“I am pure light, not just a fistful of clay. The shell is not me. I came as the royal pearl within. Look at me not with outward eye, but with inward vision of the heart; Follow me there and see how unencumbered we become”…
― Mawlana Jalal-al-Din Rumi
It’s been a grueling affair,
trying to be someone
I’m not,
holding my tongue…
I quietly explode
in this kind of pomposity,
when my voice is drowned out
by meaningless rhetoric.
I was always a nobody,
a dreamer,
and nothing has changed!
There are no achievements
to brag about,
no new additions to show off…
Just the dull ache of life,
the one foot in front of the other
kind of scenario,
a life needing only to be endured…
Like the last breath of sacred air
having confession…
The plagues have taken me
to dark places,
eaten me alive.
I’ve fallen
into a slow decline,
and a longing to be expunged
from the earth.
I’m a prosaic narrative of the “waking dead”…
But when I change direction,
I swing into timeless zones
places where apparitions comb the darkness
and light-filled souls hold me,
speaking only in dialects of kindness…
I’m comfortable there,
singing my anthems,
talking to ghosts.
I don’t need approval,
just the serenity of being,
to have sunlight by day
and starlight by night…
bone China teacups don’t make me feel stronger,
they are just pieces
that gather dust in the silence,
mere frivolities to collect
and be admired by few…
representations of such fragility that I cannot bear to hold…
I wondered then
if you hear me
above
your own thoughts,
or see me through your impressions?
I felt diminished,
unstable,
defective,
groundless in my own being
conversant
with dysfunction…
But I’m weary now,
weary of the pretense…
I could tell you so much,
if only you put aside your preconceptions.
I could show you the brutality
that broke me open,
that tore the flesh
from my bones…
giving me visions of another world…
I could also tell you of bravery,
of seeing
of believing in magic.
I could take you to a place where the dead are alive,
and the veil is lifted…
a place of signs and wonders,
unimaginable colors,
vibrations of love,
no talk of death…
Just magical vistas as far as the eye can see…
Mystics tell of these cosmic landscapes
and I believe them…
But I’m just the dull little girl that you remember,
the underachiever
and I can’t seem to change the voice
on the self-drive…
I’ve needed your approval for way too long,
longer than any life could bear…
So if you find me silent,
almost withdrawn,
it’s because I’m protecting my heart
from the savagery of my own thoughts…
You see I’m scarred and bloody
in need of belonging,
and maybe a vacation…
I’m made of stardust and the boundlessness of light,
just like you!!
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