It has been years now. You would think, and I think you had hoped that this would have been the case, that I would be long past what was, what is, and what remains. It is not for a lack of trying, no, that I remain still where I was. It is not some external injustice either.

But perhaps, it is good to speak of something, even if there is no one there to hear it. Perhaps, it is worthy, to be human. So, I will say it, whether you lurk here or not. Whether my words are lost, sunk into the void with no reprieve, or whether there is any meaning to it. I will do so, still.

My hands still itch towards writing you a letter. The thought of a return makes me weep. Weep? How? But why? Perhaps that is reason enough for you, by some cruel logic, to not return… But it is the weeping that comes when a long absence is reversed.

You see, some people think of life as a transactional game. A path you walk, you go this way or that way, you choose who you associate with and sometimes you cannot have that choice or that agency — you can be the master of your destiny or find that it has already been dictated for you. But within all of that, within a material, superficial, horrid world — I am sorrowful when I say, there can be people who break when the words are just about to leave their lips: “Oh I missed you so much.”

It should go without saying that I am not of the condition that others are accustomed to. I am hardly the sort of man that lives by half-measures. I am sometimes too direct. Sometimes too quick to trust, and most often prone to commit so fully at the first moment my heart settles into a decision, that most people around me are terrified by it.

Some would say, what I feel now, is phantom pain. From a wound that should not be there. From a sorrow that should have died out long ago. But the truth is, it could not have. The circumstances have never changed. I have yet to find something like those days. Or even close to it. All I do find, is more heartbreak. More sorrow. More anguish.

Oh, in fact, I would say, that all that remains to be found, is the absolute height of isolation. The death of the being. A part of me thought that the heights of achievements could fill that void the absence of my entire world left — no, nay… it could not. It really could not. The higher I soar, the greater the pedestal on which I am placed. But they see me now as some sort of Olympian. High and mighty and worthy of admiration. But unachievable (“I couldn’t be good enough.”) , unapproachable (“What if I embarrass myself”) and perhaps even ‘above’ all of this.

After all, a creature that seems to function on a different plane than the average masses, that acts so differently, that lives so differently — what use would that being have for companionship, shared joy and grief, peace and tranquility, bliss and all that rot? Surely, such a being must be ever busy in contemplating.

The truth is, the pedestal has only given sorrow. It has only granted me utter isolation. So I open, to the few that remain. But that absence remains. I am no Olympian. I am not perfect. I am chubby, idiotic, illogical and irritable. This pedestal is not me. And you know me. If anyone does, it would be you.

That is why, in the dark, quiet hours of the night, I think of all that I would love to tell you. And I confess, until I have to bury my love by virtue of my commitment to another or due to my death, I do not see its intensity reducing. I do not see these fierce flames dying out until the moment they must be snuffed out. And if you think you could ever get me to hate you, I assure you, there is nothing you could say to me that could allow that to occur. Yes, I can be wounded. If I am Achilles, then you are my weakness.

I am a madman, yes. As I said long ago, people made of love only really know how to love. I could be many things, I have been many places, but if there is something I want to retain, if there is something I want to always still be… is someone who loves fiercely, passionately, deeply and with undying loyalty.

If I am to die, let me be known for my love.

A poem

In the quiet hours of the night, I turn back the pages
Of this story, mine and yours
I dampen the fire that rages
I lock away the passion stores
But when I look therein and see
Your eyes, they take control of me.
I, who claim to be free
I, somehow become, we.

In the corners where none dwell no more
Where falls the sun’s filtering light
I sit alone with my heart to console
Waiting earnestly for night
To have lost always in love, lost before greater will
This mad heart, woe! It makes me love you still.

I always will was originally published in Rainbow Salad on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

One can feign admiration, affection, association and respect. One can certainly act one way and in actuality feel the completely opposite way. Yet, humans have within themselves many minutiae of behavior which give away their true alignment. I cannot claim to be an expert in the matter by any means, but I would certainly wish to muse upon the idea itself. That is, those that you love, you inadvertently grant power over yourself.

Admittedly, much of the notions we entertain today are all constructs of the mind. Take for example, the notion of respect. It is commonly said that respect exists only because that respect is consciously thought to be received. Such holds certainly for the inverse — that disrespect is certainly that respect which is thought not to be received. In essence, there exists no intrinsic state of respect or disrespect or high status or such — but these are constructed notions entertained by mankind for one reason or the other… True distinction, true respect is not at all dependent upon humans to give nor something genuinely initiated by them. The Temporal Plane has, in of itself, a divine framework that governs, with perfect justice (regardless of whether we, the impatient and immediacy-craving can perceive it) the matter of respect. This independence of respect from the machinations of fickle and temporary humans is best illustrated by how the creator has kept alive and exponentially continues to grow the volume of devotees and commemorators of those who have sincerely served genuine divine causes.

