had vowed herself, never again. She had built up an elaborate, intricate structure to help herself climb slowly out of the imagined realm. Slowly and steadily. And she thought she has succeeded too, had finally won over the difficult battle. But she was no Caesar, she was no Columbus.  She was just a plain unknown girl and the new paths to forgetfulness were beyond her scope to discover.

And so it happened.

The slightest touch, the merest idea, the meekest glance and the structure she had shielded herself in came tumbling down. It melted right in front of her.

She watched it go up in flames, heard the fire crackling. Felt the heat in all its entirety.

And what could she do?

Just stand and stare and stare.

At her only shield go up in flames.

At her last defenses burn to ashes.

And she did just that.

Bricks of Life

The first impression you get from the house is that it is empty, perhaps even haunted. The blue metal double door with a set of crossbars to give strength and an aesthetic sense that makes for the main entrance is flanked on all sides by bougainvillea. It frames the door and a person entering would have to step over and onto it to make it inside.

Then comes the stone walkway. This is perhaps a grand name for the actual thing, for the path is crooked and made of bricks that were once whole but have now become discolored and broken around the edges with weathering of all kinds. They have braved the heat and the cold, the rain and the temperature. They have stood witness to the countless feet that have trampled on them as they walk to or from the core house: some rushing hurriedly, others shuffling and some lingering. The bricks have stood the test of time and been faithful to the owner of the house. The owner has never had to think about replacements or even repairs. Perhaps because the bricks are hardy. Or perhaps because he/she simply never cared.

Moss has begun to grow in the cracks where the loosely paralleled bricks join together at the sides and edges. But wait, the moss is not new as you are first led to believe. Bend a little closer and you begin to notice that there is not one but several layers of moss. The previous layers have decayed and provided nutrition to the new ones, which in time have given way to newer and newer layers. It is only then that you begin to notice the slight stench that surrounds the path.

The main wall stretches to a long distance but you can't exactly make out its length for various stacks of discarded household objects mar the wall at small spaces, spilling out into what, lets say, is the lawn.

You walk towards the core  which stands as if in the middle of a vast bounded space. On your way you stoop to pluck out one of the pretty flowers growing in well kept flower pots that line the walkway. You wonder how they are so fresh, for keeping them proper requires human hands. The color in them seems strange too for it is completely mismatched to the silence and lifelessness of the overall place. Not a single human voice can be heard for a distance. A bird chirps on to the bougainvillea and you turn around to look at it. But it flies away immediately for it is not used to many visitors. Or perhaps humans themselves.

A shiver runs down your spine but you keep walking toward the white door designed out of white painted iron and some net to let the inmate look out without letting insects in. Insects. You swat away the pesky fly that has been sitting on your shoulder for some time and whom you had forgotten in the mix of curiosity and fear in your mind stemming from the very place.

Open the door and step in. It takes your eyes a little while to adjust to the darkness of the room which seems positively pitch black when coming from the relatively brighter outside. Faint shapes begin to emerge. You notice large suitcases stacked up against the front wall and a small table you become aware of only when your foot bangs against it. You hear a light noise that sounds like coughing and look around you. It's difficult to make out the source so you step our of the immediate range of the doorway. Light immediately floods into the room and you see a heap on a jute charpoy. A coughing sound comes again and the heap heaves a little simultaneously. It gives you the idea it’s a living thing, a person maybe. You creep slowly and cautiously toward the pile, take the sheet by the edge and slowly begin to peel it away. A pile of wrinkles emerges and some silver string-like surface. You peel further. Now there is pair of eyes deep set in wrinkles and crow's feet, shut against the light, apparently trying to adjust to the seldom brightness. They slowly open while you stand paralyzed with fear and regret and pity and confusion and a multitude of other emotions. The eyes pop open suddenly and you are taken aback. They rove around your face to search the directory of names in the mind to search for yours. Something seemingly clicks for the eyes change into a faint hint of a smile. There is a creaking of the charpoy as a pile of bones enclosed in skin assembles itself into a cross-legged position. The sheet falls off the charpoy but you are looking at the face of the person, those swollen hands on stick-like arms, uncombed hair partly covered in a dupatta. The face smiles and calls you a name. A name that is not your own. A name that belongs to some distant relative you have in the village. You suddenly remember your manners and bend your head low to for the face to kiss you on the top while it clutches you at the temples. A stench fills your nose. A smell of illness. Of hopes long crushed. Of the son she waits for every day but who comes only once in a very, very long time. A smell of life gone by and spent longing, longing, longing. The smell of my great grandmother.

