Introversion waterhole

Sometimes you have to write poems to yourself,
OR,
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

Immorality

I want to know the turning point of when it became normal for someone to say, ‘I’m not judging’ a person when they find out that person has had an extra marital affair. At what point did society sell its backbone, moral nerve network and courage to the truth, in favour of cowardice, pseudo niceties, and immoral acceptance of lewd and reprehensible behaviour?
What am I missing?

How has it become normal to feel guilty to use words of condemnation against immoral behaviour and normal to excuse that behaviour with faux language of non judgement and reluctance to speak truthfully?

Where in time did the hijacking of language and moral compass take place so that we allow it become so rampant in our society, that by default, anyone that speaks out is supposedly policed and accused of being judgemental?

It should serve as a warning to all that we’ve become complacent and accepted the narrative of a few weasel like post modern pseudo activists who are so far disconnected from the reality of activism that they wouldn’t know what to do if someone stole their lunch money let alone what to do in a real life situation where wars break out and front line men and women are needed to bravely stand against real tyrants and real threats.

They cannot operate on the battlefield, nor in the capital or political spheres. They cannot rub shoulders with intellectual, spiritual or philosophical giants and so they have created a fake arena where they enlist the support of the naive layman to justify themselves not through proper dialogue and solid arguments but attempt to drown out narratives through numbers only.

Notions of patriarchy, false morality, pseudo activism and fighting for causes that just do not exist have become the only currency they can trade with.

Alas, I digress, it’s still our fault as a collective for not standing up to these shills and intellectual dwarfs who sit like trolls at the end of rainbows. Rainbows are, optical illusions after all, and trolls exist in so much as they believe in these illusions.

W.E.

Artistic purpose

There is but one singular purpose for the artist, and that’s to purify their art to one ode, one rhythm, one harmony, one line of prose, one sentence. To the magic elixir of our art, the final opus, as clean and pure as it can be.

I don’t think you’re an artist if through all your work, all your searching, all the things you produce, you aren’t driven by the chase of finding that one thing that exemplifies everything you’re trying to achieve.

This extends into the scientific world as well, perhaps even more-so, for what is science if it is driven only by a robotic, lifeless and mostly monetised objective, by a narrative enslaved to restricted paradigms and formulae, how impure a pursuit is science if the scientist isn’t driven by a romantic ideal of discovery and rewriting otherwise dogmatic beliefs? The purity under their microscope, the precision of the one cut of the scalpel, all of it, driven madly by purity of pursuit.

The silver lining is the purpose, as minimal as possible, untainted.

This chase, this desire is but a longing for our origin. We were born pure, and we spend our lives chasing it. Chasing down the reminder of what we once were.

In our innermost core, we’re utterly and magnetically attracted to it. We linger, we pang, we ache, we feign for it.

The addiction can be so overwhelming that we lose our way, much like a madman searching through the forest looking down for their treasure for so long that when they look up, the world seems so disoriented and your location in it all is unknown.

Some people pop, they have enough and cannot contain themselves, either their outer appearance changes to resemble that of a derelict, for what is a homeless person except someone without a place to return to for safeguarding from the elements? Nay, perhaps those people become the elements.

They’ve lost their home or way back to it that they become the elements they’re surrounded by, is it with this subconscious thought that we so numbingly ignore them as we walk past, they, vanish into the environment, into their surroundings?

That’s not how we understand the outer appearance to resemble, and so we label them mad, homeless, worthless because we attach worth to orientation, to a direction, to a purpose. What if their purpose all along was finding that purity and in the method, have become the purity, outward semblance like thorns on a rose, unkempt to keep people away, so they can guard their secret.

The secret in the Sufi path was never to look down on a vagabond, a darwish, a person humbled before God.

It was to treat the faqir, the spiritually impoverished, sometimes appearing as the materially impoverished with the same dignity owed to a sultan.

And so we return to the artist engrossed in their search for purity, perhaps by God’s bounty and generosity He allows beauty or remnants of it to extend to all humanity through their fingers, through their states as a sign for us to be reminded of our purity, without losing our minds.

Perhaps by His largesse He grants the artist temporary sanity to pursue their goal or at least enjoy the process whilst they are alive.

Wesam El dahabi

The serenade of solitude.

The psycho-social pathologies of people approaching relationships in any other way than completely giving of themselves perplex me.

