Another contradiction has manifested itself. I am alone, but not. I may be a part of them, but I can’t say the same for myself. here are only so few things that I truly have a part in.
I am Black. My blood and skin color being proof of this. Yet I find myself estranged from my own skin. If I knew no better, then I would ask if I was the wrong type of black. But, I know my people exist somewhere– places where I can’t see. It’s a shame, but I won’t change the shade of my skin just to fit in.
I am also Indian, my likeness being proof of this. Its a bit ironic, that I look like either race but not both. When I came back from India, I got hit with a subtle question. Some of us claim to be Indian just from our blood. They didn’t breathe in our native pollution, but their compass points them back to us. In my eyes, they are like biryani without the masala– blood established legitimacy, not heritage. If you don’t practice this heritage in some way, or haven’t experienced India– are you truly Indian? Or just an imposter wearing our skin?
I am Muslim. Not by blood, but by birth– a covenant that I have to yet to renege from. I may invoke it in the same breath as my linage, yet one would do well to remember. Just as you call Christianity as a religion, we aren’t any less– our faith being its own object. Some call us an ethnicity as if we all hail from the same land. I have brothers from the cities of Damascus to New York, from Hyderabad to Mogadishu.
Yet I don’t hear them here. I have no grievances with the sea of crosses that I bear witness to, but where are my brothers? Where are the men to which I could speak about Deen? About Islam? About knowns and unknowns? My Lord, where are they? If you are going to test me like this, then let me draw each breath as a Muslim– not as any other. The Prophet Ayyub عَلَيْهِ ٱلسَّلَامُ taught me patience, and so I shall remain patient– all I ask is to die with your name on my lips.
I have friends, but I seem to exist as their attachments– not as a fully fledged person. When i speak, I must raise my voice and speak again and again– lest my words go unheard. A fact that I loathe and resent, a constant in all that I do. Once a conversation has more than me and them, I turn translucent.
Tell me, what difference is there between the sound of battering ram and the sight a door being rammed? Why am I forced to break the door, to act like an intruder when my presence is perfectly warranted. Other times, I keep my distance or busy myself. After all, I know where people’s interests lie– their eyes aren’t on me. Even when they look at me, it’s not because they hold a special interest in me– it’s simply convenient for them.
Tell me, if I didn’t start our interactions– how could they end theirs? While I cannot claim to know their minds, it very well could’ve been another man sitting in that chair. Casualty spoke, and I answered. I am a individual, just not in moments like these. Most of my qualities are particularly unsuited in what little company I have. It’s annoying. I can’t tell if I’ve always been this generic or this was circumstantial– but nonetheless I remain aware of this.
One day, I will lose my temper. I care not if I die before that day, but I know it’ll happen. After all, I am a man– a man whose patience wanes in time. I love people, but I tire of these antics of theirs. My conscience tells me that this is incidental, that they never meant for this to happen. But does it not make it worse? That your deafness is a natural trait, that I didn’t matter enough to suppress it– am I not owed this morsel of attention?
It’s interesting how you can find love in the smallest gestures, courtesies that should’ve already been normalized. Sigh, maybe I’m just reading too much or too little– but I know well that it’s everywhere. Is it for me, or for my positions? It could be both, or one, or neither. Some of us love us another, just for the experience itself– not for the person themselves.
Others love each other due to the status they hold in this world, a role that facilitates this. A few of us fall for both statue and pedestal, for a person and their role. A few of us love each other simply to satisfy themselves– love is just a means to an end. Last of all, we have complementary love– one dedicated to the person themselves. It’s funny that I’m writing about these types like I’ve felt it.
When it comes to push and pull, give and take– I’ve always been a giver. Given my past entries about choice, it’s only natural. By giving, I decide the bonds that I’m bound to, the obligations I bear, and the sort of company I gain– if any. Not everyone deserves love, nor do I believe myself better than the common man.
I am the same man that loves people because they are human, not themselves– the one who wrote that tolerance leads to disgust. I am neither saint nor demon, but one who strives in humanity’s path. If anything, what I give is an illusion in part. I give a lot, but it’s like throwing slivers of flesh– when there’s the last time I gave a piece of my heart? The last time I trusted someone enough to share more? You can’t tell the difference, but I know well– who else do you think is holding the knife?
Apart from that, I don’t know what to take. I know how, but how much is too much and how little is too little? My heart is one of greed, but my mind was honed in temperance– both virtue and vice are undefined. After all, how should I know when I see no scale? Even when I give, I know that I tend to cut off bigger chunks than I should– but I’m not too concerned about that. Not yet.
Still, I’d call myself envious, but envy consists of two components. To covet what you see in others, and to seize it for yourself. I may want what others have, but I can’t stoop that low. So instead, I am bitter.
Bitter that some of us are blessed with the presence of others, that they’re always surrounded by warmth. While I live on rays, they bathe in uninterrupted beams of light. Yet, I know well that they too have their struggles– but even that doesn’t soothe my heart. We both may be alone, but their loneliness isn’t the same as mine– it may be more or less, but never the same.
Just as they don’t linger in the shade for too long, I don’t stay in the light for too long. It’s like drinking caffeine. Once you start to get used to drinking it daily, you can’t stop and fall deeper into this cycle of dependence. If I had a constant source of light, then perhaps I could let it happen– but that’s a matter for the future. While suffering is another constant of life, this particular one is unnecessary.
This dagger is already pricking my heart. If I were to accept this pain, then it becomes a sword. Tell me, if my chest cavity is already cramped– just what will this sword pierce? Sigh, perhaps it’d be better if I were more ignorant– if I thought less. Perhaps that’s another one of my flaws. To ponder instead of acting. But, it’s not a flaw. It is a symptom of what I call a blessing and a curse– wisdom.