For she lives alone with just my great aunt in this house, cared only for by my maternal grandmother living nearby and nobody else.

She lies in bed all day waiting for her only son to come visit her, who lives in the next town but just can't be bothered. A son on whom she has showered all her love, depriving her daughters in the process. A son she has spent her everything on. But a son who just doesn't care.

And she? Reduced only to a pile of bones covered in a wrinkled brown canvas.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Like the bricks on the walkway. 

Time Chunks

Sometimes when you think about time, you forget that it consists of days, hours, minutes, seconds, and those little ticks of the clock we call moments. 'Moments' that signify just so much in their infinitesimal smallness.

Humans love to organize things around them and lending terminology to a concept makes it come alive all of a sudden and 'real' in a sense. Something within the reach of our minds' computing powers. We love to segment time into chunks as time spent here or there, with this or that person, doing something or the other. It's always the bigger picture with a term all its own we define our lives by.

But in all this process of compartmentalization passed on to us a gift of evolution, we forget that time, indeed, has a segmentation all its own. Something unnamed, undefined even in Particle Land.

We forget that to pass special chunks of difficulty we have to live through each grueling moment in its entirety, hear each sound of the fingernail screeching on the blackboard, tear your hair at every pit stop, fall to your knees  with pleading and regret and piety altogether, hear the shattering of glass as you stare at your own tear-stained  face in the mirror.

You forget that you will be trampled upon by the very people you care the most about, crushed in the stampede like a beetle, scrunched up till you begin to hear your own demons screaming in your ears, hear your own fears scream back at you and you begin to cower inside a shell you think exists but is in fact only a hologram, a projection of the scared mind.

You forget that there is a vastness beyond the faked color of life, that there lies this vast empty barren terrain you to have crawl through on your own. You scream out for help but there isn’t a reply. The distant mountains echo back your cries for help to mock you and just push you further into the positive feedback loop of despair.

And what option do you have then but to resign to the abstractness knows as Fate and just throw your hands over your head and run, run, run as fast as you can?

Time is nothing in physical terms.

But ask about its reality from someone who is living through the rough patch.

All Physics will be shattered, for even 'E equals m, c squared' cannot be balm to all those dripping wounds.

Yin-yang

Yin-yang is the Maoist symbol for two opposing but inseparable forces.

We think of ourselves as 'single' persons when we are actually always a 'double': the yin and yang. There is always a +ve voice in our head and another that urges us on toward the -ve. There is always a battle between the 'yes' and the 'no' in our heart and mind. When the heart gives you the go-ahead but the mind struggles to fit in 'logic' somewhere, fix in 'rationality'.

If you have ever had conversations running in your mind, you know there are two persons, two parts of you, present within a single anatomical shell. There is always an argument going on, always the black versus the white. A part of you urging you to take the step, be bold and say it, do it, act it while the other part holds you back, asks you to dip that toe in the pond before you jump right into it. In the meantime is confusion and tension as the tussle goes on. Sometimes this is momentary but on days when you would rather shut everything out than face anything, the struggle becomes red-hot active. There is so much running through your mind at once that all 'you' do is look around. Maybe put on music to silence the arguing yin and yang, to drown out the voices. Sometimes you succeed too. But it's not always guaranteed.

There is a voice saying that red is the best option: bold, sharp, bright.

There is that other voice saying pink is the better thing: softer, quieter, more subdued.

There is constant war between the two parts. One wants you to slap the person making you angry right away and make your point while the other tries to put a lid on the boiling pot. One asks you to smile when you would rather give someone a snarl. One makes you want to jump up and enjoy and have fun while the other is constantly reminding you that the moment is not permanent. That once it is over, it is back to the same old state.

This two sided version of ourselves is the reason sadness always accompanies happiness and there are occasions when the line between the two is blurred and they merge together.

Sometimes you are looking directly into someone's eyes and the voice makes you forget you shouldn't. The other voice jumps up to caution you but it's too late, the damage is done. The yin has momentarily triumphed yang. This is not supposed to happen. Yin and yang are inseparable, they totally fit in.

But when one trumps the other, that is the start of magic. Pure magic.

The start of mini apocalypses in your head.

The start of stanzas and stories and tales that go down in history.

The Gift

It was a small box. Hand painted. Gathering dust on a shelf in a small, shabby shop on a hillstation.

An unremarkable box, too small to hold much. Painted in hues of the bluest blue and some beige. Swirls of a golden leaf encircled the circumference and a swish of blue petals.

