there is nothing that I want more than Your guidance for them right now, ya Rabbi. and only You know how much their words hurt. but I love them, and I love You, and I want only for them to see what You have allowed me to see, and it breaks my heart to disappoint them, but I must, this time. but I love them more than anyone else in this world and I pray and pray and pray that You will shower them with Your mercy and Your forgiveness. that is all that I want, so I beg of You to grant me this, and I beg that You show them the way. I cannot do this without You, I need Your help ya Hadiy. Allahu musta’an
it’s half past two in the morning, and I’m again left to my own thoughts. I really shouldn’t be writing anything after reading a whole bunch of excerpts from works by self-deprecating, overintrospective, existentialist authors…but yet, here I am. my thoughts are a jumble and I don’t quite know what to make of what I just read. to think that there are people out there who are so imprisoned within themselves, unable to articulate their stream of thoughts that wrap silently and so sinisterly around their necks like nooses, is both depressing and exhilarating.
depressing, because it is anathema to how I have been feeling recently, and exhilarating, because I have always wondered if I was the only one who had such macabre thoughts from time to time. It used to irk me when I shared just an inkling of those thoughts, and was met with a laugh and a “why are you being so emotional/deep/depressing/etc.?” I’m not trying to be anything.
for the past two years, solitude has been one of my closest confidantes. In place of a person, the empty seat opposite me has become one of my favourite escapes. in solitude, I keep company with a pen, my diary, and God, and I am free to write, to Him and to myself, to reprimand myself, encourage myself, reinvigorate my endeavours, and so on, in ways that I would never be quite at ease to do with an actual person sitting opposite me. retreating inside myself is at once calming and nerve-racking. calming, because all other voices are drowned out. nerve-racking, for that same reason: to hear nothing but your own voice is to hear it in all its frightful tendencies.
all the same, I think I have grown too accustomed to being by myself. the words that escape my lips sometimes when I’m with people I deeply admire, confuse me, because they are so unlike me, and I do not know why that is. perhaps it is fear, of opening up to people I respect and emulate in so many different ways. if they do not truly know me, I will have no need to worry about the disappointment of failing to impress those whose good opinion I want so badly. which leaves me wondering, at times, if I am as transparent to them as they are to me. I have been retreating within myself so pathologically that I think I may have forgotten how to connect intrinsically to someone else, even with those whom I have so much to say to.
and to that, I have no words of consolation or encouragement for myself. I will have to learn, at some point, how to trust again, but I have no desire to fix that as of now. my mind, body, and soul, are all being pulled in one direction, the penultimate destination of this temporary existence, of my own little life. it feels less like I chose a path for myself, instead it was already chosen for me before I knew how to even choose. I’m still trying to figure things out. it will be a while before I can make room to try and trust again. and that is alright. God always has His ways. :)
"how do you do that? how do you just completely let go after it builds up like that?"
"it’s not me that’s doing it.”
there you go.
you are never doing anything by yourself. you are only playing out your little part in the huge tapestry that is God’s masterpiece.
and all the holes will be filled in due time.
even if they aren’t, they’re only holes to you, because you are just a thread, unable to see past the gaping spaces where you adamantly ask the seamstress to sew in new threads of different colours and textures.
only the seamstress sees the entirety of her masterpiece, if we but had her eyes.
but couldn’t we see with those beautiful eyes anyways? we always could. we always didn’t.