Sometimes you have to write poems to yourself,
to just throw prose to the wind and hope a heart catches your temperament.
Assume, for better or worse, that your marriage to nature is a reciprocal agreement to truth, find vows in bloody and torturous confrontation of the innermost core, of the innermost core.
I have an infatuation with the carcass of things, seeds don’t sprout in mid-air, but buried in the fabric of earth, that very fabric which clothes us.
Often time’s reclusing is the only way to have your poetry received, in irony we find pathways to other souls when alone, or do they find paths to us?
Are we creating waterholes in all this solitude? I think so, and that’s why the earth is so barren, as souls gather to conform in an agreement to pathetic herding of our values, or lack thereof.
Afraid of confinement, we inevitably end up parched and more alone than if we had just excused ourselves from the world for moments at a time, for calculated growth phases in solitude, aloneness being the catalyst to forging a forage of fauna, a flurry of fleeting thoughts, a fountain of hope and an elixir to drink from whenever we need to feel alive and worthy again, introversion is life giving potion.
I guess we’re all so severed and dishevelled that we’ve lost our way back inside ourselves, and there is that point, that you become so far ruined, you have to create back doors into yourself.
That takes courage most won’t taste in their lifetime.
Those people are usually the artists, writers, poets and musicians. They’re the love drunk war lords, the battle hard Jannisaries who don’t blink at the thought of dying in pursuit of honour.
A person swaying in the hammock of comfort is never going to be remembered, and I don’t trust people who don’t have back doors.
It means they’ve never stepped out of themselves to hold themselves to account, everything is comfortably dandy in their homes and that’s no place for noteworthiness to foster.
I’m afraid then, that my children forget my ways and introduce comfort to their children, I’m afraid that a notion of empathy creeps into their veins, faux empathy that does nothing but eat at courage like cancer. Courage is to watch your child suffer and grow, with a heart that loves. Courage to not shed a tear when they cry uncontrollably, to stand stoically in front of them unperturbed so they know, they feel, they believe, that whatever the circumstances, they must go on, they must know that your eyes are telling the truth, they must push through, they must push through.
I find myself in despair at that thought, and that alone drives further need for solitude. I can’t let the world see me like that; see me afraid to be afraid.
I can’t show vulnerability when vulnerability is the prize I am trying to carve into everyone’s being.
It shouldn’t be this hard to inspire people, it shouldn’t be this hard to have them believe you’re being honest and truthful, but it is, because everyone is afraid of being alone and nobody recognises the contentment in your soul for spending all that time confined, all that time reconciling and debating in your mind, forty voices of self-reflection that ensure every party is heard.
Have we been deceived? Have we been lied to, that there is anything wrong with hearing more than one voice? Jordan Peterson said, “How does thinking occur if not a conversation of more than one voice?” The more the merrier I say!
Alas, those voices can often gang up on you and present a pretty convincing argument as to why you’re not even good enough to be residue.
Doubt has been a companion, an ever familiar acquaintance and it streams as fast as if not faster than all other voices. It seems to always win the race and hasten me to hesitance, a clemency of vernacular and a suffocating of forbearance.
Be still you savage heart, rest you wagging tongue, and go numb you squeaking mind, there’s residue yet that doubt hasn’t found and you’re going get us in trouble…..
Find me, and lose me at once. Let me know you have those back door keys in case we invade ourselves and hurt becomes the familiar metallic taste on my palate.
And yet doubt in yourself is the gateway to conviction in God. What else is worship except relinquishing of your order, your truth, your set ways and acknowledging the sliver of doubt, and then transcending that and realising, there is no doubt with Him.
Is then the accumulation of wealth, even if it were for the nobility of being a provider for your family, directly proportionate to the level of doubt one has In God? The assured man knows, that he himself is not in control and does not bother with the over accumulation of material, in the pursuit of security, security after all comes from God. Where else can one put their faith if indeed it really is faith?
Are men who are amassing billions in effect the most insecure, distrusting and faithless? How much is enough to give one conviction? Is this why J.K. Rowling donated millions of dollars to remove herself from billionaire status? Subconsciously, is she aware of this and feels she doesn’t want to belong to a group of people utterly insecure of themselves? I’d love to ask her, heart to heart and know her deepest reason why, but I allow myself as I do many things to romanticise the idea that she indeed is that noble.
But that’s a mundane topic and I’m still at the sticking point between procrastination and imposing my philosophy on myself. Isn’t that where we all are? Over exuberant in expressing our deepest fears, camouflaged as opinions, with the hope they are received as intellectual musings and reluctant to have them thrown back at us or open to scrutiny and criticism by anyone? What’s the point then to all this lip service to vulnerability and openness, to sharing and being kind, to living with nobility and generosity of spirit towards each other if all we’re doing is functioning on a level of carefully scripted acceptances?
I don’t understand myself any more than the next person, but I do not relent in the effort towards understanding myself, and therein lays the difference between us. I’d rather die exhausting all my opportunities to find a trinket of wisdom than casually and passively walk a path of comfort and luxuries and if that means the world mocks my solitude, points a finger at my conviction in my purpose, then it means I must be doing something that scares them, something perhaps worthwhile after all.
Wesam El dahabi