Untitled Feeling.

I've been feeling this way for days, on and off, but it just won't go away. I don't even have the perfect way to describe what I'm feeling like. It's not something convenient enough to explain in a word or two or twenty. I wish I could just bottle this up and give you a drop.

I feel like a book that someone forgot on their back porch overnight in an unexpected thunderstorm, and then the next day placed it in the sunlight to dry, but last night's rain still left some chapters stuck together and big ugly craters in the pages.

I feel so indecisive. Like when you're driving at 2AM on a deserted highway with no GPS and an uncharged phone, and you're not sure if you already passed your destination or if you still haven't gotten there yet, and so every time you approach a U-Turn, you slow down. Do I take it? Do I keep going? What if I take the U-Turn and it turns out I just missed my destination by a quarter mile? So you keep driving. And you tell yourself, Okay, if I don't get there in four more miles, I'll turn back. And after you finish the four miles and you still haven't arrived at your destination, you still don't know if you're turning back too early. For all you know, it could be just over there. Should you turn back now? And it tears you apart, the indecisiveness. And it frustrates you, the darkness, and the way you can't see beyond the brink of your headlight's glow. And it makes you realize how small NJ really is (there's that dreadful "LAST EXIT IN NJ" sign), and how you're not as good with directions as you thought you were. And it makes you wonder why more people don't drive around at 2AM?! Oh yeah, because they're not fools like you.

I feel so tired. Like I went to the gym and the personal trainer that was there that day was the ex-marine with a buzz cut, a permanent frown, and a shirt that is stretched so tight across his chest you could see the breath fill his lungs every time he inhaled. Except it's not attractive, it's gross. And then after the gym I ran fifty miles to a beach where I swam against the current in my gym clothes, so that every time I tried to kick, my sweat pants would threaten to either come off completely or weigh me down so that I sink to the bottom of the ocean. And after I made it back to shore with my arms limp and my eyes barely open, I had to walk home in my wet clothes, and my sister had finished all the hot water during her bath, so I had to squeeze myself into the corner of the shower, shivering under the stream of cold water. And then I couldn't go to sleep afterwards because my ruffled thoughts make an uncomfortable pillow.

I feel like staying home all day and reading, but every time I pick up a book, I find myself uninterested, and I go through my entire book collection trying to find something that will satisfy me but I keep coming up blank. So I settle for some mindless television, which is a little better, until I realize that I've seen this episode of Friends way too many times and that this episode of The Twilight Zone reminds me of my tenth grade history class, and I hated my tenth grade history class. So I settle on something animated instead, maybe some DBZ, but then I remember that I can't even talk to anyone about it because no one I know likes DBZ. So I just lay there on the couch and stare at the television screen, without really seeing it, and when I reach for my cup of coffee, it's empty because I already finished it two hours ago.

I feel so fed up with people. Everything they do aggravates me. Or makes me want to burst out in tears or stifle a crazy laugh or pull out my hair. Or pull out their hair. Like the way the boy that sits in front of me in class always stretches his arms so that I have to either lean way back in my chair or duck so that he doesn't touch me. Or the way the girl sitting next to me in lecture always puts her handbag too close to my feet so that I can't move without moving her bag first. Or the way people ask me if I'm sad just because I'm not smiling; there are other emotions besides "happy" and "sad" you know. Or the way people can't just let the silence be; it's not always an awkward silence, and you don't have to fill every gap with words. I don't feel like smiling to be polite anymore. I don't feel like sitting through another MSA meeting anymore. I don't feel like chuckling at someone's joke just to be nice even though I don't think it was funny. I don't feel like agreeing just to keep the peace anymore. I don't feel like taking the time to see something your way anymore. I don't feel like being patient anymore. I don't feel like tolerating the company of people I don't get along with anymore. I don't feel like taking my ear buds out to make friendly conversation at the library anymore. I don't feel like talking to anyone anymore. I don't feel like listening to your "words of advice" anymore.

I don't feel like explaining myself anymore, because you still won't understand. I just need some space, and I think you do, too, because even I wouldn't wanna deal with myself in this state.

Hope for the Hopeless

With feet as heavy as lead, he made his way down the ever-stretching hallway towards the elevators. The stiff collar of his shirt chaffed the underside of his neck, but he payed it no attention. He realized that the rolled up document in his clammy hand was damp with sweat, leaving small craters of moisture on its virgin white surface. Without taking his attention from the paper, he reached with his empty hand and groped the wall until his numb fingers found the elevator buttons.

He had done many things he was not proud of in his lifetime, but he did not deserve this. He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath catching in his throat. I don't deserve this, he pleaded with Him silently.

