Diverse

It always times like this that I feel like I have to write something, the urge is electrifying, leaving your brain super conscious, super alert that if you try to persuade your eyes to close and doze off two or three minutes later, it just won’t work. It is something that matters, at least for me if not for you, my dear readers.

I am in someone’s house. A friend of mine. Or the plural of it. They are lying out cold on the thick comforter, fading to their sleep to unvarying rhythmic lullaby of a howling mechanical sound of a ceiling fan. And at times like this, the surge of looking back of what I have, and what I still not possess strikes the chords inside me. Like a sudden reflex. When you touch the ashes of a burning charcoal.

Sometimes things past don’t give you that much of surge. Things that happened a few hours before could be the best memory for you to recall, to analyse, to see thoroughly. As though attaching blocks of plastic bricks. Or rummaging pieces of puzzle in a gigantic box of a lot of other puzzles. It can be fun, I always tell myself that. But for some others, the waiting they have to endure just another thing to be considered. How diverse we are in the first place.

The diversity we think we love to have. Or something we think we should have in the first place so we become distinctive, someone a whole lot different. With attitude.

And when it comes to choices of what life has to offer, the exact and definite answer usually hard to be determined. Our tongue has been caught by a cat all of a sudden. Then I came up with three things that I want to have in my life.

Cold hard cash
A satisfying job
You

Those three were the answers I gave to you.

And then you were gone.

Did my wish too hard to be granted?

I just want you.

I think the diverse side on me has caught me off guard. And I regret every bit of it.

Untitled II

"Babuji, can you hold my hand. This confusion in my mind needs to be channeled to somewhere else"

"You need no hands to cling onto. I can see the uncertainty in you, my dear. Your eyes. The somber glitters. The look of needing someone"

Perhaps the moonless night was nothing more than a complete set of theatrical drama, a set of opera with no white color, or lack of it. Something that the certainty never drives beyond the uncertainty. Or maybe something similar like that. The thought of getting saved, or hand being held by the one he could call a savior had dimmed, like the stars of unreachable. The numbness attack on his feet paralyzed his mind. Or the numbness attack to his mind paralyzed his limbs. He lost. Neither did Rafeeq.

He merges Night into Day, and he merges Day into Night, and he has subjected the sun and the moon (to his Law): each one runs its course for a term appointed. Such is Allah your Lord: to Him belongs all Dominion. And those whom ye invoke besides Him have not the least power.

035:013

The silent prayer reverberated like an unidentified humming echo. And please, he didn’t want this last imaginary pillar to be dissolved, like the stars and the moon and the days he had seen before his eyes.

Salam Ramadan

Assalamualaikum

Kepada pembaca zubaidaharshad.blogspot.com, pengarang ingin mengucapkan selamat menjalankan ibadah puasa dengan tenang dan sabar. Sesungguhnya penuhilah bulan penuh keberkatan ini dengan amalan yang baik dan jauhilah kemungkaran.


Yang benar
Zubaidah Arshad