I know my flaws, but I know not how to resolve them. There is so much that I lack, yet my efforts are like scooping sand– only a few grains remain in grasp. I recognize that this perspective of mine is an elevated one, and that others may not have the same clarity as me. You may call me vain, but these words of mine are a reflection– one that shows this face of mine.
I could continue this particular essay with the amount of embers I have left, references from all that I’ve written and all that I haven’t. But what good is it if I’m the only one who knows? It’s like building an home, but getting a house instead– a place that lacks a human’s touch. Sure I may be human, but I can’t smudge my fingers over every crevice.
At this point, when I write the word ‘You’– I’m writing to another version of myself. He may be my future or an alternative version of myself– but one fact is certain. Here, it’s just me. Just me and my pride. Of everything I have in this life, every word here is an inscription of joy and growth– ones that won’t be read.
I’ve begun to realize something. Elsewhere, I can say that I’m isolated. In this space of words, I can write that I am alone. Even if I’m isolated, the fact remains that I still interact with others and experience that surface level of affinity. In this world of words, only I and God exist– the rest just flicker once.
Once again, I find myself not wanting to know of this pain– to not know my heart’s urges. Yet here I am, cursed to feel every single inch writhe from this pain. I live in a place that chokes my spark, leaving me as a lethargic shell of what I once was. I want my energy back, the drive that propelled me forward– yet its my spirit that forces me forward. My body is just a machine forced to move forward, a fate that I resent– one that I want to trample beneath my feet.
Lord. I am tired. This servant is tired of it all. Tired of being alone amongst a crowd of men. Tired of failing you. Tired of being smoldered like this. Tired of moving this weary body. It drives me mad, but I can’t even call it that. I stand stiff not because I enjoy it, but because I must– there are pins stuck into my collar, one my own and the other belonging to this world.
Others can lose their sanity and build it all back, yet I’m condemned to patch this failing fort. I cannot fall, but I can no longer stand. Just for good measure, I’m damned to do this all alone– this burden being mine alone.
I hate this. I revile this sloth that has enveloped me. I loathe the placidness of my nature with these men. I am tired of this body, one that fights back with its stillness. I revile these legs of mine for not being able to bear this weight. I hold both affection and distaste for the company I’ve been with. Above all, I despise the pain I feel even now. Hate cannot begin to define what I feel at this contemptible existence of mine.
If my normal state is like a rippling lake, then this hatred of mine is a like a tempest. One that seeks to wring life itself. A state that I must reject, even if my body no longer acknowledges me.
“Memento mori, memento vivere”
I am mortal. I will die. But I shall also live. I have forgotten neither. I was born with the surname of War. I was born as Abdullah. I bear the name of Zakaria, my forebearer being God’s Prophet. My lungs bear Hyderabad’s pollution, and my hair retained the curls baked from Mogadishu’s heat. I will die on nameless soil. I will die as Abdullah, with or without companions. I was molded from the Earth, and to this Earth shall I return inlaid.
Whether I return as a whole, or as parts– that is my prerogative. Be it whole or part, do I not belong to myself? If this is beyond my ability to control, then what divides my dreams from delusions?
When my blood scalded, I sought patience. Now, after gaining some measure of it– I desire to break this cage. A virtue turned stagnation, stifling a heart still burning. Once again, it seems that I’ve become too patient– patience begetting passiveness. But, I can’t do much. It is this lethargy that anchors me to the ground, ensuring that I don’t get swept off by others.
Even then, I am far from death’s throes. Its far too soon for me to get rigor mortis, and so it seems that I must learn to get uncomfortable again. After all, I am the bearer of good news– my surname speaking. I cannot deliver if I remain hidden away, nor can I stand in a shrunken space. To die, I must first live.
I cannot give up after a single defeat, nor after a string of countless losses. I’ve long since subscribed that until death– the only defeat is psychological. While I remain unseen and unheard, judging by the blood flowing through me– I’m alive!
As long as that blood continues to move without interruption, I cannot suffer defeat in the truest sense. Even if I lose a battle, life cannot push me back. After all, it can’t kill me. It is forced to watch me regain my strength, to learn from the last fight, and to challenge it again. It is for that reason that I’ve invoked the ‘War’ in my name.
I will hit life with everything I have. If once isn’t enough, then twice. If twice isn’t enough, then thrice. If thrice isn’t enough, then I won’t stop. By the time I’m done living, you will break. The only question is whether I’d join you or not.
Author’s note:
While I did say that it’s just me and God, I also didn’t define the length of a flicker. After all, some of you move quick whilst others are still stuck. 29 essays later, I still perceive your gaze– one for the future. I’m not worried about it since this is just another chunk of flesh– flesh that bled black instead of red. While I do love my rationality, it feels good to to immerse myself with these emotions.
As the days move on, my writing focus is going towards technical writing– so these essays are now an indulgence of sorts. Even then, I’ll make time occasionally. I may be busy, but I’m not busy– same goes with my lack of energy. It just depends on who’s knocking. It’s more accurate to call it resource management– even if its a bit coldhearted.
One consequence of making this longer, is me having to scour all of my essays to link them together. It’s been a while since I’ve done an audit. Anyways, without further ado– congratulations on reaching the end of this essay. At this point, the line is my personal ritual.
10-Vulnerable. Death’s gravity.
20-Outlook
09-Refinement of Hatred
36-Move
32-Identity
21-Bonds
25-Insight
38-Speech