He stepped into the elevator, which to his dismay was not as vacant as he had hoped. He made his way past the two men and stood in the corner, flattening the palm of his free hand against the cool metal wall of the elevator, bracing himself against it. With ears that did not listen, he heard the taller of the two men speaking to his companion animatedly. His companion nodded, interjecting with the occasional grunt of agreement with whatever it was the taller man was saying. The taller of the two suddenly turned towards him, and his lips shaped words that he could not hear. The shorter man stared, raising his cup of coffee to his lips. The taller man's smile strained, and his lips reshaped themselves to form the question he repeated to him: "Which floor?"

With lips that acted of their own accord, he felt them part in speech and he heard himself say, "Ground floor." His voice sounded alien to him, like he was hearing himself speak underwater.

The taller man stared at him for a second longer before jabbing the ground floor button. He turned back to his companion and shrugged, resuming his conversation as though nothing had happened. They got off at the next floor, leaving him to his thoughts until the elevator doors opened once again. He vaguely heard the computerized voice announce their arrival at the ground floor, but he payed it no attention as a swarm of people rushed past him into the 4.5 by 6 foot space, pressing against his shoulders. He tried to squeeze past them to the front of the elevator, but it seemed that the more he pushed his way to the front, the harder they pushed him back. A woman's purse hit him in the stomach, and she touched a manicured hand to his forearm in apology. He shook her hand off, ignoring her baffled look, as he finally made it out of the sardine can  to the front lobby. He walked past the receptionist with the blue eye make up and frizzy mop of hair, past the security guard that eyed him warily, and past the metal detectors that led to the automatic doors.

He got home as the sun was setting low in the horizon, and he headed straight for the small forest that surrounded the back of the apartment complex he lived in. Cigarette butts littered the trail that was formed not by paved stones, but by the constant flux of treading shoes. He wondered silently if any of the other residents of the complex came back here to be alone with their thoughts, as he occasionally did. He stared at the cigarette butts for a moment longer before falling on his hands and knees, eyes red-rimmed with insanity, suddenly embarrassed by their stark white contrast against the hard-packed dirt. Paying no attention to the suit he wore, he scraped at the cold dirt until it filled the recesses underneath his nail bed and his fingers bled, still recklessly determined to bury the nasty things from seeing eyes. With shaking hands, he reached into his pocket and took out the small box that housed new cigarettes identical to the ones he just buried, and with a twist of his wrist, he tossed the entire pack into the hole he had dug, momentarily surprised by its depth.

When he was convinced that he had filled the gape with his sins, he remembered a line he heard when he was just a child from the Friday sermons he attended. He did not consider himself a religious man anymore, although he was raised in a religious household. But he couldn't help his wandering mind as the memory of this particular verse resurfaced.

On the Day We will say to Hell, "Have you been filled?" and it will say, "Are there some more?"

He was filled with a strong sense of nausea and he tasted bile in the back of his throat. Isn't that similar to what he was doing? Pouring his sins into this dark pit, knowing that it was not nearly deep enough to contain all his wickedness? Would he one day help fill the dark pits of hell?

Hopelessness descended on him like a thick blanket, suffocating him with its heaviness. His eyes were glassy with unshed tears and his tongue felt too big to sit in his mouth comfortably. He suddenly found himself wondering if it was true what they said, that you could swallow your own tongue. He sat back and faced the setting sun as tremors shook his entire body. He deserved this. He was an arrogant man, living an unabashed lifestyle. What would become of him tomorrow?

Everything was going wrong in his life. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and that's when he realized you don't need water to feel like you're drowning.

~      ~      ~

He didn't wake up the way it was always described in books; he didn't bolt up in bed, realize it was just a dream, and then go back to sleep.

No.

This was much slower, more drawn out, and much more real.

His eyes fluttered open and he stared at the wall opposite him, his heart beating in his throat, thundering in his ears. He sat up on his elbows, his eyebrows knitted together in despair. A sheen of sweat lay above his top lip, and on his forearms; it pooled in the hollow at his throat and slid down his back between his shoulder blades. His eyelashes were damp and his cheeks were moist and he tasted the saltiness of his tears on his dry lips.

He sat up in bed, crestfallen, and his shoulders shook as he squeezed his eyes shut, tears seeping out through the sides and falling into his lap. He hid his face in his hands, shame heating his body and turning his ears red. Every memory of sin he ever committed drove him deeper into his own disgrace, until he thought he would drive himself mad. He lifted his chin and his watery eyes looked up, seeing past the ceiling of his bedroom as he raised his hands to the Creator.

He wracked his brain for a duaa to say, anything, but he could not remember a single one and this did nothing to lessen his anguish. His mouth popped open, and nothing came out. He didn't remember a single duaa that would be appropriate for the moment. He needed to ask forgiveness for his great crimes, past and present. He needed to ask for help, he needed to ask for guidance. He trembled under the weight of his own trespasses, realizing that he was asking for so much. His sins were great, but he knew that the Mercy of his Lord was far greater. If He were to forgive him, then He would have forgiven one of His most miserable slaves. And if He were to punish him, then he would have only gotten what he deserved. He blinked, his thoughts swimming in his head, and he tried futilely to form a coherent sentence, but to no avail; silence weighed his tongue down heavily. He thought to himself that this too was a form of punishment, not being able to ask for what he needed. And he deserved it.

