Wasi has something to share

Umm Junayd - because you asked so nicely (**Jazakh'Allah khair**) This is basically the story of my life... ---Late night/early morning--- Tiredness is not in the head. But rather in the feet that shuffle, stumble over imagined cracks; make body sway, nautical shifts on solid ground. In the eyes,  robbed of day vision, hollow and scratched by fatigue. Seeing things others cannot (their lack of existence a factor): monkeys playing with watch hands, friends past in cafe corners. It is in the words that come out (all wrong), tangled and slurred, bright-eyed but oblivious, devoid of intended meaning. It is in the truths I'd rather not tell; tumble from me, full flood of revelation, inhibition quelled by that lack of slumber. Tiredness is, it seems, not my friend. And yet, sleep is neither. Battle, child-weary,  night's rest that seeks to embrace me. Surrender, finally - too late to avoid the backlash of earlier avoidance.

Today I sang, Until my muscles ached And my limbs trembled. I sang, Until my body swayed And my vision doubled. I sang, Until my chords protested And my voice gave out. And still, I sang, Silent, but not voiceless, The muted songs somehow as potent As their fuller-bodied counterparts. I sang Songs of joy, Riffs, electric, danced from my tongue Til I twisted and shouted them out; Songs of rage that Shook my whole being, Deep soulquakes of emotion; Songs of passion and of sadness and of tender love, Longing, lust and loneliness, Lyrics of alliteration and allure. And, amongst these extremes Sweet songs of happiness expressed, The simplicity of rare, pure, blissed-out peace. And my singing grew, huge, massive, all-encompassing, it seemed, A rapture An outpouring This living thing That lifted, and consumed, and overwhelmed me with emotion, Amazed even me In its incredible intensity, And left me dazed, but powerful, Poised for the next round. Today, I ...

This is a conversation I had with my niece in the kitchen the other day.  For those of you who don’t know, she’s 3½, smart as anything, and very verbal. Hikmah  - I’m a man Me  - You’re a man? H  - Yes I am Me  - So, what’s your name? H  - A Man ( she didn’t exactly state the capitals, but I could tell she meant them ) Me  - Mr Man? H  - No - Black Man ( She has a Bat-man figurine - After months of her referring to him as ‘my man’, and me being childishly amused by that reminding me of Dara O’Briain and various other Irish people, I tried to teach her that his name was ‘Bat Man’ - ‘Black Man?’ she asked? ‘No, Bat Man’.  Since that day, he’s been Black Man.  I guess it’s logical, given his outfit, and she knows it makes me laugh every time ). Me  - So, does that mean you can fly? H  - Yes I can. Hold my legs. I can fly like a duck. This is a true story.  Stay tuned for further adventures of the coolest kid on the block.