Barbed Wire

Black knots and spears; silhouetted against a flame and orchid dusk; exquisite colour-palette sparking a longing to pour fourth but the words don’t come. Hemmed in by invisible tethers, inspired yet fettered, by a sense of my own words’ lack of worth… wanting to speak but afraid to say… to presume to contribute to the flow… to the discourse.

I am saturated with that which I have failed to express, that which I have suppressed; holding in the sentiments as I withhold my breath… suffocating but not dead yet. On my mark and preparing to step… into my voice… to sound it aloud, to call into the crowd, to echo in the void… slowly building inside the wherewithal to make my own noise and to convey my authentic self with my own poise.

Finally finding my own way, without need to pretend to have the answers, or to ‘fit’ … I am in myself ‘whole’; uniquely created by Him- to be just like this… to fail, to fall and rise, and to ‘make a hames of it’… to assert my imperfection… here I am… this is it.

I am sufficient; work in progress, in transition… evolving as I sit observing and absorbing… internalising all of it… hardly recalling who I was at the outset.

Cycles of content and restlessness… anchored by something imperceptible… something of fear and bliss.

Dreaming big… frustrated by wings become clipped… fluttering, stretching, straining… against the weight of it… against the limits of this barbed-wire cage… aching to soar and flit… to be free of this Dunya and to reconnect with the Source of it; with my Creator… to be where He is.

Longing to melt back into what I was created with, free of this restrictive life-form, which keeps me repeatedly ensnared… in this barbed-wire world… swept by the sway of each directional breeze; never truly at ease… struggling hard to find the courage just to be.

The thoughts of ‘becoming’
Of stepping into the unknown
With only my faith in Allah
Becoming
Becoming whole

A living embodiment of my self
Fulfilling my destiny,
the person I know I am destined to be
Whose essence I. can. feel.
like the word on the tip of your tongue,
that won’t. quite. come.

Like the dream quickly fading your mind seeks
to recall
The me I was created to be,
Who has lain dormant
For. so. long.

An unrealised being,
like a soul kept on ice
Waiting to. be. born.

My dream- for now and for Then
is to reach and to seek and to grow,
weave together the strands
realise all those plans,
become whole.
May The Only Source of Remedy and Repose
ease my soul

Who I am…

‘Who I am’ used to be fixed and delineated clearly; this was not just simply in my ‘mind’ but in my being and in my very certain sense-of-self. This ‘self’ was not a fluid entity, it did not ebb and flow and it was non-negotiable. I was centred and anchored, if always yearning for something out of sight and reach and comprehension. Life has tested what I thought I knew about myself; the complexity and the ‘black and white’, and has left me floundering to understand where I fit in this universal state of ‘being’; which parts are ‘genuinely’ me and how in fact to ‘be’. There are times my head swims; when it seems I have no ‘core’ no ‘central being’ and that I might be washed away or drown. This leaves me almost constantly uneasy and is torturous at times. The longing for clarity, stability and tranquility of ‘mind’ won’t be denied and often sends me spiraling into a vertigo-inducing state. Trying to be the person you think you ought to be can be counterproductive but hard to move away from. Just as you think you’re making progress a glimpse of ‘self’ will flit by the eye-of-your-mind derailing you, reminding you there’s somebody already there and that you are grasping at straws.  Continue reading