Yet still, though one can construct admiration and deference, one cannot truly replicate respect. Similarly, one can simulate affection, one can shed a tear or two that is entirely fabricated… yet the power that we grant to others over ourselves is something that snitches on us at every moment. The greatest informant against you, your own enemy within, shall be your own heart.

How so?

People who do not matter — you will not bat an eye when they turn away from you. You do not care, simply. But now you do. Why is that? You might say that it is due to some personal peeve of yours. You will deflect, you will hide behind a million facades. No one wishes to be laid bare. You will resist. But it is not a perfect solution at all, I’m afraid. When you love someone, the greatest power you grant them, is to get under your skin. To say little things that will bother you for years.

To love someone, is to hand them the reins to your peace. The intriguing part? They’ll panic, they’ll be in pain, they’ll worry, they’ll be in trouble and every single time, it’ll be the same as if it’s you that’s going through hell — every moment of anguish they face, you’ll feel to your core. Worse yet, every moment where you might be helpless, you’ll curse yourself for it. Similarly, to see someone you love prosper, grow and enjoy life like it’s meant to be… to see someone you love, smile… it’ll bring you a sort of joy that’s just not replicable otherwise.

Of course, these matters are much more simple when taken in the context of linear, textbook relations. But such is not at all really simple when it comes to love. That is, because love is not always formally laid out. People do not have to be lovers for there to be love, unlike more concrete relationships. The right to mourn is granted by society based on the right one has to someone… that means, the right we have to someone governs whether we lost something at all. But that is, again, true only for the linear form.

Ergo, the same question has arisen again and again — how do you mourn someone you never had to begin with?

On a different note, let us discuss another aspect of this matter. That is, if to love is to grant power over yourself to someone… then surely, that must entail some form of responsibility?

What sort of responsibility might it entail, that is a question that has been debated for many a millennia. Dante Alighieri says that the beloved is not exempt from an obligation to return the lover’s love. Yet the beloved’s indifference too, is a legendary phenomenon… One that has inspired great masterpieces that defined human culture for centuries.

Though a daring endeavour, one can deign to assert that there does exist a responsibility on the side of the bearer of all this power, to be responsible with it. A person in love is effectively out of their mind. They will fight the whole world if it turns against the idea of you. They’ll brawl the fiercest fighters brought from the most inhospitable corners of the Earth if it comes to that. To love is violence, that too, because it can be done without the same bilateralism required for formal, social relations, because to love too much or too little can make you lose someone forever.

Then, what is to be done?

Perhaps the answer requires more nuance than one might imagine. The answer suggested by the lover shall always be: “Love me, because I love you… because with each passing moment I feel as though my soul merges with yours… as though we were one on the spiritual plane only to be torn apart and kept so in the temporal world.” As is the fact, the beloved may simply be unwilling or even incapable… bound to not be able to reciprocate. Here, the lover, if of a more sensible pedigree, might simply withdraw. He shall claim — I feel absolutely nothing. There was nothing. Yet when the time comes, and when there is no one looking, we have Schrödinger’s mess — when not observed, the lover will mourn that which was never recognized as his, the unspoken love… masked with a thousand spoken and unspoken words.

Here, the most the beloved can do, is reduce the pain. Yet it is paradoxical in of itself. Often, efforts to reduce the pain may only delude the lover into bringing his madness back to the forefront. That is, because the nature of love is that contact with the beloved increases that love with direct proportion (albeit oftentimes in an exponential manner). That is not to say that a lover’s love does not increase or persevere in the absence of the beloved (in fact, they say that it is in the absence of the things we love most, that the depth of our longing and the strength of our love is reinforced… one can pretend to love, but if one is not restless or disturbed in some capacity upon separation with the beloved, one certainly did not love. To love, is to suffer.). The situation is admittedly, just as paradoxical for the beloved as it is for the lover.

The lover has given great power over himself to the beloved. The beloved may not want it. Yet they exercise it unknowingly. For this power requires not lengthy instruments or elaborate orders to use. This power, this terribly esoteric power is something more omnipresent and unconsciously drawn upon. The lover looks to the beloved at every opportunity he might get, though perhaps ashamed and terrified by his own involuntary enchantment. The beloved, clueless to this fact (as is the universal law — the greater the love, the more exasperated the beloved might be with it — lest they too, are a lover in reciprocation — a most rare occurrence) is quite aplomb in their opposition to the idea of it, had it existed within the realm of their knowledge. The beloved holds power such that every mention of what brings them joy, is interpreted by the lover as something to remember and something to later produce.

