Transmutation

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How can one feel so lost, yet know that this is the state that they are meant to be in at the given moment? So confused, yet know that this veil is only obscuring clarity for a short while? So broken, yet know that every whole and enlightened soul had their pieces scattered and threads torn apart before they were rebuilt into the loving wise humans they became?

Tell me, am I as lost as I feel?
Am I as confused as I feel?
Am I, oh God, as broken as every inch of me feels?

The Lingering Winters of The Heart

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When a loved one departs
Winter submerges our hearts in snow

Our nights become tearful
Our mornings mournful

But then
Spring inevitably arrives
Bringing along sun and life

If the sun
Doesn’t melt away
The snow engulfing our hearts

It’s we who won’t let it
It’s we who reject life

For we equate
The death of a loved one
To the death of ourselves

Four Years

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1101 pm
1460 days later.
3rd of October 2019.
this evening 4 years ago,
i was in a hospital room
lying on a bed next to yours,
listening to music
to mute the fear
of what could happen to you
during the hours of the night.

it’s 11 pm now.
i remember switching turns with mom
to hold the oxygen mask
over your nose
because it bothered you,
but we had to secure it
because your body needed it.
my eyelids were getting heavy
and my arms started to ache.
you moaned from exhaustion
and cried silently at times.

i gave you oxygen
hoping that you’d sleep
and wake up better tomorrow.
i didn’t know
that you were going
to take your last breath
just a few hours from then,
so early in the morning..

it’s 4 years later tonight,
but the hospital scent
and the heart monitor beeps
are as vivid and real
as though no time has passed,
as though it’s happening right now..

1258 pm
1461 days later.
it’s the Fourth of October again.
a Friday this time, not a Sunday.
i’m sitting on the pink couch
that used to open up to be your bed.
i feel numb, like i know nothing
that could make me feel something.
i don’t know what this means.
am i desensitized from all the grief?
or healed from it?
what do you think?

it’s 330 pm now.
i’m in a café, reading a book.
four years ago at this hour,
strangers were filling our house.
i was locked in my bedroom,
in utter shock,
writing meaningless words
on sticky notes,
wondering where you were,
what was life and what was death,
and what exactly did it all mean..

when i did come out,
i saw grandma downstairs.
i noticed her eyes weren’t lined with kohl,
and i realized
that this wasn’t just a bad dream
on a Sunday morning sleep-in..

my tears came in waves.
sometimes
i looked blankly at a wall
as tiny tears streamed down my cheeks,
and sometimes
i weeped and fell to the floor
from the weight of the grief
and the heavy presence of your absence
in this house.

it’s different now.
you know how it is.
you prefer it this way.
and i think i do too.

we’re united
as pure souls.
grief and longing
are not the rope that connects us
anymore.
it’s deeper now.
so pure, it’s ineffable.
words don’t do it justice.
it’s out of language,
deep in the soul.

only you and i understand it.

Homelessness of The Self

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by Jordan Sanchez

During the past few months

The discomfort, the homelessness, homesickness

Contaminated the places I was in

Making me move from one room to the next

One city to another

Now it has spread to my veins

I feel stiffness enveloping my limbs

Like this body is no longer mine

Changing places is not enough anymore

I feel the urge to change my clothes

Yet even that doesn’t ease away the suffocation

Because what I need is to get out of this skin!

I have no option but to succumb and resign

To the dull reality that

I have no home

I have no self

I have no peace

Yet I can’t relinquish the hope

That one day I’ll have what I need

I’ll be my own home

I’ll cultivate a self that I love being

And I’ll build my own fountain of everlasting peace

 

If Words Were Home

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who am i without writing?
who are my friends if not words?

lately i’ve been actively
straying away from this page

sabotaging myself
away from my joy in life

writing is the very meaning
of my existence

through it, and only it,
can i know myself and
make sense of my world

so why am i not writing?
what part of me is trying
to steal this away from me?
what part of me can be so opposed to me
that it dares targeting my source of purpose?

it’s been a year
since i started writing a novel

one month of writing
and eleven of passively yearning
to return to the page to free myself
from this fictional world that occupies
my every moment

i am bereaved, broken;
an orphan in this huge world,
a foreigner in my own body

and only words,
only the act of writing,
of imagining and reflecting,
can mend my pieces
and bring me back home

1397 Days Later.


when i looked at the cloudy sky today,

i saw you smiling.
i closed my eyes in delight,
but i could still see the light.
my heart brimmed with love
like a cup filling from the ocean.
it connected me with you,
and with God, too.
now i feel a delicious togetherness;
an unceasing lovingness.
it comes from God,
and it has the shape of your smile.

Home

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by Musab Al Rawahi

I was born here,
But is this my home?

If it is—if it must be—
Then why doesn’t it feel like so?

When I travel,
I don’t feel like an outsider
As much as I do in my own hometown.

Yet when the flight lands back here,
I feel as though my heart is a jewel
Being placed back into its safe box
Like this land is two open palms
That await my arrival
And spread to embrace me
Into eternal safety.

I must accept
That I am forever torn
Between being from but not of,
Being part here and part elsewhere.