.بسم الله الرحمن الرحيم

Photo Creds: Mazhar Alam, Allah hummabārik.

You’ve got fissures on your skin —

where tears have been;

Red eyes, and aged nights, roaming, spent

unslept. Finite time, spent:

Looking, face-to-face, with a being

In the mirror whom you can’t quite seem to fully understand:

Grasp‘, just yet.

The glass breaks; they come together to reflect some new panoply of disjointed

thoughts. A mess. Pull yourself together. You tried, didn’t you, to build your armour; protect, like a [wo]man, what lies within:

You sought to ‘perfect‘ it; bring it together, and ‘fix’ it. Sands slip

from between your fingers. Fragile

[This is your first time doing this: existing and all, isn’t it? Mine too. Everyone’s, always.]

Not even if you tried. You reckon: your eyes look ‘pretty’, finally, at least once you’ve lined them with

Black ink: bold, and ‘barely noticeable’. Written over those lines with these new-crafted words, which may make more ‘sense

To those who might be looking on. From far away, craters, fears, mishaps, Slip-

Ups and all: can scarcely be seen. Comprehended; known, and understood. Still:

Impressions of ‘perfection’: green, and healthful petals, unmarred:

at long last,

finally. Carved out ‘for others’ eyes’, until

you come home, and wipe it all away; see your face bare. Stark, in lighting that will not let those parts of you hide. Again.

Look closer: know that it is the difference between plastic, and real. Alive, and, what a shame: what is not, really. Still. Entirely dependent, your entirety is, and not at all yet Home.

Parts that speak of growth; what a wonder, almost ever-present. Afraid, human, and deficient

in this, or in that, at various times. For things like love, and/or for considerations that resemble the beginnings of life, again: water. You called out for help.

Yellowed leaves, here and there, and roots that are known to simply absorb the things that they are told. Again, a bud or two fails to grow —

and autumn rolls around once more; things are torn

Apart, and some flowers, we find, do fall;

Then some come to be again,

Sprout through, un-shrouded, once mysteries, and as

if for the

first time.

Things happen, cyclical.


How much of it all goes unsaid, unseen: at times, you may have managed to convince yourself that you are ‘alone’ in this.

You are a being who has known the deepest blues of midnight: alone, alone, alone, and scarcely ever… ‘good enough‘. [What does it take, to be so?]

Enough. Yes, you’ve known things that could not quite be spoken or ‘explained away’;

This ‘being’ thing. Human: you will find that there are so many depths to this. Mess, pain, and desolation: comfort, surprises, joy,

And the rest.

Your being itself [even though you have finalised, in your mind, that you are forever ‘too _______’ and never quite ‘________ enough’:]

You’re a living, breathing, thinking, feeling: miracle of the Almighty. Do not forget.

With hope and love upon your skin,

In place of where fear and grief have often been. For:

What you know, and what you don’t know: He always does. You, reading this, have been

Created in the best of forms [Qur’an, (95:4)] and by the Best of Creators [23:14]. Every single piece of you has been quite intentional.


  1. Beautiful. I will read this many more times at random moments in the future.

    This is uniquely reassuring:

    [This is your first time doing this: existing and all, isn’t it? Mine too. Everyone’s, always.]

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