We must also differentiate between two forms of love. That is, involuntary love and conscious, voluntary love. The difference is not so significant in appearance and some may mistake constructed affections for the latter, yet such is not the case. Involuntary, spontaneous love is that which we are all most familiar with. It is that candid feeling that rises without warning and shackles us without mercy. It is that very same natural state of granting power over yourself to someone — to associate yourself, often without being asked for it in any way. This sort of love, admittedly, can fizzle out. It is fickle in of itself too. The second form? To consciously love. This love, is hardest to bear.

The first form of love is something that is spontaneous, yes — but it is often based on superficial grounds. Or at the very least, it is usually love from a distance. Love with less knowledge of the subject. It is pure, yes — but it is prone to shattering. It is whimsical, yes — but it may not be lasting if there exists only a mysterious infatuation behind it. On the other hand, voluntary love is something that lasts because it is chosen. It is love that you choose to allow to take root in your heart despite ALL the facts that you’ve uncovered and ALL the ways your mind tells you that things could go wrong.

It takes a very brave person to consciously love. To consciously overcome, again and again, one’s fears and apprehensions and to choose to love. The stakes are always higher with conscious love just as much as the second form is unshakeable and long-lasting. To love consciously is dangerous. You can no longer claim to have been simply mesmerized. You were, you now choose to keep that before your eyes even after you see the mess, the brokenness and the troubles that surround this previously idealized person. To love consciously, means to love past all bounds that might dissuade someone less smitten and destruct a more passing fancy.

And again, conscious love hurts more too, because perhaps it is closer to your core. I have long had shifting perceptions of what True Love really is. At the end of the day, perhaps, True Love is not at all that which just happens all of a sudden for a week and is that fuzzy feeling, true love is that which we choose past that rose-tinted period. When we renew time, and time after, our deep association, curiosity and preservation of the being of someone.

So, what should the beloved do, again?

If the beloved cannot love, then be kind. It is a duty of sorts, I think, beyond all these matters… to preserve the hearts of those about. The heart is where the home of the conscience is… it is where the voice of the Creator himself resides. The heart, my, to break the heart, is to strike at that sacred place. One cannot have a contented heart ever if one has many hearts broken as trophies. It does not mean at all to promise someone something you cannot give. Or to do a disservice to those you have promised plenty by going against your pledges and love just to soothe someone else.

The lover always counts his acts as a folly if they hurt the beloved… or cause distress. The lover will only ask for the peace of being excused for their audacity. After all, it is violence, this love. Incredible violence, all of it. How dare you love? How dare you do it now? How dare you, after all of it?

The most the beloved can do, is offer a quiet nod. A parting glance that says: I do not hate you. It does not have to be the look of love. It just needs to say: I cannot be where you desperately need me to be, but I do not hate you for loving. That is all the lover needs, paradoxically. The assurance that we are not hated. Often, it is the notion itself that the beloved hates the lover that causes more pain than anything ever might.

To be nothing to the beloved is still acceptable to the lover. To be the worst, is death.

We love, and we love intensely and passionately and fully. We the people of the East have never been ones for quaint, courtly matters. Our loves, our hates, our lives are all populated by intensities that would rival the great braziers of old, with towering fires and their smoke reaching the heavens. We are intense.

We are, however, also often duty-bound. To love, as was spoken, is to give someone power over you. That is, to give someone a right to you. The right to your peace, your space, your thoughts, your dreams, your mind, your soul. To see it bare. To populate it. To wander in uninvited. To live in your heart, effectively. That is something humans do not always give so readily. Yet, there are also those that have more concrete rights to us. These are linear relations, yes… but they have power over us too, if we recognize them (as is the Godly commandment) as the figures they represent intrinsically.

One’s parents. One’s siblings. One’s own flesh and blood, effectively. They have a great right to you. For you to prioritize their well-being, to be theirs first than anyone else’s. To be loyal, diligent and conscious. To think of the interests of this collective whole than the whims of your own heart foremost. This is where, if the intense East is most passionate in love and longing, it is also most strong in its sense of duty. So we see the ancient conflict… of the burning fires of love and the strictures and responsibilities that come with one’s duty (which is perhaps a firm sort of unconditional love in of itself). This is where conscious love takes on radical forms.

To love is exalted and to bear with it despite all, voluntarily, consciously, — a recurring renewal… Yet we are often duty-bound in our own way. Duty-bound to those we love and those who love us. Sometimes, the lover has to step back because of his duty. Sometimes, if not often, the beloved cannot reciprocate in any way (despite their terrible aversion to the great cruelty that must be dealt, in order to do away with the lover’s madness), because they too, are duty-bound.

