Layla’s Soul

_jm40171-copy

“Close your eyes”, he said.

“Why?” Layla asked.

“Don’t you want to find yourself?”

“Yes, I do, I don’t want to live like this any more”.

“Then close your eyes and trust me.”

Sufyan was fifteen years Layla’s senior but he may has well been fifty years.

“I want you to imagine that you are in a desert. You’ve been walking for a day and thirteen hours holding on to your camel skin of water which only has enough for one last mouthful. You think to yourself that you better drink it soon otherwise it will evaporate from the heat, now that would be a waste. So you open your compartment only to find your mind wasn’t fast enough, that damn heat has got your mind slower than usual. There’s no water left. Suddenly just that thought alone made you double as thirsty, your knees immediately buckle as your heart feels fifty kilograms heavier with the thought. You catch yourself from falling to the ground as you remember the scabs on your thighs from sun exposure will only burn more as the sand grazes upon them. There’s no use crying, the wind will burn dry the salt on your face in a few short seconds. Your feet also feel heavier as you struggle to continue on.

Before you left, there were at least ten guides waiting for their services to be hired.
You thought you were clever, that you’d never get lost. You thought you want to be in charge of your own adventure. Now, you’d take it all back. After a day and a half, you’ve lost your ego somewhere ten kilometres ago. It didn’t take long, faced with the fear of complete uncertainty, complete banishment and complete starvation. The heat may as well have been a bonfire you were thrown into yesterday, at least the cooking would have been quicker, the cooking of your ego.

Have you got all that in your mind? Can you taste the salt on your lips, no in the back of your throat, scratching it? Can you feel your toe skin peel off but the pain has been there for so long as you step into the hot sand that you’re numb to the actual pain but just feel the squishing of blood between your toes? Can you feel the acid in your thighs as you struggle to lift them out of the dry quicksand that seems intent on creating a grave for you with every step? Can you feel it all?”

Layla nodded her head.

“Ok then, open your eyes.”

Her mascara was streaming down her face. Sufyan was nowhere to be seen. She understood what was meant by his words. Sufyan was Khidr, the mystical figure that appears to the sincere, to the ones whom God loves and wants to bring closer to him.

We walk around with pride, arrogance, ignorance and ego. We want to take the path less trodden, we fantasise and romanticise, make excuses to justify our defiance and call it seeking the adventure but the adventure leaves a lot of souls stranded as they struggle to make it all work, to find their way.

The experience of the masters are there for the taking. You can be taken by the hand and guided through the desert storms of life. You can be shown the quicker routes to your fulfilment, to comprehension of yourself, Your SELF. But instead you squander and belittle your opportunities in naivety, assuming you are clever enough, and most people are but they suffer a lot for it for far too long.

What if you could short track all of that? Wouldn’t it make more sense to find yourself early and then come back and revisit whatever it is you want to, be as adventurous as you want with your life whilst having a base map of where and how to go about?

By fine tuning your compass and ensuring you always have a camel skin of water to quench your thirst.

Have you ever thought?

12088511_10153730938927474_5869427779870806384_n

Have you ever thought,

Asthma might be an allergy to breathing?
Because despite the ‘no, no there’s no proof’ from doctors,
my eyes don’t lie and my heart knows better,
this shit wasn’t as prevalent in my youth….
No, once every now and then you’d hear about an asthmatic.
Not every second child needed beta agonist’s
to do what their lungs were meant to do.
Not every second child was banned from having a peanut butter sandwich
because of fear they’d break out in a rash or worse choke from asphyxiation,

There’s that breathing again.

Wait stop, they can’t even be around a child that is having a peanut butter sandwich?
No they can’t even be around a child that didn’t have a peanut butter sandwich
but may have been around another child that had a peanut butter sandwich.
Have you ever thought about this?
Have you ever thought about why boys can’t even have a chocolate bar
even if it doesn’t have nuts in it but may have been produced in a factory that also processes food with nuts?

WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!

Vaccination,
Medication,
Medicalisation,
Indoctrination,
Legalisation of forced inoculations,
Owned by corporations,
Creating patients of mass consummation,
Inflammation,
of organisms,
Brains and bellies and central nervous systems,
For what?
Sterilisation?
Control of population?
Americanisation?
Systemisation?
Engineering of civilisation?

It’s a scary situation.

Have you ever thought,

Blindness might be a mercy from seeing?
Because seeing bodies discarded and severed by shrapnel,
Is just as bad as swallowing
a capsule,
a mouth full ,
an ear full,
a gut full,
of hateful,
enticement through media rich-imagery that’s spiteful,
inciteful,
designed to excite you,
and at the same time scare you,
have you swayed like a pendulum, – un-remorseful,
No it’s not normal,
for it not to move you.
So what use are your eyes if this is what you see?
When they’re disconnected from the organ that inspires you,
to good, to beauty, to love, to sorrow, to pain, to forgiving… to you?