It was indeed a small box and something that would go unnoticed when looking for a handicraft to buy. Something you might just glance at and then shushh away in your mind's eye, rejecting it's potential to be bought for any reason. Move on. Next item please!

But when you are given this tiny thing by someone with perhaps a little something else coiled tidily inside, it begins to take on a whole new meaning.

For a gift is a gift no matter how small or tiny. It is the 'reason' that makes a difference and all of a sudden you feel special, flattered. Like you matter on this planet and that perhaps all is not a lost cause.

You unpack the little box and finger it, enthralled by the gentle bumps of paint as they spell out the painted vines. Bring it up close to your eyes for a better look, admire the sheer labor spent on creating the object of beauty.

Open the box, peer inside. Take out the little something and look in again. It is empty now of course yet you continue staring at the blue inside. Feel it with your finger, trace it with your thumb.

You look at it for a while, smile, and then gently place it back into it's wrapping. You are gentle with it to prevent the smallest abrasion on it's surface. Perhaps it sounds stupid but you save the wrapping as well.

For the sheer goodwill it was given to you with is heart-wrenching.

In that small box is stored a wealth of music and other things melodious, words, poetry, smiles and perhaps a touch of resentment, some stories and webbings. Lots of memories. The expression when it was handed to you.

A gift is the way to make someone feel special.

And that to me is purely beautiful.

Sponge

What does the word remind you of?

Maybe the smiling face of the pretty girl on ScotchBrite®. Or perhaps SpongeBob ® for those of you who like watching cartoons. Both these are smiling reminders.

But if you look at a sponge closely, it is actually a sad little thing.

The way it looks solid at first glance but reveals holes, pockets of air when you zoom in reminds me so much of us, the people. We are just the same: solid and courageous on the outside yet the same cowering beings inside, all of us, shrinking away silently against fear, the feeling of not being 'wanted' and 'needed', of not being 'loved'; the insecurities, the jealousies we try our best to mask during the day keeping in view 'people skills' yet can never fully escape because they WILL resurface no matter, seeking out our darkest moments to become their brightest.

Just like a sponge we absorb what is around us. Hold it's essence only as long as things are proceeding the way we want them, as long as we are masters of the grease we are made to wipe and not it's slaves. We absorb it so much so that we begin to drip the essence.

But along comes either a change of scenario or a bad incident to throw us off balance and we get 'squeezed out'. Back to the original hole-d condition.

Sometimes when you begin to feel things, being reminded of instances and begin to think of something more than you should, it feels like  you literally ARE a sponge: so hollow, so weak and malleable, so dispensable. And why not, since the brain itself is a sponge soaked in blood, the fibres of which are formed of as many neurons as are stars in the universe?

And then sometimes, you feel so light like a sponge too, ready to lift off your feet and fly up into the sky feeling like the luckiest person around.

And the lightness comes also when you feel  horrible, those days you feel like a prisoner trapped inside your own head.

Classic paradox for you.

Just like a sponge you sometimes feel used in a bad way, enough to make you lose respect for either yourself or the other person. Unsure if it was you who was stupid enough to not realize, or the other person just so mean on you.

Life is strange and it is said in modern Biology that biological sponges were among the first living things to come into being in the form we see them in today.

Over the years the human race has switched over to synthetic polymer-based sponges.

But does it mean we give up hope in life, in feeling, emotion and prayer?

I think not.

You only have to look at the cheerful ScotchBrite® girl to see  that synthetic sponges DO come in pretty packaging too and that with care, it can last you a long time.

That is what you have to look for in life. Sustainability.

Moments of happiness. Of ecstasy.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall!

'Mirror, mirror on the wall, whose the fairest of all?'

I'm sure all of your remember this from Snow White. Maybe even ask yourself the same question every morning. And answer it with 'I'.

But have you ever felt like you didn't know the person you were looking at in the mirror even when it was just you in front of it? That uncanny feeling of looking at a shadow version of yourself, an alter ego? Like as if you were staring right into the eyes of someone else you didn't remotely know?

And it's always the eyes.

Zoom in and you begin to read thoughts in the head of the 'person' looking into the mirror, not quite you. Ideas, thoughts, feelings, anger, sorrow and all those things you had locked away in that secret box in your mind meant to store things to be untouched come up. All of a sudden they pounce on you all together and leave you breathless. Is this me, really? What have I become? This is surely the unME, isn't it? How can this mean selfish self be ME?

Then you begin to notice the contour of the eyes, the color of your irises. You lean closer and stare into the retina. And begin to think subjectively like an external observer. Forgetting it's 'you' you're looking at. The 'me'.