Duty overrides us often when it comes to our individual selves. How many lovers have there been in the world, who had to bury their burning feelings (physically and consciously refuse them the light of day — relegating them to only surface in quiet, private mourning when no one is looking) and madness because simply, their duty could not be fulfilled otherwise? How many have torn people asunder because to entertain their madness in any way would have been tantamount to a violation of duty?

These are things we do not speak of. They are, perhaps, just as much, if not more, unspoken parts of the human experience. Though ironically, we would be more at peace if we knew someone acted as they did out of duty… we scarcely ever let it show. So we remain in pain, thinking it was anything but duty… thinking, that the thread of our heart was rend by virtue of personal distaste, than the demands of sacred duty. To protect the sanctity of one thing, often we trample many sacred things along the way. In preventing sacrilege, there is much sacrilege involved still.

We have the duty to offer those we love, a place of permanence and perpetual care within our collective, linear world if we give them a place in our unspoken, non-linear one. Whether they take it, or not… is their decision. Whether they can or not, is perhaps the dictate of fate. Whether you should offer or not, is a function of your duty to your existing concrete relations. If it brings the potential of great suffering to the beloved and to one’s existing concrete relations, to bring them into that concrete plane — perhaps it is a duty in of itself to spare each the anguish and sorrow.

To love, perhaps, is to be true to one’s duty to both those for whom the heart pauses and those to whose our duty is intrinsic and eternal.

Note

I scarcely write much of this sort nowadays. Still, the immense amount of turmoil my heart has faced as of late has fueled the writing of these words… and many more in the hours, days and weeks to come.

I hope, reading my lowly words, you found and took with you, something of worth.

Thank you.

Those you love, have power over you was originally published in ILLUMINATION on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

None will ever know, the devotion I have held, in silence. Perhaps it has been sensed. Perhaps it has not. I, who have kept it wrapped so perfectly immersed in great layers of cloth and hopes… perhaps it is a great tragedy in of itself… that it may never be known.

The core of your being, the imprints of your soul… bit by bit that which was collected… that which was told… that which was sensed, the new and the old. Sure, there will be many now who will keep abreast your thoughts and your truths and your being. I will be quiet. I will not ruin your peace.

There is a great deal of joy in holding devotion in silence. In the absence of onlookers, only then are emotions expressed true and fair. Fiery declarations are easy to make, but quiet admissions whispered into nothing bear greater storms within. You are this way when many expect you to be. Are you good when no one is there to see?

There were many things to speak of. So much more left to say. Perhaps I should have said it all then. Spoken clearly. Spoken bravely. Perhaps the burnt should not fear the fire so much. That fire which is yearned for. That fire which is a longing of the self. Perhaps the hope that swells within is a desire to self-immolate. Perhaps I am the harbinger of my own destruction. Perhaps, I cannot stay in place…

It seems strange, it truly does. What was, no longer seems to be. There was I, who worried endlessly to not be a burden. To not bring anguish and worse yet the baggage of prominence… It seems much more likely that this would have occurred. I have naught the beauty of the flesh nor are my words honey. It was bound to have happened, so I say. It is fatalistic to think so. It is.

To leave it all to fate, would absolve me of all responsibility. But was it not my inadequacy, my disorientation, my idiocy, my silence, my fault that now perhaps these paths shall never intertwine? Perhaps it is for the best. Perhaps not. Perhaps what is necessary, is to examine what was, what is, what must be. Perhaps it is not time so much so to mourn, as much as it is time to rise to the occasion.

At the same time, it is worthy to remember. And hope it will only be the passage of time, not deliberate neglect… that makes one forget. To preserve pieces of the soul, of someone for years on, even past the epoch of presence… Those who love, know it best.

As I now write from the comfortable chair in the midst of a University library, I cannot help but reflect upon what this journey has meant thus far.

Just one year ago, I was such a different individual. By contrast, the stupid, sincere boy with the softest heart from two years ago should be a stranger to the Arsal of today.

The Arsal of today is… well… older. That is a natural consequence of time, sure. But the Arsal of today is much more… weary. Torn. Hesitant. Too conscious. Too cognizant.

The worst difference? The Arsal of today is… rational. Far too rational. Rational, when the Arsal from two years ago was the sort of romantic that’d walk across two continents for someone who might not even want to see him.

Perhaps the Arsal of today, with more of a beard starting to appear in company of the signature boyish moustache of old, the Arsal of today with bags under his eyes and muscle cramps from a few too many pushups in a day, perhaps he is simply… weary. Weary of letting madness overtake his heart and wrest control over it. Weary of ruining himself again for someone who won’t feel the same. Perhaps the Arsal of today has much to lose. Or maybe. He has nothing left to lose.

