How do I feel about Christchurch?

How do I feel about Christchurch?

Indifferent.

I’ve been asked how I feel about the Christchurch massacre. What I gather instead is that I have been asked to feel. That’s not the same. What that really means and then breaks down to is; we want you to feel, even yet again and more precisely; you are being forced to feel.

I don’t take lightly to being forced. I reject any form of it.
I won’t let people or events sway me one way or another.

Call me cold, but I digress to calling it numbness.

I believe people who are swayed so easily by media are in proper reaction mode, and when I say proper, I am not complementing them. They’re proper according to the swayings of what media wants them to feel.

What’s disturbing is people don’t realise it’s yet another sign of the hour coming nearer….

And yet we’re not scared of that.

We’re mortified by an event but aren’t mortified by our insides and what state we’re going to die in at any given moment.

Look at the first person who died.

His last words were ‘salam brother’, he’ll be resurrected in that state.

What is my state? People are asking each other about it , asking how they feel and I don’t feel a thing.

I’m intoxicated in my disgusting state and occupied in it’s disaster. I have my own massacre inside, I have my own atrocities and they’re on a perpetual replay reel. They never stop, I never get to hear the flickering of film at the end of my movie, it’s on constant replay and I am drowning in that. I can’t surface to catch a breath let alone look at the shore or the scenery.

I’m momentarily torn, mainly angry, I cry a tear for but a brief second of recognition, not because these men and women and children lost their lives, but because I’ve still got mine and I’m a walking disaster whilst they were honoured by their Lord to be taken in a worshipping state.

How will I go? Backbiting? Thinking ill thoughts? Hating, angry, lying?

I’m gathering and walking through these states and don’t know if I’ll be taken in one of them. That’s what scares me and should everyone else.

How does anyone know when they will flip the switch, have the devil take them by the hand to commit any of the above mentioned heinous crimes against ourselves? Because ultimately, that’s what the shooter did, he ignored his insides for so long until they took over.

If each of us stopped to fix five of these ugly internal vices a year, just five, then we’d not be having these conversations, feeling these misplaced feelings, have a lot more honour and respect in dealing with each other and truly love one another more.

That’s why I don’t feel, I don’t hashtag or cry for anyone.

I’m too busy, self absorbed in my own sins to hold anyone hostage for theirs.

Wesam El dahabi

-numb

black-and-white-person-woman-girl-1-1080x609

-numb

worshipping yourself until
you’re deprived of feeling for humanity

having things cut from you
until you’re unmoved by triviality
or complexity

lured by the crown of self worth
until your punishment is vanity

-W.E.

It’s time to go back to the roots of what we we’re meant to do.
We’ve entertained the fancies of men and women for decades,who assume their intellect holds supreme,
that it rules over the soul,
that, worshipping it is what makes you whole.
We’ve thought our way into unthinking, unfeeling,
severed and detached from the reality, by our own hands,
trying to outsmart ourselves, outsmart each other,
until we’re dumber than each other,
number than each other

W.E.

-unfeel

London, UK. 24.09.2014. The Old Truman Brewery hosts Nathan Sawaya's exhibition THE ART OF THE BRICK ®. Over 80 art sculptures created from more than a million LEGO ® bricks will be on display in the capital from Friday 26th September 2014 until Sunday 4th January 2015. Photograph © Jane Hobson.

 

There’s a whole ocean of emotions I’m being deprived of.

Not even my toes are allowed to be dipped into it.

What is this ban that won’t let me feel what others feel yet I can write what others cant.

They can weep and show emotion.
They grow pale and withdrawn.
But I continue on like nothing happened.

Perhaps I’ve lived so introverted for far too long and a display of emotion is the last thing I am capable of to the outside world.

Maybe the clutter of my own mess is too weighty to allow me to see past myself, past my state.

Maybe this is punishment for my awakened ego asking such self important questions, as it’s obvious, I, I’m, me, my… always referencing me.

But I digress, there it is again, even my digression has an I, even explaining that has a my.

Maybe there are no tears because all of this has to stop being about me, but rather him.

We’re vain aren’t we.
Someone else dies,
and it’s always about our hurt,
our feelings, our state,
not realising there’s little time,
left to banish ego,
before we meet our fate.

-W.E.