There are moments so small we are thought crazy for thinking they matter but their gravity warps our very Being with their passing.
How can I speak to the dead? Why bother speaking to the living?
Here, in this pile of graphite and wood dust I exist suspended between the two. There is the carcass of a lady bug that left me weeping. The world within a grain of coffee envelops me entirely. Do you know what it means to inch along the cold concrete floor through the cobwebs and urine? Do you think, really, the world is so small? I have spent years in a single puff of smoke.
It is so easy to get lost where a strand of hair meets the eraser shavings. Or to wander dazed in the scent of animal musk. Who encompasses all of this?
It is to the Source that I am falling.
The Truth They Cannot Kill
I don't pretend or expect to be understood. If that were my intent I would leave it at this:
Islam is the Truth. This society is falsehood. Lo! Falsehood is ever bound to vanish.
An Opening, Darkening
Beauty exists. Between the concrete and concertina even here balanced on a blade's edge suspended from a rope of hair-thin steel, the Finality of six walls.
(they yearn to smother us, but they only harden our resolve to grind their world into dust)
Beauty endures but there is a lesson buried beneath the beast's boot: We must learn to make our beauty light, to feed it nothing but raw essence for how else can we survive but to fling our hearts into the vast sky?