Maybe the Arsal of today is, in effect, a hollow man.

To that end, though I yearn for the dream that it all represents… though I want the most normal of lives. Though in parallel I hold great dreams and hopes. Though I am an enigma even for myself. I drift into the void. The Darkness that gnaws away at my soul and begs surrender — surrender to the pain… To go quietly into that night.

I am not the best at keeping myself in one piece. After half a decade of chaos and horrors, you’d think I’d have gotten better at it somewhat… but no!

Yet! There are two things that can always put me back together no matter what. Things that give me joy, purpose and fulfilment in such a way that nothing else ever comes close.

That is, Religion and Ideology. Reading and especially writing anything in connection with my Religious and Ideological beliefs both gives me life in such a manner that nothing else does. Be it treatises covering obscure Jurisprudential issues or essays on Socialism vs Capitalism… Heck, even the legendary combination of a bottle of Lemon Malt and Indomie Noodles does not function nearly as well as an antidepressant as perhaps reading the Tafsir (Exegesis) of a whole chapter of the Qur’an may.

If there is one thing I have learnt, it is that one should only honor people as much as they honor you. One should never shy away from giving more than one takes, yes! But a degree of reciprocity must be maintained in relations. How much more will you give love and joy in exchange for scars?

Concluding Note

There is, indeed, much that can be said further, but given the already scattered form of this work, I leave the pen here.

I do thank you for reading my lowly words. May the divine preserve all of you and bring you great joys and victories alike.

(I will also be posting this in parallel on Substack — I just felt like giving medium some love today. ❤)

Well, well, well. We’re here. I haven’t been on here in a hot minute. For many reasons, in fact. I’m still in a state of affairs that can be described as “neither here nor there” — I could brutally crash and burn any minute. Or I could make it. Finally make it. I could finally have that victory. Victory. I haven’t tasted that in so long. But I’m not here to talk much about that.

I’m sure you, my dearest readers have felt my absence. I must apologize most profusely for that.

That being said, I have been sort of active, just not quite on medium. I started writing on Substack recently, with posts and notes every couple of days or so. You might enjoy the pieces on there (like this latest one). I find it crazy how I can actually get views and reach an audience even beyond my established one there — so I’m wondering if I might be able to get a lot of my best readers there too. So, that’s that.

I still try to keep up to date with all of you and your wonderful work. I’m still in awe of all that medium gave me. And honestly, there’s not much replacement that it can offer in some respects. And I still can’t really monetize Substack yet (or at least I haven’t figured out how to) — particularly because of how neither Paypal nor Stripe work in my country. So that’s another headache.

Most of my absence has had to do with personal troubles. A lot of them. Those of you closest to me know about my struggles with the whole academic admissions.

But yes.

Don’t worry! I’m still alive! (Somehow — though I have a feeling my motorcycle’s engine might’ve seized and I have a big expense coming up. I might not be alive after I break that news to my family, lol)

So. Thank you. For always sticking around. I won’t be marooning medium. But it’s possible I might mirror posts moving forward — posting on both platforms.

Tell the men meeting in bunkers, plotting the murder of millions
Tell their people of the price they shall have to pay
On Ashura, Imam Hussein’s choice was battle or humiliation
Inheritors of that tradition; We are never humiliated.

Cut me down, leave me buried where my grave bears no name
But to the likes of you, I shall not be a slave.
Down with your promises of wealth, your enticements of fame
Burn down my homeland, if it brings the victory of the path
Fill our rivers with their blood — if they dare transgress

We are not the hypocrites of Jordan, the dogs of the Najd, nay
We are not the slave-drivers of the Khaleej nor of Istanbul’s game
Our reward is in the hereafter, our lives carry that burning flame
You will not have our allegiance, inheritors of Yazid, never, nay.

We are inheritors of the tradition of sacrifice,
Every land is Karbala, only to heaven is our claim
The forces of Imperialism, the colonialists come this way
They massacre children, bomb hospitals and expect dismay
You cut down our men, our women will rise up.
The inheritors of Sayyida Zainab’s veil will not obey.

Your servants in the deserts, on the Ummah, a stain
The hypocrites in our midst, your seditious assets
Justice shall come, washing away filth like rain
Gaza shall be avenged, as shall every tragedy since the first day.