Then comes the mouth. You begin to notice the laugh lines around it. How the creases form when you smile. How your teeth show just a little as if playing hide-and-seek. How your mouth dulls in unison with your eyes when you feel sad. And yes, you are feeling sad, you realize all of a sudden. And you know the reason for that pretty well.

You look into the mirror again and the force of the reason hits you hard, real hard. You are thrown off balance. No, brain, how can you do this to me? Just when I was stowing away the reason into that secret box, how can you open its very lid? Reflection, why are you doing this to me?

But the mirror-you just stares back and you hear it laughing in your mind.

Then you collapse onto your knees. The genie is out of the box. There is no hiding now.
And then you weep some.

Nescafe: Joy or Joy?

I was talking to a friend from middle school yesterday. It was after a long time and the conversation turned to our Facebook updates nowadays; that's when we found our common passion for coffee! I was quite glad to have found a fellow coffee addict.

Somewhere in between she suggested why don't I blog on Nescafe and the coffee experience? I immediately took up the idea. Anything for Nescafe!

So today I'm going to write about the richness of a steaming cup of these ethereal beans.

There are people who love the experience of coffee, and others who dismiss it. Some have it just to get an edge during the exams by getting enhanced sharpness of the mind, while others have it purely for it's own sake. The first class of people treat as a kind of 'medicine' and prepare a cuppa in a totally mechanical procedure, following the instructions on the How To label. But for those like me and my friend, the experience is so much more 'personal'.

While the major steps to preparation remain the same, we are free to experiment. Trying out different high-grade chocolates to prepare a mocha, investing in a milk frother to get a cappuccino look-alike, especially buying skimmed milk since that gives the best milk foam is so us. Closely monitoring the temperature of the water as it heats up so it's just the right value for the ideal diffusion of flavor; setting the timer value to microwave the milk so it's neither steaming nor too cool; frothing it to get the desired foam consistency; adding in a heaping spoonful of coffee powder (if the instant variety) to the water and preparing an 'espresso'.

Then there is the whole business of choosing the cup to pour the coffee into; that depends totally upon the drinker's mood and strength of coffee prepared on any day.

Then pouring in the espresso and the milk simultaneously so they mix au naturel.

After the preparation comes, of course, the actual savoring.

You sit down comfy and bring the cup to your mouth. Inhale the flavour-induced steam and smile at the feeling. Take the first sip. Oh, it's just so hot yet, ouch!

The next sip feels like heaven. You let it roll around your tongue and extract the coffee-ness. It always brings the image of a Patchi store and a Starbucks seating arrangement to my mind somehow (does it to yours too Aliza?). And chocolate and coffee are quite inseparable in my mind.

After that you just give yourself over to the moments till you've reached the last sip. After which you groan and think 'Over so soon!? :/'

And begin the countdown to your next cuppa!

Now, I think adding sugar just spoils the taste. I personally prefer adding in some drinking chocolate powder if at all sweetening IS needed.

Some people pour in tablespoons and it just bugs me so much I want to ask them 'Do you want to drink coffee, really? Because it seems to me you just want the un-carbonated version of a coffee-flavoured soft drink -_- ! '

Do you share the same passion for this dark liquid?

Do leave your comments below!

Meantime, I'll just go get myself another cuppa!

Scream II: The Sajda

After that ferral scream comes the moment of silence. You have released it all out and now there is left a void in that space.

You look around you, feeling like it's finally over. But it's not. For suddenly, there is an overwhelming urge to cry, be protected, to be near your mama. You want someone to just 'understand' the rapid fire of emotions in your heart. You wish someone to hear you out patiently, just you talking and them listening and nodding in recognition.

That is when you fall into a 'sajda'. For who is closer to man than God? Who else is there that loves you more than 70 mothers' love pooled together?

Our Prophet [PBUH] emphasised multiple times the importance of sajda: the point at which you're closest to God.

Once in sajda, you lose yourself. God is your listener now and you can talk all you want. He has infinite patience.

So you let your sorrow flow and let the tears come, and share it all with God for there is no embarrassment, no secrets there. There is no care for the use of tenses, for flowery vocabulary. There is no care for sentence structure and grammar. There is no care for the word limit and the use of linkers. Linguistic boundaries fall apart and there is no need even to put it all into 'words'. For when you're with God, nothing else matters but the core of 'you': he understands it all. He is the final refuge when all else feels like a lost cause.

You go on talking, complaining, asking, praying, crying, wishing, all in the same moment, setting in motion the Big Bang of peace. This time, there is no looking back. What has been started, must end.

And the void that was begins to fill up with hope.

