Alone is still the best
Especially when it feels like you’re being chewed on,
and I’m no morsel for fetishes,
not especially for men of ingratitude,
nor women of lust.
#lifesaver @morning.owl this arvo
I didn’t plan this, but I wish I had.
If I had, then I could have arrived much earlier.
Many a breath would I have saved,
many a wasted heart beat,
a dry mouth.
Perhaps I could have not wrestled with so many souls,
with so many egos,
with my own ego.
One of the greatest changes,
I have ever experienced,
is feeling the urge to answer everything,
to not wanting to answer a soul
Perhaps finding You,
means tasting everything that isn’t You,
Your largesse, although not never in need,
is only experienced through my faculty,
by what minuscule it comprehends.
Being alone is only quietude to the outer world.
In reality there is nothing quiet about being alone.
Your mind is amplified, and the cacophony of noise is deafening.
Your soul begins to speak to your heart and the conversation is loud and outrageous.
The difference is, you choose the music, the setting, the volume and intensity.
If people who are outwardly loud knew the inside of us, they’d flee in terror.
-Wesam El dahabi
Irrespective of natural predisposition to introversion,
for some of us, it becomes a conscious choice.
Unbound by what nature wants,
we forge our way inwards past its reservations for us,
to kingdoms of our own accord.
The folly is not on one who lives there,
imaginary as it may be,
but for the one who hasn’t the conceivability,
who hasn’t the will.
And what if I don’t want happiness?
What if purpose, is my calling?
Would I be less joyful,
if meaning and contentment are my aspirations?
If ever a delusion remains,
fed in all its rabid gluttony,
it’s this appetite and scavenging for happiness.
We scathe, like drug fixed fiends,
like un-sacred things.
Selling our identity,
cheap whores for mundane,
and temporary thrills.
Eventually, brokenness becomes a muse,
waging war against your insides,
All is not lost though,
even though you don’t heal,
there’s poetry, at least to maintain you.
You wine and dine and bathe in the brine of hurt,
in the bile of hurt.
stiffen your sinews,
bones etched with hieroglyphics of hurt
your soul becomes supple.
I couldn’t show you how this happens,
when vigour clouds your judgement,
when youth gives you hope,
yet numbs you of tasting.
There’s an agreement with time,
relinquishing your affairs to their allotted appointments,
trusting beyond your comprehension,
faith if you will,
in being faithless insofar as holding God accountable,
rather, holding Him capable,
of anything, of anything.
Your soul aches for this flexibility,
your body waits for the battering.
-Wesam El dahabi
The imagination loathes being held captive by an abacus,
and yet there they are,
meting out their vengeance on one another,
my soul, in the crossfire,
my ego, the coward who won’t come out from cover.