We are the inheritors of the tradition of sacrifice
Let the worldly ones lament, and denounce
To worldly Kings and Emperors, we shall never bow.
Let them call us disbelievers, let them cast doubt upon us
Let them all speak much, but act nothing at all
Let us give all — to the path of resistance — let the enemy descend upon us
We are the inheritors of the tradition of sacrifice.
You cannot scare us with death. Each you kill shall be a martyr
Every child who passes in his sleep — a monument. Every hospital you bomb, shall be your very grave. Let the world be silent. So our roar of resistance, each and everyone shall hear.

Note

May Allah cast down the oppressors — may the noose of their own deeds be tightened around their necks. May there be peace once and for all for the world.

I pray for the friends of mine who are in the very thick of it, right now as Iran is being bombed — with conventional terror attacks being carried out (car bombs, suicide drones strapped with explosives, et cetera) on top of airstrikes by the Occupation Entity. You have seen the damage the Occupation entity has already suffered as a result of its aggression. There shall be more. It is inevitable. It is deserved. It must happen. Consequences must be felt. There must not be any exceptions to the rule.

In line with international law, retaliation will certainly continue. We, in lands neighboring too — see it. For many it is a day they never thought woul come. When the genocidal entity receives even a small portion of its own medicine. When they lament the destruction they face in their own homeland — the vast majority of which does not even find itself focused on civilian targets, mind you (much unlike the entity which bombs civilian areas especially) — then someone should ask them: “Have you seen Gaza?” This was long coming. Coming from them, every accusation is ultimately a confession. The days of the occupation entity are numbered. God willing, there will be a time soon where there is a state in the Holy Land which upholds equal rights for all and the apartheidic system is torn down

Yet there are those who speak of sectarian conflicts yet themselves have done nothing half as much as the country which they continually demonize. The Western propaganda machine is laying the ground for another Iraq-style invasion. If that happens. They will regret every step they take.

Do not be silent as the Imperialist, colonialist aggressors commit mass-war crimes and affronts to humanity here. Do not let another Iraq War happen here. Do not let them fool you. Stand strong. Raise your voice.

This is to you. From your Silent Ghost. Potatotie. Indisputed troublemaker. Supposed influencer. And overall, a waste of time and space. I’m in the audience. Though I have my own. I’m always in the audience.

Whenever you climb up onto the stage, whenever your words echo. I check, at that exact moment. And you’re there. When no one’s reading — no one’s listening. I’m there. Why am I still there? Do you do the same? Obsessively checking if I still write? If I live, love or have died? Why is it so — that neither of us have the guts — to say it out loud? Me personally, I don’t — because I’m afraid I’ll lose you again. Loss. I’m afraid of loss now. Yet… unperturbed by it. Betrayed by my own hope before God to not be abandoned out of the blue. But over and over again. But I still want to.

If I had you in my corner today and no one else… I’d love that. I wonder if it’d make you happy to know — that I’ve always been in your corner. I’ve always been the hands that clap for you — though no one ever hears it. I’ve always been the first to smile but unable to tell you all about it — for you might still want to forget it.

You know — if you’re holding on to something. If you tell me all about it yourself… we might both have a happier life. If it was something we did not have. Then it is maybe not too late? Life is too short. I honestly figured that out because of all this. It’s why I’ve become far more… direct. Too many scars to beat around the bush or to have the energy for pleasantries.

So… while I still honestly can’t seem to properly bury you. While you’re still in my heart. No matter how hard I try — I still end up remembering you. I’ve said my piece already — poured my heart out, left it ready to bleed and be lost in a moment, so crucial … — I thought that’d do the trick. Yet, there was silence. There is silence. If there is something bothering you. Tell me, won’t you?

Words are hard to find I suppose. In writing for you — in keeping you about — in waltzing with your memory… in my sorrow — in my troubles — I am still the same person at the core. Too quick to forgive. Too willing to commit. Too much for a world — I am a fiction, for which. Dare I say, Darcy in Pride and Prejudice might be a more believeable character than my existence — wouldn’t you agree?

But I do exist. Forsaken as I am, I do exist.

How do you keep old love from decaying? You revive it into what is plain, eternal, perpetual, genuine — chosen love. Chosen love does not decay. It is more truer than most renditions of true love.

How do you keep it from rotting? Simple. You choose to place forth your choice. Your choice to love. Regardless of intrinsic capacities or perceptions.

I still live at the same address. I still ride that same old motorcycle (albeit a bit more banged up since last year’s accident — the physical wounds healed fine though). I have a phone number of my own now. A SIM card to my name. I carry my phone with me — full of songs… some from our shared days. I still have an archive of photos. Full of things you sent me… curated so carefully. Others are things of yours I kept preserved. Glimpses — beautiful words. Do you think I ever truly let go? Do you think I ever could?

I still stand, in a way, where your clock stood. I’m still waiting for your letters. Though I don’t know if I should.