You gradually begin to come out of the sajda and sit up; take a deep, deep breath.

Glance at your hands and flex them to rid yourself of the remaining negativity.

Look up and feel empowered.

Pick up the phone and call mama.

You have just gone through a miniature version of the process of re-birth. These are designed by God to act as eye-openers and for us to not lose touch with reality, and to remind us that we are not alone: God's hand is always there to guide us when we fall. Setbacks come but they too are structured to make us 'learn' and 'grow' (not the Blue Band way!).

Rejuvenated, let life resume!

*Although prostration is the right word for 'sajda' in English, it somehow doesn’t contain the right connotations and spirit of the word. I prefer 'sajda' over it's translation.

Twilight

Oh no, don't be deceived, dear reader! This is not about Stephenie Meyer's 'Twilight' saga. Rather, it's about the subtle reflections of a silly girl from your backyard. 

  

Back home, dawn would usually be spent away snoring like the world depended on it. Like there was night, and then the sunlit morning without transition; like as if a curtain had simply been lifted. And even if one were to be awake then, the sodium-lamp flooded streets and roads would mask the beauty of the morning hour, leaving behind only a dark background highlighted by an orange glow. 

  

As I recently had the chance to experience, morning time is simply - breathtaking! 

Oh yeah, I'm sure you've heard of the 'effect' of sunrise and sunset on people, and many occult practices use the transformational power of nature at these times. But experiencing them first hand, especially by yourself, is an experience all it's own kind; no substitutes there! 

  

Sunset for me is a melancholy time. The time when light gives way to darkness. The orange halos situated a few metres apart along the road come to the rescue, to make us feel safe and cozy in our homes. But if you've had the experience of watching the sun set, especially on the beach, I'm sure most of you will agree about the droopy feeling . 

  

But twilight? It's different. 

There's positivity there; stars of beauty; galaxies of hope; and to complement it all, the deep, dark backdrop to stage it all. 

It was last week. I'd woken up pre-dawn as I'm wont to during university days nowadays. I usually just stay in the dining room aka 'my living room' and go about previous day's work (and yeah, coffee-drinking!). Outdoors is SO not where I can be found. 

But last week, something was different. It had rained the previous night and I had a sudden impulse to go check out how everything looked outside. Everyone was still asleep, so I opened the kitchen door ever so lightly (I tried to, at least!) and stepped on to the terrace. Ducking beneath the clothesline I made it to the gate, opened it, and sat on the steps; for, the sight was beautiful! Rain drops could be seen suspended on the leaves of shrubs in the faint orange of dimmed street lamps, some ready to drop by at the passage of the gentlest breeze. The mountains in the backdrop covered the setting moon and threw an ethereal white glow over the horizon. Crickets chirped incessantly and a line of ants marched past the last step.   

  

Everything was just so peaceful! I had the sudden urge to break into song, laughter, a fit of weeping; all at the same time. It began to feel like the aura of the place was tugging at me in different directions simultaneously, pulling me apart. The peace of the place was a total contrast to the turmoil within me. I had the urge to reach out, to speak to the twinkling stars, to write out my unspeakable and incoherent thoughts on the deep, dark, sky. I wanted to jump into the air and just float on the clouds moving over the distant mountains. I wanted to open up to the heavens, to throw myself onto my knees and scream my thoughts out and weep my sorrows away and confess confess confess. I wanted the moment to stretch on and on till time infinite. I wanted nothing but to stand there and talk to the sky, the stars, the galaxies, the aliens (if) far, far away. To become intertwined with the beauty of the cosmos. 

  

And then, I smiled. 

I couldn't own the moment; when you love something, you should be prepared to let it fly. I smiled not because I was rid of my 'head' buzzing with thoughts and memories and ideas and anger and love, but because I had finally found a companion, a silent listener, a vast yet lone world of advice and insight. I smiled and sat a little while longer on the steps, listening to the stars and watching their flickering, trying to absorb it all in. The 'azan' started and I felt a wave of peace wash over me. I felt comforted. I knew, somehow, however it may be, that everything will be alright. That someday, I will learn to be able to let fly all that I love; for love is not ownership, but experience and acceptance. That someday I will know the true meaning of feelings, and why some things happened that should never have. Why I slipped where I should have stayed firm. 

I let the muazzin and the stars fill up my extended bowl of belief. And that filled me with energy for the rest of the day. 

I let the stars talk and the deep, dark sky envelope me. 

I let the place be me, and me be it; symbiosis. 

  

I go to the porch pre-dawn every day now. 

I'm a worshipper.