Have you ever thought,

Deafness is ease from hearing?
Listening to the gossip,
the lies,
the screams of what eyes,
were closed for but the ears could not escape,
the sound of souls extracted as death comes to take,
the innocent cries of motherless children taken in Gods sake,
the shrills of a woman being raped,
the sounds of fathers sobs over coffin drapes,
Its not a mistake,
the ears are not meant to partake,
in this senseless heartache,
this is stuff no soul should be burdened to take.

Have you ever thought,

That your thoughts were not yours,
Just rallied up scores,
Of effects and cause,
Like the deceit of the Moores,
April fools trickery of war,
Outlaws,
Mining your minds for flaws,
Just so their profit shares can soar,
To sell your habits like whores
To the highest bidder with more,
More money than clause,
So they can keep steering those thoughts,
as they please,
making you believe,
You’re free to conceive,
To achieve,
to retrieve,
Thinking memories you recollect are fact,
But if you retract
and delve a little deeper,
realise they planted that seed right from the start and you’ve been an asset,
a keeper
and been doing nothing more than responding to the carrot that’s dangled,
I can hear you all quip,
‘That’s a bit far fangled’.

Then again,

Have you ever thought?

-ME

It’s not just a pen.

pen

 

Renowned Muslim thinker and scholar Hamza Yusuf recounts a story when he was in the Mauritanian desert under tutelage from great masters who have carried on proper Islamic tradition and scholarship down to students for hundreds of years. He was cleaning under his nails with a pen when something struck him upside the head. His teacher threw something at him and told him, “Hamza, God has sworn an oath by the pen”. He immediately understood his mistake at disrespecting the otherwise inanimate object. (1)
But look at who he is now.
When you have such reverence for things, you can then pass on value to your family, students, friends and more.
Where is the reverence and respect for those sacred things?

(1) Quran Chapter 68 is titled ‘The Pen’ and begins it’s first verse with God swearing an oath by the pen. Nun. By the pen and what they inscribe,”

Time, the teacher

Photo from the film Bab'Aziz - The Prince Who Contemplated His Soul
Photo from the film Bab’Aziz – The Prince Who Contemplated His Soul

When the fervour of youth finally wanes,

All that is left is humility and pain.

-ME

Nobility of Bedouins.

image

As he argued and debated on, he was met with an unfamiliar silence from his opponent. Never before was he defeated so gracefully.
“Cat got your tongue?” he yelled across the dinner table. Shamed and red-faced guests turned their gaze towards the insulted.

He was there, invited, as a formality of hospitality, the dignified thing families of prestige do when a marriage proposal walks through the door. The young man was unknown, of no formal royalty or family of status. The polite way of refusal was to invite them to a first and final dinner where the suitor would be ridiculed intellectually and demoralised spiritually as he would be met by a fury of wit and cruelty lashed in literary prowess.

After being met with a onslaught of words, poetry and prose, wity belittlement, his head lifted from the bowed neck position he maintained, a sign of his impeccable nomad training, training of the ancient Arabs that was all but forgotten as the city he resided in was modernised with the attire, technology and culture of the British invaders, poised as businessmen trying to advance a backward nation. He smiled sincerely, affectionately as if he read right through the pain of the father, his fears of letting his precious first child and only daughter go to someone unknown,  someone unlike him, unlike his friends, a dust faced nomad.

His gaze pierced right into the heart of her father as he quietly said, ‘Uncle, I am no match for your intellect and charm, I am but a desert nomad, enshrined in the cloak of our people of past, clinging tightly to our heritage in hope to pass it on to our sons untainted. I have fought battles for you and our people and my guard is lowered before you, I dare not rise to your elucidation, and impeccable speech.

Forgive me, your generosity and hospitality is unsurpassed but I have overstayed my welcome and must leave.’

The father grinning from ear to ear rose and loudly proclaimed ‘Nonsense! You will do no such thing and my daughter will marry no other man, come and sit nearby me oh eloquent of tongue and noble of lineage. If Arabs have any dignity left it will only survive with men like you, men whom I wish all the daughters of men like me to find and wed. Our people will only be given back their honour through the likes of you. Come, near me you will sit.’

End part 1
ME

Seeing

mountaintop
photo credit: http://www.thetimes.co.uk/tto/public/yourworld/article3696638.ece

How ignorant is the man who stands atop the mountain,

Bathing in his glory of accomplishment

Forgetting the sacrifice of the rubble beneath him

-ME

Silence, the slayer

silence3

Sometimes, the greatest action, is inaction.

The future will reveal the veracity of your claims,

Of my claims,

Of all our fanciful talk.

My sword will be silence.

It will slay me or slay you

-ME