If you write to me again, though.

I’ll be warmer than anyone else would. If you love me, though — you won’t have to ever worry about that love being returned in full.

I have no clue why I wrote this. Or if it makes any sense. Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn’t.

But.

Just maybe.

It’ll all be fine again. It’ll all be beautiful. More than it ever was. More than it ever could have been otherwise.

I have hope for the future

Be it you — or things I cannot even fathom yet.

So concludes the letter of a ghost,
a part of the silent audience.

P.S. Here’s a song I really like. That is also… a bit relevant. Some hurt a bit more than others, still.

I have a confession to make.

I don’t know what it means to be loved.

Rather.

Never in my life — have I ever been told — that I was someone’s world.

Whatever came close to it? snatched away by fate… leaving me to hope it was but for the best.

Dare I say, I wonder if I have ever gotten to experience love at all?

Perhaps all I have ever had — was the thorns but never the roses. To wallow and drown — to be tortured with accusations unspoken — to be questioned — to be broken down — to be treated as an enigma to figure out then clinically leave behind… I have been the poet, but never the poem. I have been written of, in words of scorn, sometimes nostalgia and often in high regard. But the Lord of the Heavens knows, I have never been written words of love. If I have — I think I probably misread them — they were not words of love, probably. How could they be? I do not deserve any.

Another part of this musing — let us make the question:

How does one kill a person?

No, not through knives, bullets, bombs, blunt force, swords, arrows, maces or the odd frying pan — nay. How do you kill a person, truly?

I think, the way to do it — is to break them. How do you break a person? Many approaches to go by it. Let us speak of one. One is — to question the veracity of their existence. To question their sincerity. Worse yet, to question their soul. To question their character. To question them as they drift further into their madness… to never openly express it just yet — but it seeps through… to sometimes subtly say it.

I think I’m kind of done with living in this world.

I’m tired of it.

I can’t do this anymore.

I don’t feel wanted here. That’s maybe because this world isn’t meant to be a long-term abode.

But by God, is this a horrible place…

I read some old papers I had stored about. I read some words. I honestly hate myself for being the way I am. I hate myself for letting ghosts break my heart again and again. I hate myself for binding myself to people who don’t have the guts or the decency to keep me in their lives. I hate myself for caring too much. I hate myself for noticing too much. I hate myself, honestly.

Say. Do you know what the most painful thing is?

To thought of as a distraction. As someone — whose being is disorienting. A terrible bane on time and existence. It is painful. It is painful especially when you pour your soul into something… and yet you feel as though your efforts, your sincere most association — your bond with someone — though it may equally be taxing on both sides in every single possible way… It’s painful to hear the idea that you’re a bad influence by virtue of being too distracting. By virtue of being the only thing someone can think of. Of being too vast to accommodate.

God. If my grades were dropping and I was growing clumsier and clumsier and less unaware of my surroundings as time went on because my whole day was just increasingly being taken over by a person? I’d double down.

But I think I learnt this a bit too late in life. I’m stark raving mad. Most people aren’t. Well, or at least they’re not that kind of mad. But it illustrated a very key difference for me.

My madness stems from the different sorts of loves I keep within me.

There’s the love I have for everyone — that includes everyone I meet
It’s how it’s pretty easy for me to make friends or engage at a very intimate level with someone I might’ve just met on the street. It’s also why I can go out of my way to help. The more abundant this love is, the better my life is at that time (as they say, the better you are to others, the better God is to you)

Then there’s the love I have for my friends and my family. And also very special people. Now I would absolutely kill for these people. And no, a big fuck you to whoever peddles generalizations about people of either sex — A man would not do anything to save himself. I repeat, a big fuck you to whoever peddles ideas like that. I get it, you’re hurting. Here’s a hug. Better? Want another? Okay — finee…. you can have it. But. Here’s the deal. I love my people, okay? I love my classmates (I still consider every single of my old classmates back from my High School days as my brother — no matter how close or distant I might have been to them — I value every single last one of them) — I love my friends (especially those who have stuck with me despite all my failings and my flaws and everything else) — I love my family (even though sometimes, perhaps quite often, I feel like a burden on them)

You can imagine how far further it can extend when it comes to the special category of special people — if you know what I’m saying. I’ll take on a firing squad if that’ll buy your safety. So — once again — a big fuck you to everyone who peddles generalisations. The whole reason the world is so fucked up right now is that we can’t think of each other as humans.

So — yeah. I realised that not everyone has the same brand of madness. This madness — I can’t really properly characterize. But what I can tell you, is that it’s a dead concept in a sterile world. Sterile? Well, it is a pretty filthy world filled with filthy things. But it is a world sterile when it comes to genuineness.