You are given a chance,
to divulge your whole being towards someone and have them do the same in reciprocation and we still approach one another with amputated souls.

Bits of you and bits of me,
is a little too Frankenstein of a relationship for me to spawn life into.

Grotesque, is thus quite a fitting word,
here’s the most vulgar part of me, I care nothing of,
and here’s the remnants of what they want to share back, regurgitated traumas,
damaged and parts beaten to a pulp in the mind fuck,
in the mine fuckery of pseudo vulnerabilities,
everyone armed to the teeth with ego’s and no hearts,
awash with misery and toxic breath,
lip service to love and all that sparkles.

I’ve got a serious distrust of people,
it is tattooed in my brow,
it is heavily abated in my breath,
like a dragon I wait,
for anyone to try their hand.

Some say it is offensive and arrogant to assume so much,
for those people,
cut open your chest and they still won’t see,
let alone feel what you feel.

Alone, remains the most poetic living I have known,
solitude is the serenade of choice,
let the mundane and mediocre,
in their frivolity, rejoice.

W.E.

Love has a breath

Drink from loves wine,
so that divinity may be on your breath.

I told myself this when I first learned of a divinity so pure, you could carve yourself to pieces with it and not feel a thing.

I imagine myself to be that person,
only in a perfect world.

Alas I am not,
a lofty aspiration nonetheless is better than drifting away without sails into the obscurity of wallowing.

There is a truth in the most wretched of people.

Most don’t like to get their hands dirty though and that’s okay.

But if you like clean hands,
please don’t pretend to understand.

There’s musk and agar,
frankincense and amber,
a waft of patchouli and rose waiting for everyone,

there’s a breath in us all yet.

W.E.

dear grief – 27

Grief is a scent that never leaves your lip,
with every breath, with every sip,
ever the twisting knife,
ever the fleshen twist.

It hovers over you,
you walk, a carrion,
the parched beaks of time,
waiting for you to pass on.

Like love, it leaves wounds behind
anchors in your heart, holes in your mind,
ever the remnant fog,
eyes, left blind.

What if I prepared for you,
and black was my perpetual dress,
what if burned the incense of mourning,
would you be less of a weight on my chest?

What if I threw you like ashes in the ocean,
let the sea have its way,
cremated dreams and memories,
a eulogy with nothing to say?

What if your colour was grey,
and we spoke in mono-tone,
like numb and algorithmic bots,
or hovered like mindless drones?

At the end of this all,
you’re too platonic, too addictive a distant lover,
so alone I leave you, to have your way,
perpetually a cloud over me to hover.

W.E.

introversion – seventy eight

No one gets to go there,
these walls are not scalable, not saleable.

You can’t claw your way in,
you cannot pierce past this skin,

this pilgrimage is reserved for the hermit,
for the inwardly inward, for the withdrawn & within.

I’ve seen your eyes pan,
I’ve seen your desperation for man,
and this whole time you missed the essence of his span.

Wretched carnality, devoid of spirituality,
you’d eat my flesh and spit it out without so much a thought.

I’ve squandered women like you and all their triviality,
I’ve toyed with their insincerity like a sport.

The stench of the ulterior motived precedes them,
their actions are seen in advance by men, real men.

Foresight and experienced in the sinisterism of  hucksters,
gypsy travellers settling on whatever soul lines their sack,
they’ll sell you a love story and break your back.

Burning at the stake is too swift and merciful a punishment,
it’s far easier to immortalise them with rhyme and meter,
and leave them to their ways in banishment.

They ask, “Where does it hurt?”
The reply comes gushing, “the place you couldn’t reach”.

W.E.

Vulnerability

 

In an ideal world, if we weren’t so impatient, if we slowed down to at least be able to appreciate the lather of people as they come to maturation,
perhaps we’d equally be as mature to accept their vulnerability.

HOWEVER, we’re not mature or developed enough.
It’s sexy, it’s trendy, it makes for good conversation fodder, but the reality is that dealing with a fuck up and loving them in all their insecurities, their vileness, and more so than loving them, but nailing an idea of loyalty into their soul, that you’re always going to be around is not something you find that easily.

In a world where flickering between connection and disconnection has never been easier, vulnerability remains taboo and I won’t believe anyone who says otherwise.

I’m abandoned more than ten times a day and that’s merely in basic exchanges, it’s no wonder I and others like me shut the world out to our innermost realities.
W.E.