In a manner of speaking

In a manner of speaking,
I question the silence.
A silence I erased in the hopes of understanding.
But you say everything by saying nothing.

In a manner of speaking,
I crash the silence,
my words like tidal waves come crashing in,
crashing with them what's left unspoken,
shattering the vows you whispered to the wind.

In a manner of speaking,
my words hunt the silence.
The shadows are retreating,
but I only fear silence.
God is silent.
The absence of God is my religion.

In a manner of speaking, I listen.
God is taking shape.
I listen to the whistling in the dark,
echoing the forbidding words,
the enigma of nature,
written in fractals,
a quiet signature of God.

In a manner of speaking, I pray.
I shiver to the horrors of guilt, of confusion and illusion.
I pray to the trees, for I am rooted.
I pray to the sun, for I am burning.
I pray to God, for God is within me.

In a manner of speaking, I write to you.
Words flowing to me,
words filling my throat,
words submerging my existence.
The word is my fourth dimension.

In a manner of speaking,
I suffocate in the realm of consciousness,
for what I am transcending is beyond thought.
Time morphing into sand in my palms,
I cannot hold a grasp of it.

In a manner of speaking,
I refuse to utter a word,
for God is silent.

Silence is my religion.

Hajar Ammar

Commentaires

Posts les plus consultés de ce blog

The last confession

Parents are forgotten gods. My first act of worship was not a prayer but irrevocable love for my parents. It was easy to cast parents as gods when they were your eyes to a new life. The slow movement of your mouth as your teeth grind food, the small steps that you take confidently in a stride now, the smile that goes too wide because there is no shame in showing a moment of joy: all of my parents’ teachings live through me. I was their New Testament, their Vedas, their Torah, and so were they to me. Their voices wrestled in my head at every decision. What would my parents do? In moments of fear, I reached for the safe blanket of parental security to take cover in. Their ideas seemed so big and inconceivable. My inexperience ascended them to the pedestal of gods. I sought their blessing as earnestly as any believer. Heaven was the small smile of approval. Hell was the disappointment concealed behind indifference. It was important to maintain this balance, albeit impossible; my brain fou...

To you, my June

I am sick of the smell of this hospital. It irritates my nostrils, I hope I never get to smell it again. The beds are washed with low quality bleach, the one they get for dirt cheap, its stench so strong it blinds you at first. They wash the sheets everyday, as if us breathing on them, touching them, is enough to sully their fabric to the point of no return. The nurses look at you, the most beautiful man to have walked this earth, and turn their scrunched noses away. They never see past your chart. They don't glimpse the ethereal beauty that entranced me the first time I saw you, that got me hooked until now. I walked into a room so familiar it felt like home. All the voices harmonizing on that stage were ones I knew and loved. Gary's baritone, Adam's slightly higher pitch, and Paul's inability to hold a note, they all mixed into an amalgamation of sounds that felt like a hug. I was never a singer before meeting these people, never cared for it, but I was starved for ...

What do I do with this love?

Today I woke up as one does. I had my cup of coffee, part of a routine I don't dare disturb. I wore the same outfit I had on yesterday, it wasn't hard to find it. It was right where I left it last night. And the night before. In a sad heap by the foot of my bed. I couldn't wear my rings, or anything on my wrist, its heaviness would make everything else unbearable. I left the house, keys jingling as I shoved them in my bag. I would struggle to fish them out of the mess when I get back, but that's something I'll have to figure out later. The bus is late, it always is. By the time I can see its carcass in the horizon, I've already developed a dull ache in my left knee. I wince as I climb the step. I pay the man whose face won't hold a place in my memories, they are already filled to the brim. I take a space to sway back and forth during a journey I know too well. The familiarity of it all is what makes it easy to navigate. It requires no effort to redo someth...

Toubib Or Not To Be

Rechercher dans ce blog