Now — you see, I face, now, a peculiar sort of paradox. I want to live, but I am confronted by the intrinsic truth about the world.

The thing is,

I don’t think I will ever be loved.

I’m South Asian. I can probably get married one way or the other. And the way my thoughts on love have evolved — from a passive thing (that just happens out of the blue) that could never be confessed but only silently adhered to and nurtured… to a choice. The choice to love. God. The choice to love. It’s a beautiful idea, I think. The greatest love is that which we choose no matter how many of its thorns we see — and that greatest love will appear anywhere where you plant it… because love that you choose as an action is not subject to the whims of fate. To love fully, deeply — you must choose to love. So what you do not have history with someone or you have not known them your whole life, yet?

If you choose to love. You are set free. If you choose to love… it will long outlive infatuation, obsession and fixation. Love someone by choice — regardless of whether you’ve ever drifted on your own into love… love like that, and nothing will break.

But I think I can’t be loved. I can’t shake the feeling. That my existence will forever be questioned. That my character will be investigated. That I will always be thought to not exist. That I am a puzzle. That I am something one is unable to figure out. It scares me. What if no one ever loves me? What if I’ll be more miserable in ten years than I am today (as I think about the unthinkable) — I’m afraid. I’m afraid no one will ever love me. It’s scary. Why does it matter, though?

Why can’t I just… I don’t know…suck it up and move along? Why am I stupid, so… so very stupid? Why do I dream of things that are long relics of the past?

Why do I feel out of place here?

Don’t I still have a roof over my head, enough to ensure I do not go to sleep hungry and more peace than countless int he world, right now?

But why does it scare me…? The notion, of forever being unable to share my burden. The notion — of never being understood absolutely. Why do I wish, someone will wander into my labyrinth… see its cascading halls… the infinity of floors it has… the growing, shifting, evolving form of the Labyrinth… why do I want someone to wander in… and… want to stay? To populate the Labyrinth.

We all need someone to stay, don’t we?

I’m afraid, no matter how and who it will be. No one will.

What’s the point, then?

I’m stupid, aren’t I?

I just hope I can hold on for a little longer.

Grief. I have spent too long in the past avoiding you. Or only letting you slip in quietly… or letting myself fall to you but failing to look to it directly with my own two eyes.

But not so much for a while now. Grief. You are no longer just a dark companion that accompanies all the gold… all the memories I cannot trade away. The memories that must fade away as consequence of the limitations of the human mind… the ones that cannot be erased voluntarily. Now. I look grief in the eyes — and I embrace it.

I don’t wish to ‘process’ you. You are beyond that.

My Grief. No one else’s grief. You are a receipt for my scars. You are not merely a malaise left behind — you are not somehow only a remnant of a wound someone refused to bandage, Naye. My dearest grief — you, beautifully so, are what reforged me. You are the anvil upon which — blow after blow… I am become stronger. I am no longer the same. It is not because you are to blame. But you are to credit. My grief. I do not hold on to you. I stopped holding on to people long ago. If no one wants me, then maybe I shouldn’t think of it any other way. Perceived cosmic errors are just that. Perceived. Not true.

My grief — yes. My grief. I look you in your eyes. You are a smile I never got to see with my own eyes. Your eyes — mirror the eyes I still remember. Does my memory concern someone who is no longer in contact? Will I be remembered after I am dead and buried? I think it is a bit futile, my grief.

I think it is futile.

I can write a hundred books. In a hundred years, likely to be, if they even survive that long… they’ll be sold in flea markets at the price of scrap.

I can speak the most eloquently — but my words will not be remembered. Superseded. Succeeded. Rightly so. By far greater orators. Or orators, simply, whose words fit better, the wildly different context of a drastically altered age.

Oblivion is inevitable — unless God keeps your name alive — by the weight and to the credit of your deeds. That is who one ought to be.

I do not look to get rid of my grief. Nor do I think I ever truly can.

That being said — there are some things… I think… though they still might be alive, and bleeding within my chest… though I still drown. Though no one knows half of it for I do not reveal myself to anyone anymore. Not like I once did. Naye. I fear never being able to do that ever again. It is true. I fear loss. I fear catastrophic loss. That’s my weakness — not that anyone would care. Yet.

Courage.

Buried a thing that was still alive in my chest.

One must seek his calling. I seek it too. God help me — I will persevere through.
I am scarred, but not yet crippled. I am maimed, but not incapable
I rise from the ashes, you once called me a Phoenix
Watch me burn with the intensity of a thousand firestorms
And watch me soar, up high — graduated beyond
the world I left behind.