Before he fell into a sobbing heap in his bed, two words escaped his lips.


"Ya rabb."

Rant

Who am I?

What am I?

What am I but just one soul, just one life, one set of experiences.

I am one person living within a bubble that is my existence, surrounded by billions of other solitary bubbles of existence.

I type this post from the confines of my bedroom, within my house, within my neighborhood, within my county, within my state.

The state of NJ, one of fifty other states, in one country that is part of one continent.

There are six other continents.

And these continents are surrounded by vast bodies of water all around.

All this makes up just one planet, Earth.

There are eight other recognized planets within this solar system.

And this...this universe? There are so many others, there is so much... space.

What am I?

A drop of water within an ocean?

Even smaller?

Sometimes the insignificance of my own existence scares me; it makes me realize how great His Majesty is. To create something as vast as the universe(es) and something as insignificant as me. And what, to give me the greatest blessing of all - to make me a witness to la ilaha illa Allah.

And yet. With all my flaws, with all my mistakes, with all my nothingness... I am an arrogant, sinful soul.

May Allah SWT forgive us all. Say ameen.

Humbling, no?

Ideas are Bullet Proof

Ever been so consumed by an idea that it was all you could think about?
Ever try to trace back the sinewy web of that idea to its very beginning, to when it was just a mere afterthought?
Ever feel like the idea was literally growing bigger and bigger, until it filled your entire head, until you practically choked on it each time you parted your lips in speech?
Ever feel like the idea was contaminating your brain, so much so that it was the first thing on your mind when you wake and the last thing on your mind when you slumber?
Ever have an idea so venomous, that with every systole and diastole, the poison coursed through your veins?
Ever try talking about it to your friends? You start off with your usual, "So I was thinking again..." and you see the weariness in their eyes, and you can tell that they've heard more than enough of your "idea".
"You think about this too much," and they wave your words away and shake their head.
And you sit there speechless, feeling helpless.
Sometimes it gets better. You'll busy yourself with other things. The idea hasn't disappeared all together, but it's not as bad anymore. You still see it in your peripheral vision, and you keep an eye on it, almost anxiously.
And just when you think you have everything under control, it sneaks up on you and spreads into your neural network, like a drop of ink in a glass of water.

Ideas are bullet proof, but sometimes, do you wish they weren't?

Photo Cred goes to ~hermio.

Head Above The Water

Dearest friend,


You’ll always find another. 

You think you won’t, but trust me, you will. He might break your heart, he might not be right for you, he might not be who you thought he was. But the thing is, love is as much logic and reason as it is blind faith. Perhaps it is more of the former than the latter. If you go into a relationship blinded by your emotions you might as well cross a busy intersection with your hands over your eyes. Your relationship might be drowning you in your own emotions, you might get lost in your feelings for him, but that’s why it’s so important that you keep your head above the water. 

Please keep your head above the water.

This lovey-dovey I-can’t-get-enough-of-you phase won’t last forever, it will fade with use. Its important that there is some substance underneath all that glitter in your relationship.

But if there isn’t…  Then perhaps he isn't right for you. 

Letting go is difficult. Especially for a Muslimah. You go through your life for twenty-some years abstaining from anything that could potentially lead you down the wrong road, and you answered everyone’s inquisitive glances with patience, a simple, “No thanks, I’ll wait for the right one.” And when you finally are in a halal relationship, you become so absorbed in everything that comes with it. Everything you were denied before becomes halal for you, and it becomes so overwhelming that you can't even even wrap your mind around it, and you think to yourself, “He’s the one”, and your heart beat echoes your thoughts - no, it confirms them. He's the one you've been waiting for, he's the right one for you.

...but then things fall apart, as they sometimes have the tendency of doing. And you’re left picking up broken pieces of memories you had together, and the shards of your broken heart scratch your palms as you try to pick them off the floor. And you think to yourself you’ll never find another one. No, you’ll never find another like him.

It’s funny, the term ‘human’ in Arabic is ‘ensan’ and it comes from the word ‘nasa’ meaning ‘forgot’. 

How you’ve lived up to your name, oh ensan! 

Have you forgotten so quickly all your previous crushes? Have you forgotten the first time a boy tore your heart in two and handed you the pieces? Have you forgotten how you swore you would never recover, how you would surely die of this heart break? Have you forgotten how you cried, how you said there isn’t another like him in the world? Have you forgotten the ache in your bones every time you saw him thereafter, knowing he wasn’t meant for you?

But oh ensan, have you forgotten how strong you are?

More importantly, have you forgotten how you moved on?

Picture sorta unrelated. I just thought it was cute.